No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) (2 page)

“Because you said we had no chemistry.” He makes air quotes around
chemistry
as the sour expression continues to mar his handsome features
.

Bella sets the camera down. “And that’s obvious with this video. MK, put the boy out of his misery. This’s cruel.”

Turning around, I wash my hands in the sink and dry them with a dish towel. And suddenly, just as clear as the flecks of red pepper in the flour mix, I see that Bella is correct.
What was I thinking? Poor Tripp.
I thought we could brush the topic of us dating and then move to fun college stories. I didn’t realize talking about our sexual history was really that upsetting to him. “I’ve promised the people who follow my site an interview with the important people in my life. Can we please try again? Maybe Tripp will get more comfortable each time we practice. And I’ll not bring up sex again.”

“No time, MK,” she says checking her watch. “I’m meeting Nyall in thirty minutes to tour St. Anne’s Catholic Church.”

“Yay,” I squeal, so happy for my friend. “Tripp and I can maybe skip the cooking part, and I’ll just film him sitting on my couch. It’ll be more like a Barbra Walters interview.” Turning to Tripp, I show him my big eyes and sweet smile.

“Sorry, MK,” he says, kissing my cheek as he rises to his feet. “I have to check out a location for a new car wash. Want to see the surrounding area at night.”

“Everyone is leaving me?” My head turns from one to the other. “Y’all are supposed to be my friends.” My arms cross in a mock pout. When I scheduled this recording session, I had promised an exciting evening at Eddy’s Bar as payment for their time.

“Yeah. I can’t say it’s been fun, MK. I’ll meet you at your grandmother’s on Saturday, right?” he asks as he bolts for my door, probably afraid I’m going to ask him about the time we tried oral sex and he barfed all over me.

“Yup.” I shrug.

When the door shuts, I look at Bella. “Was it really that bad?”

“Dis-ass-ter.”

“So don’t make him try again skipping the sex part of our relationship and focusing instead on being friends with your ex?” My smile is hopeful and eyes wide.

“Only if you’re a sadist. That boy’s not meant to be on camera.”

Wrapping up all the ingredients, I put them in my fridge so they don’t spoil. “Tell me something to make me less depressed. Give me a wedding update.”

Bella sighs and plops her behind on top of the kitchen island counter. “I just want to be married. I don’t understand why Nyall gives a damn about a big church wedding. Isn’t that normally a girl-like request?”

“We should do a video about it. It would be interesting to see what other girls have to say.” I lean against the sink and cross my arms as ideas race through my brain. “You can be on camera for once and be the important person in my life that I interview.”

She ignores me, probably because she’s stated that the thought of being featured in one of my videos makes her queasy, and continues her rant. “I asked for a Justice of Peace wedding; he countered with St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square. I offered a destination wedding; he replied with getting married in his hometown outside of London. As if. Gee, not only would I be getting married in a foreign country, but I would be surrounded by a bunch of strangers who talk funny.”

A giggle escapes my lips. I love seeing her this happy. Yes, she might be complaining about this part of the wedding process, but she’s glowing. Nyall invaded her life at the right time and has brought her more joy than she ever dreamt was possible. Bella and Nyall are the happily-ever-after at the end of every fairytale.

She hops down and grabs her purse. “You are laughing why?” Her words are harsh, but her body language isn’t. If the Academy of Motion Pictures gave out an Oscar for Best Over-Acting in any category, Bella would be a shoo in. She is dramatic in the best kind of way. I’ve been trying to talk her into a role in front of the camera for years, but she refuses. She says her talents lie behind the scenes.

I step forward and wrap my arms around her neck, giving her a kiss on top of the scar which used to define her, but no more. “Because I’m so happy my Bella Boo has found someone else to micromanage.”

“Don’t worry, MK. I’ll never be too busy running Nyall’s life to neglect yours.”

She’s my best friend, but Bella is so much more than that. She’s my lifeline, my support system. She’s loved me when I was unlovable and kicked my behind when I needed it.

“Is your dress ready for Saturday?” she asks as she shrugs on her coat.

