Authors: Ruth Clampett
“It’s that obvious?” I ask quietly.
“It is to me. I’ve never seen you like this.” He turns his gaze to the evening sky. “It’s what I’d always hoped for you . . . finding a good woman like Elle. I just wish it wasn’t such a complicated situation.”
“Me, too.” I take a deep breath relieved to be honest about how I feel.
We sit in silence another minute before I turn to him.
“So you really like Elle, even despite all this stuff you know . . . being divorced, then this pregnancy?”
“I do like her. I always have. I think she just needs the right man to love her.”
He looks up at me intently and doesn’t say another word, but I feel like I can read his thoughts. It reminds me of the look he’d give me when I was young before an important race. That look gives me the confidence to not just give up.
Elle must have listened to my concern on our earlier phone call because she calls me at nine to assure me that she’s home. She sounds so damn tired but I do my best to cheer her up.
I check in with her late the next morning. We have a broken-up conversation because of interruptions from the convention director over issues with the room set-up. Despite that she’s able to get enough conversation in to let me know that Stephan called her again that morning and she didn’t answer. I want to rage but I keep my mouth shut because I don’t want to upset her more. She already sounds really stressed out.
That afternoon she texts to say he tried again.
What the fuck? And what the hell can I do about it?
I call her to tell her just to get through the day and we’ll figure out how to deal with him later. Once I’m assured she’s calmer, I throw myself back into my library garden project that has a deadline looming, hoping it can get my mind off things.
When I finally leave the office, I text Elle and tell her I’m picking up dinner. She sounds grateful and requests chicken noodle soup and cheese blintzes from Art’s Deli on Ventura Boulevard. Comfort food sounds like just the thing for both of us.
She pulls open her front door before I even ring the doorbell. “You’re here!” She gives me a hug before pulling the bag out of my arms. “I’m starving.”
“Did you eat today?” I ask as I follow her in. I’m glad to see her spirit is good.
She makes a face, scrunching up her nose. “Does a smoothie for breakfast and protein bar for lunch count?”
“Elle,” I say in a stern voice.
“Oh, and I had a yogurt and some almonds when I got home.”
“You’re so L.A.” I point to the kitchen table. “Sit down, I’ve got this.”
She grins and winks. “Okay, Mister Bossy Pants.”
“Well, someone needs to take care of you.”
She leans on her elbow, cupping her chin with her hand as she watches me with a tender expression. I divide up the soup, and dig spoons out of the silverware drawer.
“You sure have a lot of stuff in here,” I remark after noticing how packed all the cupboards and drawers are.
“I like cooking and entertaining,” she says as she checks the soup to see how hot it is.
“Do you cook that much?”
“Not as much as I’d like to. I used to dream of having a kitchen full of friends and family.”
I let my gaze wander through the kitchen and into the adjoining dining room as I consider what’s behind what she just said. It’s like she’s set the stage for what she hoped her life to one day be. The way she described the beginning of her marriage, I’m sure divorce was never part of her master plan.
She has a great three-bedroom house with a barbeque, garden, and fire pit perfect for s’mores. It’s near good schools with tricycle-friendly sidewalks, yet when I leave tonight she will be completely and utterly alone.
It occurs to me that what she desired her future to be isn’t much different than what I’ve intended to find. The difference is that I was still searching when I met her, and she thought she’d found it with her ex, only to lose the dream and stop hoping that it even can exist for her.
I’m not actually hungry but I force myself to dig into the soup so she follows suit. I roll my eyes internally realizing that I’ve turned into my Irish mother wanting to make sure she’s fed.
She starts eating and I’m relieved to see she seems happy with her dinner. I love watching her move her tongue over the spoon after each bite, her eyes rolling back while she sighs. It makes me wish I were a spoon.
“What?” Her eyes are wide like I caught her doing something naughty.
I shrug. “Nothing. It’s just fun watching you eat.”
She eats all her soup and a blintz before her eyes start to droop.
“Poor baby, you’re so tired,” I say.
She nods as she lets out a long sigh. “Hey, we were going to talk about what to do with the Viking.”
