Part 7 (1/2)

”And you think I can fix this?”

”Oh of course.” He takes another bite of yogurt. ”You just have to show him you're more than one of the guys.”

I nod, thinking I should probably listen to Cameron. He's always given me great advice before, yet there is a knot in my stomach-a separate knot from the friend-zone knot-that says I should just be me. I want a relations.h.i.+p, not a one-night stand. Yeah, s.e.x with a hot guy would be great too, but I can't deny the deep-down longing for something long term.

Someday, right?

Someday I'll figure this c.r.a.p we call life out and learn how to fully ignore society's definition of what a woman should be, from the way we look and dress to the way we're supposed to clean the house, raise the kids, and have dinner ready and waiting on the table.

Someday.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

I stand on the closed toilet, precariously balancing on tall heels, and snap a picture of myself in the mirror. I carefully jump down, wis.h.i.+ng I had another way to get a full body shot of my reflection in the mirror in my bathroom, and send the picture to Erin.

I rush into my closet and change my top, slipping a silky black tank top on, and quickly s.h.i.+mmy into a pair of dark jeans. I ditch the heels, opting to holding them in my other hand instead of risking falling and breaking my neck before the date with Ben. I send her another picture, then move to the sink to take the hot rollers out of my hair.

A few seconds later she replies, saying both her and her hubby like outfit number two better. Good. I won't have to change again. With much care, I loosen the curls and create a new hole in the Ozone with hairspray, touch up my makeup, and accessorize with a red-jeweled necklace, matching earrings, and a black bracelet. I sit on the closed toilet to put on a pair of tall black heels, tastefully spotted with gold and scarlet gems. Yes, they are Gryffindor shoes, and yes, I f.u.c.king love them.

I put them on, spray myself with perfume, and look in the mirror.

”You are awesome,” I tell myself. ”The s.h.i.+t, actually. If Ben doesn't like you, then f.u.c.k him. His loss.” I nod at myself, trying to believe the pep talk. Can I have a gla.s.s of wine? Just half a gla.s.s?

I'm so nervous.

I tighten my bra straps and reach inside my s.h.i.+rt to give my b.r.e.a.s.t.s a boost. I have on a push-up bra and might have done a super-light version of Cosplay cleavage, which entails using contouring to make my b.r.e.a.s.t.s look fuller and rounder ... not that they need much help though.

I leave the bathroom and straighten my bedspread. Ya know, just in case we come back here and things get physical. When was the last time I washed my sheets? Last week? Two weeks ago? Maybe longer since I can't even f.u.c.king remember.

I cringe and go crazy with the Febreze. I shove my dirty laundry into the closet, force the doors closed, and go into the living room. I have about ten minutes before Ben gets here to pick me up. We're going to Osteria Rossa, a fancy Italian restaurant in Grand Rapids. I'd yet to go there, and am really looking forward to yummy food.

I sit on the couch, getting the evil eye from Ser Pounce because I pushed him off my lap, not wanting to get covered in cat fur, and flip through channels. I end up watching the tail end of an episode of Naked and Afraid until the doorbell rings. I shoot up, count to ten, run my hands over my top, and go to the door.

”Wow,” Ben blurts when I open the door. His dark eyes widen and he slowly looks me up and down, clearly not caring that he's obviously checking me out. ”You look amazing.”

”Thanks,” I say, trying to brush off the compliment and not smile like a goon. ”You don't look so bad yourself.” He's wearing dark pants and a black b.u.t.ton-up s.h.i.+rt. He's effortlessly put together. I take a step to the side. ”Come in.”

We move into the living room and he turns, eyes f.u.c.king me all over again. He closes his eyes in a long blink and bites his bottom lip. The he shakes himself and smiles.

”Hungry?”

”I am,” I say. ”You?”

”I'm always hungry.” He sees Ser Pounce and reaches out to pet him. The fat cat hisses and turns his nose.

”He's an a.s.shole, don't take it personally,” I say. ”I wanted a dog, but my old apartment didn't allow dogs. I think Ser Pounce knows that he was my second choice and resents life because of it.”

Ben laughs, and I'm relieved. Not everyone understands my weird sense of serious-sounding sarcasm. ”We should probably take off. Ready?”

”I am,” I repeat and grab my purse. Ben waits for me as I lock the front door, then opens the pa.s.senger side door of his Audi for me. I get in, breathing in the scent of new leather and paint. I turn and see a sheet draped over the backseat, protecting the leather from all the art supplies he has thrown in the back. Yes, definitely a chaotic mess creative type. We make small talk, mostly Ben telling me how Mindy still can't figure out how to use the website.

He opens the door and offers me his hand when we get to the restaurant. I carefully step onto the curb, clutching my purse in the other hand. Ben locks the car and pockets his keys.

And he doesn't let go of my hand.

We have reservations, and only wait a couple of minutes before the hostess leads us to a table in the back of the restaurant. The lighting is low and it's supa fancy. I feel nervous again.

You're the s.h.i.+t.

Yes. I am. We sit opposite each other. Ben orders a bottle of red wine-thank G.o.d-and the waiter brings us bread to nibble on as we look over the menu.

”You said you haven't lived here long,” Ben starts as he takes a drink of wine.

”No, I got a new job and moved from Mistwood about seven months ago.”

”Mistwood?”

”It's a small-ish town near Lake Michigan.”

He nods. ”Do you like it here?”

I shrug. ”It's been okay so far. It's kind of fun being somewhere new, and the job is pretty easy.”

”I'd think so,” he comments. ”What's someone who graduated from MIT doing working in customer service?”

”Oh,” I say and put another piece of bread on my plate. ”I don't actually do customer service. I was filling in for someone else at the company I work for.”

”What do you actually do, then?”

”Code websites. Easy-peasy stuff.” I wave my hand in the air. ”I used to be a software programmer before this. Loved the job, but the place I worked didn't offer much room for growth. Or raises,” I add with a wry smile. ”Who knows where I'll be in a year or two.”

Ben is smiling. ”You've got the wanderl.u.s.t bug.”

”I do,” I agree. ”I like traveling and going new places.”

”So do I.” He dips his bread in oil and takes a bite.

I take another drink of wine. ”Have you always been here?”

”I grew up in Detroit,” he says. ”My father was in the military so we moved around a lot until I was a teen, and he was done with the army for good.”

”That must have been hard,” I reply, knowing how hard middle and high school was for me and I had the same friends throughout both.

”It wasn't so bad.” He shrugs. ”When you're constantly going somewhere new it forces you to not be shy. I think it pushed me to be an artist too.”

”Really? How so?”