I sigh. “Yes. I guess. It’s gorgeous. Like so insanely pretty, I can’t believe I get to wear it.” My grandmother holds a charity ball each fall. It’s the who’s who of New Orleans society. The event is Saturday, and the only thing I’m looking forward to is the great number of views my blog posts will get the next day.

“And Tripp?” she asks, sliding her purse on her shoulder.

“He’s coordinating his bow-tie. It’s so unfair. He gets to wear the same tux every year, and I get poured into itchy dresses that cover nothing and leave me freezing.”

“I don’t give a damn what Tripp is wearing, and you know it.” Her hand goes to her hip and her lip curls in the
don’t be an idiot, MK
pose.

Shaking my head, I flop down on my comfy Robin’s egg blue velvet couch. “He’s mentioned he thinks that two people as good of friends as us can make a relationship work without getting caught up in sex. He’s commented that sex is like a once a month thing, but we would spend several hours a day hanging out.” I grab a throw pillow, giving it a squeeze. “I’ve made it clear that he’s just my escort to the ball, but he keeps hinting at more. He sent flowers to work last week. I want passion and romance. I want mind blowing sex. I want all of that with a guy who I also enjoy hanging out with.”

My door opens and a cool autumn breeze doesn’t chill me as much as Bella’s words do. “So you just put him through that?” She gestures towards my kitchen and shakes her head. “You haven’t been on a date in months. You’re thirty. You want to be married and have kids. What’s so wrong with Tripp? He’s good-looking, a self-made man, and more importantly, one of the nicest guys ever. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

“I adore him,” I reply. “Last weekend he invited me to go furniture shopping for his lake house and also pick out fun dishes. We had a blast! But you saw us together. It’s like I said. We have no chemistry.” I pause for a second. “He doesn’t make my heart beat faster.”

Her parting words as she shuts my apartment door are, “You aren’t getting any younger. Maybe it’s time to quit waiting for chemistry and go with practical.”

Ouch!
Bella’s advice leaves me doubled over on my couch as if she literally, instead of figuratively, punched me in the gut. Did the person who knows me best just advise me to settle on a life partner? Is that what thirty means? If you haven’t found your significant other, you should just pair up with whomever is still available? Is this like shopping the day after Christmas? You grab what’s left on the store shelves and considered a good deal.

That’s not okay with me. I could have a happy life with Tripp. He would be a great dad and husband. I’d never have to compel him to be home for dinner or beg for his attention, but he doesn’t make my heart go pitter patter. When he walks into a room, my breath doesn’t catch in my throat. He doesn’t make me feel alive.

I shake my head to clear the depressing thoughts. Not going down that path tonight.

Since my taping got cut short, I decide to work on a post I’ve been writing in my head for a while. I grab my Mac off of my marble coffee table.

My fingers fly over the keys . . .

I’ve been thirty for exactly four months. Friends who have reached this milestone before me have said things like, “Turning thirty makes your butt sag and your boobs point south.” Fortunately, thanks to my diligent workout routine and good genes, my boobs still can’t hold a pencil and my butt is not in need of a sling. Physically, I still feel twenty-nine, but what I have noticed is that my circle of friends is decreasing. Many have gotten married and started their families. I understand. Being a full-time mom doesn’t leave much room in your schedule for your single friends’ problems, like what dress do I wear on a blind date. But how many messages do I need to leave before my “I’m thinking about you and your new addition” turns into “I’m stalking you and looking like a needy clinger?”

Pausing, I re-read what I just wrote. Apparently, my head shake didn’t do the trick. Am I worried that Bella is going to become one of the girls who’s too busy with her new husband and baby to have time for her best friend who was there for the past twenty-years of hardships, long before her husband and baby entered the picture? Obviously.

Does being thirty and still single mean it’s time to settle? Are my standards too high?

I want it all. I’m not looking for the hottest guy in the club or the one who drives the flashiest car with the highest number of zeros in his bank account. I’m looking for a guy who makes me feel. I want passion and romance. I want my heart to beat faster when I see him. Most of all, I want someone whom I can spend the rest of my life with—someone whom on my deathbed, I’ll wish I could have one more day with.

If that means I’m the only single girl left of my friends and I wind up never finding this guy, that’s okay because at least I’ll still have you guys.