I can’t help fighting back a smile. It’s the first time I’ve heard her refer to him that way and I love it. “Fuck the Viking, you need to rest,” I say with more force than I’d intended.
She bites her lip as she studies me. “You’re so sexy when you’re mad.”
I shake my head and look down. “I’m mad all right. You rest tonight and we can work it out tomorrow.”
When she stands she wobbles before pushing away from the table. I take her by the shoulders. “Steady, now.”
She nods. “If you don’t mind, I think I better get ready for bed. I’m going to crash any minute.”
Does this mean I get to put her to bed? I hope so. I can only imagine what Elle sleeps in. I imagine it isn’t much, coverage wise.
She emerges from the bathroom with her face scrubbed pink and a minimal sleep garment. It looks like she’s pulled on a short slip for a twelve year old. It falls dangerously high on her toned thighs and the thin strap keeps slipping off one of her shoulders. I have to look away as I focus on doing the alphabet backwards.
“Am I tucking you in?” I ask, trying not to focus on the way her bare breasts look draped in silk.
“Tucking?” The corners of her mouth turn up.
I nod and narrow my eyes at her. “You heard me correctly.”
“Too bad. I thought you said something else.” She rubs her hands over her face. “I guess it’s just as well, I’m exhausted.”
I follow her into the bedroom watching the silk skim her ass as she walks.
Even in her exhaustion and despair this woman is really something. I’ve been reduced to such a sap because everything about her is beautiful to me.
Lifting up the cover, she slides down between the sheets. When she’s settled I smooth the blankets down and sit on the edge of the bed.
She gazes up at me with her sleepy eyes and rests her hand on my knee. “You’re amazing . . . such a catch. I still can’t figure out why some awesome girl hasn’t snagged you yet.”
I smile at her. “Maybe I’m difficult to snag.”
“Hmm. No doubt.”
“I can tell you that hooking up is a hell of a lot different than dating. Dating is much more complicated.”
She sighs. “I think it’s all complicated, even when you try to keep it simple.”
“In L.A., hook-ups are a dime a dozen, but someone real who I know would stand by me through thick and thin is hard to find.” I say.
“As you know, when my marriage collapsed I was intrigued with the idea of hook-ups.” She slides her hand under her head and pulls her hair out until it fans over the pillow.
“Why, Elle? Why just hook-ups? Was it really only about control?”
“I don’t know. I guess my heart and ego were so bruised by Daniel that I couldn’t imagine making myself that vulnerable again. I just needed to feel that I could turn someone on as much as they could turn me on. Is that awful?”
I shake my head. “No, not at all. I just think you deserve more.”
She rubs her hand over her belly. “Well even if I was willing to risk my heart again, no one is going to want me now.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Regardless, it doesn’t matter. Now that that part of my life is over I realize that hooking up wasn’t the thrill I thought it’d be either.”
“You sound like you’re done with it.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Well, of course I am. How does a working woman with an infant do hook-ups?”
“Babysitters?” I ask, testing her.
She shakes her head. “Are you serious? I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to. I’m done with all that. I deleted Tinder off my phone.”
I have to steady myself, the flood of relief surging through me almost knocks me off my feet.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back to hooking up?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No way. I didn’t like myself much during those years. It’s just much easier getting myself off and not feeling like an asshole all the time.”
She coughs and her cheeks flush pink.
“You okay?”
She bites her lip. “Oh man, don’t do that! Don’t casually mention you getting yourself off without giving me a warning or something.” She pushes the covers down to her waist and moans. “Now I’m all worked up and hot.”
“What? You know I take care of myself. We’ve talked about it.”
“We’ve sexted about it . . . not talked about it when you’re here in the flesh sitting on the edge of my bed.”
Sighing, she turns onto her side so she’s facing me. “You need to distract me. Tell me a bedtime story.”
“What kind of bedtime story?”
“A sexy one of course. How about one of your sex-capades from your past.”
“How will that be distracting?”
“You’re real and in the flesh. A story is a fantasy. It’s like escaping into my erotica novels.”
“Okay. Can I add flourish to this story—have some fun with it?”
She nods, a grin spreading across her face.
