Beauty And The Bookworm (5 page)

He was obviously hurting, but trying to keep up his end of the conversation. “Like Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

“Who?”

“The actor? The governor of California?”

“
The Running Man
is a movie? I thought I was being original.”

“I’ve been calling you
The Cardigan Guy
.
I like Mason better.”

“Me too.”

I downloaded a new book,
Assassin’s Heat
, while I sat in the ER’s waiting room. The book was all about a secret society of gay assassins who chose their targets based on a strict moral code and buggered each other when they weren’t bumping off baddies who had it coming. Five stars for buggery. One star for grammar. I ended up turning off my e-reader and thinking about Shane.

I’d learned a lot about him by helping with the hospital forms.
His last name was Beaumont. He wasn’t a prostitute (damn,) he was a part-time personal trainer / part-time massage therapist and a complete sports and fitness junkie. The only place I knew to get a massage in Portland was a “spa” in Old Town called Happy Endings. Shane hadn’t looked pleased when I asked if he worked there.

I shook my head when he came through the swinging double doors of the emergency area because he had a big grin on his face. I wouldn’t be grinning if I were on crutches and had my leg encased in miles of ace bandages.

“Just a bad sprain,” he smiled, “I have to stay off it for a few days, but I should be okay for the marathon.”

“Good to hear.”

The grin left his face, replaced by a gentle smile that was about the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. “I can’t believe you waited out here for me. You’re a good guy, Mason.”

I blushed and waved a dismissive hand. “I wasn’t doing anything today and I had my book. Besides, how are you going to get home if I don’t drive?”

“True… and thanks. What’s
Anna Karenina
up to?”

I was already stuck with my lie, so I said, “Being a slutty Russian.”

Shane laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and I realized he was high on painkillers. Lucky.

I stood up and pointed to the exit. “After you, gimpy.”

I was surprised to find that Shane only lived a few blocks from me. He had a cute little bungalow on Hawthorne that looked well-tended. The yard was full of roses and camellias. It made me think of a little English cottage from a postcard.

I helped him get inside and settled him on the couch. He was getting sleepy, which made him less sexy, but more cute. He looked like a sleepy little moppet that needed tucking in.

“Pillow?” I asked.

His eyes were only half-open. “Bedroom - down the hall on the left.”

I went to the bedroom and did not snoop. Nor did I lie on the bed for a few seconds, closing my eyes and taking in the smell of Shane on the sheets. The last thing I didn’t do was open the top dresser drawer and finger the jockstrap I found there.

I brought three pillows back to the living room, putting one under his head and two under his feet. I thought he was asleep and really didn’t know what to do. Should I just leave? He was obviously okay and it would be really weird if he woke up to find me sitting in his recliner staring at him. I crept toward the front door.

“Mason,” he called from over my shoulder.

I turned to face him. “Yeah?”

His eyes were still closed. “Are you gay?”

Oh boy.
“Yes.”

“Me too. We should
have sex sometime.”

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
“Should we?”

“Yeah,” he opened his eyes, “I’ve thought so since that first day in the park. You looked so cute in your sweater, reading your book…”

He really fell asleep then, the stupid bastard. How was I supposed to know if he meant it or if it was just the drugs talking? I considered walking over and slapping him awake, or maybe giving his bandaged ankle a hard squeeze to bring him around, but decided that might not be very seductive. I wrote my number and “call me if you need anything” on a notepad, left it on his coffee table where he would could find it, then I tiptoed out the door and headed home.

Chapter 5

Twyla Stars In An Afterschool Special

I was working the
reference desk and watching the front door on Monday morning. Twyla was fifteen minutes late (not unusual) and I was dying to get her opinion on Shane. I figured she’d know what to do. She’d had way more experience with men, and drugs, than I had. She’d even dated a few drug addicts, so she should have some wisdom to impart on my situation. Should I just give Shane a call and ask him when we were going to play tunnels and trains? Should I pretend he hadn’t said anything at all? He’d told me he was gay, but that didn’t mean he
really
wanted to sleep with me. Who hasn’t declared their interest for someone they really aren’t interested in when they were chemically compromised? I once told my dentist I wanted to motorboat his butt-cheeks after he gave me laughing gas. I needed my best girl’s advice.

I put my hopeful libido on the back burner when Twyla walked into the library. I could tell from her face that something was very wrong. She looked like she always did, sexy and kittenish. She was wearing an outfit that made me think of Catholic schools and Britney Spears videos. Something was off, though. She didn’t have any light in her eyes.

I hurried around my desk and met her. She tried to smile at me and I could see her heart was breaking, or maybe it was already broken. “What happened?”

Her eyes started to fill, but she swallowed and squared her shoulders. “We’ll have to talk about it later. I’m already late.”

“Bullshit. What’s going on?”

“I’m pregnant.”

What is this new fuckery?
“Are you sure? Sorry, I know you’re sure, but… are we happy or sad?” I asked the question because you never know. Twyla was thirty, after all, and who doesn’t want a baby? But, she didn’t look happy.

“I don’t know if I’m happy or not, Mason. I don’t know anything except I’m pregnant. Shit!”

“What are we going to do?”

She finally let a few tears drop. “What are
‘we’
going to do? I love you, Mason. Thanks for saying ‘we’.”

I dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of my sleeve. “Of course I said
‘we.’ I know you’d be there if I got knocked up.”

She laughed a sad little laugh and pushed me away. “Let’s get to work and we’ll talk about it at lunch.”