Muah,

MK

I hit
publish.
Usually, I have to spend quality time with my posts before I make them live. Not today. This one is straight from my heart.

As I check to make sure it posts correctly, I find myself willing the words I wrote to be true. I’d love to have the confidence to say and honestly mean that I’d be okay being single the rest of my life. It’s personal growth and something I’m working on by reading self-help books on my Kindle and trying to increase my circle of single-thirty-somethings. As of right now, I’m not there yet.

At some point in my late teens, Tripp and I made a pact that if we weren’t married by the age of thirty-five, we’d marry each other. Not going to lie—when I reflect on the promise it makes me feel nauseous instead of excited. That alone tells me Tripp is not my one-way ticket out of singledom.

I’d already made plans to go to Eddy’s Bar tonight. Bella and Tripp have bailed on me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go. The locals, who I consider my friends, all hang out there. You’re never alone at Eddy’s.

I’m kind of a celebrity in my neighborhood. I’ve occupied the one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old carriage house at old Green Mansion located in the Garden District of New Orleans for eight years now.

My website started out as a way to cope with my post-college life. Let’s just say I was not living the sorority girl dream I’d been promised. I graduated Louisiana State University with a degree in sociology. No one had prepared me for how much the real-world sucks. Six months after graduation, I found myself with no engagement rock, and the guy I’d been going to marry was long gone. I had to find a way to make a living with a piece of paper which essentially only shows I completed four years of college. When I was about ready to hang my head and admit I was living with Mom and Dad forever, my college ex-boyfriend’s dad called with a job opportunity. His company was hiring a human resources manager. I took the job without asking what the pay was. Three weeks later, I signed the lease on my carriage house and three months later, I started NoPinkCaddy so I could connect with girls like me—a bit lost.

I replace the cooking apron with my Burberry quilted coat, one of my ultimate thrift store finds. It’s been raining so I opt for my glossy, red Hunter rain boots. When one doesn’t have a car in New Orleans, these puppies are a fashion staple. Removing my baseball cap, I don’t bother with my hair. My bangs will just do what they want anyway.

My purse hangs by the door. I grab my ID, a twenty-dollar bill, and my credit card, and tuck all of this into the case of my cellphone. Single Girl in the Big City Tip #27: Don’t carry a purse. It makes you a huge target for mugging. This was a blog post I did a while ago.

Fall in New Orleans is magical. Most of the world would probably consider this fifty-five-degree night summer temperatures, but not us southerners. After a brutally hot, muggy August and September these cool fall nights are like a breath of fresh air. The Crape Myrtles, tall as oak trees, line my street. Their leaves are turning shades of reds and yellows, and if a big wind comes the leaves dance through the air. In my head, I change the lyrics to the song “It’s Raining Men” to “It’s Raining Leaves
.
”

Everyone is in a good mood now that it’s cooler. People are friendlier and their windows are open. This gives me a great opportunity to spy on my neighbors. I’m not a stalker, but I might walk a little bit slower so I can catch a glimpse of them in their natural habitat.

Whistling Willie sits on a dark street corner, playing the bongos. No one knows where he lives, but for some reason he’s chosen this piece of cracked cement as his. It’s residential. He doesn’t seem to play for money because I’ve never seen a tip jar, but he’s here every cool night. I stick my phone in my pocket and dance for a bit to the beat of his drums. He plays faster, and my hips move more. Before I realize it, I’m laughing as I try to keep up with him. It feels like heaven to really enjoy myself. My worries left with my inhibitions, and I’m more my usual carefree spirit again.

“You my brown-headed dancer.” He laughs.

Bowing, I turn in all directions as if a crowd is giving me a standing ovation. Then, I tip my pretend hat to Willie. He applauds and laughs at my antics.

“Can I take a selfie with you?” I ask as I pull my phone back out from my pocket.

His smile reveals a beautiful set of teeth. “Sure, darlin’.”

I wrap my arm around his neck and take a couple of shots. Choosing the best one, I upload it to my Twitter account.

MK Landry
@NoPinkCaddy

Best bongo drum player in the city. Love my neighborhood. #SitesofNOLA

“Have a good night,” I call as I continue walking.