“Okay. Once there was this guy . . .”
“Named Paul,” she adds.
I fight back a smile. “Who loved sex . . .”
“And he wanted it ALL the time,” she says enthusiastically.
“So after hooking up with all the hot babes that didn’t hold his interest, he searched far and wide for an amazing and unforgettable maiden who loved sex as much as he did.”
“And once he found her they’d never get out of bed,” Elle adds for me.
“Never?” I ask, worried. I’m not sure if this story is going south with a couple of agoraphobics with dirty sheets.
“Well, I exaggerated a bit . . . of course they get out to shower and go to nice restaurants and stuff.”
I nod. “Okay, I can deal with that.”
“You know she’ll have to go to the gym, too. She needs to be in great shape for all that sex.”
“They both will, so gym memberships are a must. And she can’t be too thin. Paul likes something to grab onto,” I say. It sounds weird referring to myself in the third person.
“Or too fat,” she adds.
“She has to be just right.”
“So where does Prince Paul go to find his maiden?” she asks.
“Oh, he’s not a prince.”
She makes a face. “Maybe secretly he is.”
I laugh. “How about he looks for her at the gym?”
“That’s good! There are tons of gyms in L.A. . . . so he searches from one to another.”
“He searches from Calabasas to Pasadena, Long Beach to Burbank.”
She shakes her head and purses her lips. “That’s too much! He’ll be stuck in traffic, living on the 405! I say it’s from the Westside to Silver Lake, Culver City to North Hollywood.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. So are they going to be working out next to each other in the gym? That’s usually not a sexy place to me.”
She taps her chin. “I know! They meet in Zumba class! That’s sexy.”
“Zumba? That Latin dance thing where you shake your ass a lot?”
She nods with a grin.
“Oh, hell no! I’m not doing that.”
“Please. This is my bedtime story. Don’t you want me to like it?”
I scowl. “What does
Paul
have to wear?”
Her eyes light up. “You know those lycra running pants? He can wear those.”
I arch my brow and fold my arms over my chest. “Oh really?”
She pushes my knee. “Don’t you see, you’re the prince, so naturally you have to show off your perfect package.”
I huff. “Naturally. But if you dress me any more gay than that we’re going to have to change the story line.”
She laughs with abandon and I realize that I’ll wear lycra pants anytime if it lightens her spirit like this.
“So is there a big Zumba Ball or something where he sees her from across the gym?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s good! Maybe it’s the ultimate Zumba Celebration or something and the moment he sees her dance he’s captivated.”
“By her sexy body?”
“Yes, and the way she moves. She can swivel her hips like none other.”
I rub my chin. “Okay, I like where this is going. So he goes and dances with her or can he just watch?”
Her eyes narrow in concentration. “Well, it doesn’t really work like that in Zumba—couples don’t dance together, but we’ll make an exception.”
I shrug. “Why not? We’ve already bastardized the hell out of this story.”
“And then just when they really get going, her cell phone alarm goes off and she has to run out of the gym . . .”
“And in her hurry, her gym shoe falls off,” I add.
“And the poor prince doesn’t know that the evil gym owner hates the girl for being a sexier Zumba dancer than her, and so before she runs out of the gym the witch owner has her drink a poison energy drink—apple flavored of course.”
“Look at you, smashing up fairy tales.”
She grins. “I know, awesome, right!”
I had no idea Elle had such storytelling swag and it inspires me. “So before she can even make it to her orange Prius, she passes out into the arms of the balding Viking who puts her in his minivan—”
“He didn’t drive a minivan!” Elle squeals.
“Shhh. And he drives her to the land of no sand where he locks her in his dungeon.”
“What story is this now?” she asks.
“It’s your story but I’m telling it my way now, okay?”
“Okay, then what happens next?”
“The prince rushes to the parking lot, and the seven dwarf valet guys tell him about the Viking and how they couldn’t stop him, but Chewie got a picture of the minivan’s license plate.”
“There’s no dwarf named Chewie!”
“There isn’t? Whatever. So the prince has a magic cell phone with tracking devices and he jumps in his turbo Ferrari and tears the fuck out of there.”