I went back to my desk and watched Twyla walk toward her usual post in the rare book section. What
were
we going to do? I ran through the script of every Afterschool Special dealing with an unplanned pregnancy I’d ever seen, hoping for an answer. She could get an abortion, of course, but I wasn’t about to be involved in
that
decision. If she decided to I’d hold her hand, but I hoped that wasn’t her decision. She could give the baby up, but imagine knowing your child was somewhere, growing and laughing and crying without you? How would she handle that? The last option was keeping the baby and raising it. I decided I’d offer to do whatever she asked and I hoped my support would help her make a decision she could live with.
Thanks for the penis, God. I don’t have the balls to be a woman.

Twyla was waiting at our table at lunchtime. She looked a lot more composed. I guessed she’d had time to think and pull herself together.
I was still a basket-case. I sat down opposite her and just stared at her pretty face.

“Well,” she opened, “here we are.”

“What did Mario say?”

Twyla gave a weary sigh. “He said he’ll pay for an abortion.”

“Oh… is that… something you’re thinking about?”

“No! God. I was for about five seconds, but I want it, Mason. I really want it.”

I smiled and I meant it. “Then, congratulations. Do you think Mario’s going to step up?”

“No. I called him on my break and told him I’m keeping it. He said we won’t be seeing each other again.”

“Asshole.”

“Yeah,” she sighed again, “he is definitely an asshole. What’s funny about the whole thing is he never, not once, gave me an orgasm. Shouldn’t you have to have an orgasm to get pregnant? It just proves what I thought all along: God
really is a man.”

I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Here’s my best friend speech: I’ll take you to all your
lambada classes and I’ll be there when your vagina explodes. I’ll put together the crib. I’ll learn to change diapers and heat up bottles. I promise to love you and your baby with everything I’ve got.”

She started crying and laughing at the same time. It was a little scary and I wondered if her hormones were already out of whack. “Thanks, Mason,” she said, “I know you’ll do all those things, but it’s not
lambada, it’s Lamaze. Lambada is a dance.”

“Oh, well maybe we should do that too.”

I took Twyla home with me that night. I thought maybe she should stay with me for a day or two. I also thought she and Gran could bond over babies and man-hating. I knew I could only agree that
all men deserved castration for so long without getting uncomfortable.

Gran fixed a big dinner and we all gathered at the table to eat. It was the worst circumstance, with Twyla looking miserable and Gran looking murderous, but it felt weirdly domestic, weirdly
real
.

“So,” Gran said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “I been thinking, where
does this Mario live?”

I answered for Twyla, “He’s in Witness Protection as far as you’re concerned, Gran. The last thing you need is another assault charge, you’ve already got two strikes.”

She pointed her spoon at me threateningly. “And you’ve never even been looked at sideways by a cop. Shouldn’t
you
be somewhere delivering a beating right now?”

“I don’t think beating him up will help, Gran,” Twyla said, “I’m just going to try to forget about him and hope the baby doesn’t look anything like him.”

Gran put on her sweet-old-lady face. “Of course it’s not going to look like him, honey. That baby’s going to look just like you. I just hope it’s a girl. The last thing the world needs is another man.”

Here we go.
“There are some decent guys out there, Gran,” I said in defense of men everywhere.

“I know that, Mason,
but the decent ones are flamers like you.”

Twyla decided it was time to cry. I mean
really
cry. She started blubbering and snotting. It was so sad, and a little disgusting. I hoisted her up, guided her to my room, helped her change into one of Gran’s nightgowns, and put her to bed. I sat next to her until she cried herself to sleep.

I went out and finished my dinner. It was difficult to eat because Gran was giving me a smile that made me very uncomfortable. I finally couldn’t take it anymore. “What?”

She laughed. “You’re a good boy, that’s what.”

“Thanks, Gran.”

Her face grew serious. “I just wonder if you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I’m not getting myself into anything. I’m being a friend.”

She shook her head. “Twyla needs a lot more than a friend and you know it.”

“Well, a friend is what she’s got. Beats a blank, if you ask me.”

“Mason, I raised your father on my own and it was hell. These days, nobody seems to think about what being on your own with a kid means. It means working your ass off and not having anybody to share the pressure with.”

“Twyla’s not going to have to do anything by herself. I’ll be there for her the whole way.”

Gran got up and came to sit next to me. She looked me in the eye and grabbed my chin when I tried to turn away from her. “Why, Mason? Why are you going to be there for her?”

“Because she’s my best friend!”

Gran gave me that wise smile only old ladies who have seen it all can give. “No. You’re going to be there because you’re kind and good and you don’t have anything going on in your own life.”

I stood up and backed away from her. “That’s bullshit, Gran.”

“What happens when you really meet somebody? What happens when some Mary comes swancing in and makes you fall in love with him? Where’s Twyla then?”

“It’s not like I offered to marry her.”

“No, but she’s counting on you right now. You’d better make sure she doesn’t count on you too much. I don’t want that girl getting any more hurt than she already is.”

I was getting pissed. “You’re talking like we’re a couple of teenagers.”

“We’re all teenagers, Mason, every single one of us.”

How could I argue with that? I was an emotional twelve-year-old on a good day. Calling me a teenager was giving me more credit than I deserved. “Okay, what’s your advice?”

“Be her friend. Be there when you
can
, but start building a life of your own. You’re not getting any younger, you know. Pretty soon that round little ass of yours is going to turn into the pancake your father hauls around. It’s time you stopped reading about love and started looking for it.”

I sat down and put my head in my hands. “I don’t know how to look for love, Gran. I think it’s going to have to come looking for me.”

“Maybe it already has. Who’s Shane Beaumont?”

“Shane Beaumont? What are you talking about?”

“Fellow named Shane Beaumont called you today. Sounded kind of fruity. Should you be calling him back?”

Ever had just too much for one day? I had officially had too much.
I was thrilled that Shane had called, but I was in no shape to be flirty over the phone. I gave Gran a kiss on the cheek that earned me a shove. Then I went to my room, stripped to my briefs, and spooned Twyla until I fell asleep.