Chapter 36
TYLER
“Come on in,I’ll be ready in five,” Lucy says, greeting me at the door with a kiss on the cheek.
Her hair is dripping wet and she’s wearing a towel, so it’s clear my wait is not going to be only five minutes. But that’s okay. She’s worth the wait.
To hell with my stupid bet with Rake and Jonas. It’s time to step things up with this woman. If she’s game. Which I sure as hell hope she is.
“Hey, how’s Ruby feeling?” she shouts from the bathroom.
I walk around her little apartment, picking up her trinkets, wondering what the story is behind each. Girls always have a story behind their trinkets.
“She’s good, thanks for asking. I haven’t spoken to her in a few days, but she hasn’t had any of those episodes that end her up in the hospital.”
“Okay, good to hear.”
“She’s usually really good with monitoring everything, but I guess when she changes meds all bets are off.”
Diabetes sucks. That’s all there is to it. And Ruby is such a sweet kid, I’d always wished it had been me who came down with it, rather than her. It might have made my career as a pro athlete a little more challenging, but it would all be manageable. There are other pros out there living with Type 1.
Lucy’s bookshelves are littered with photos of her with her friends, the unframed ones propped up against the framed ones, all curly at the edges. I pick up one of her in a white graduation cap and gown, and while it’s a few years old, the girls she’s flanked by are clearly Petal and Gilly. They have their arms around each other and are grinning wildly.
Next to that is a picture of a woman holding a baby, probably Lucy and her mother. The woman looks surprisingly like my mom, not so much in features, but with similar hair and clothes, since they must have been taken around the same time frame. And like my mother, this woman is smiling down at her baby like she’s the most precious thing in the world.
While I don’t have a lot of memories of my mother, I have seen photos of her holding me and looking at me in the same way.
Ruby got cheated of that, she was so young when my mother died.
I wander over to Lucy’s desk and now understand her enthusiasm for my view. The window next to her chair looks right at the exterior wall of the building across the way. It’s not an eyesore, but not inspiring, either.
Her desk is littered with books and notebooks like I imagine any writer’s would be. I pick up a tattered copy of a French textbook and when I page through it, find it full of yellow highlights and inky comments in the margins.
“I didn’t know you were learning French,” I call.
“Huh? I’ll be out in a sec, I can’t hear you over the hairdryer,” she yells back.
Under the French textbook is a spiral-bound notebook, open and turned to a page crowded with notes, circles, arrows, and exclamation notes.
I pick it up for a closer look and I’ll be damned. It’s for her book. She starts with some possible titles:
1. Charm school dropouts: A sassy guide to outsmarting womanizers
2. Take a hike, Romeo: Escaping the charms of the eternal bachelor
3. Tired of kissing frogs: Drain the pond
4. Pretty little lies: Unraveling the player’s playbook
Holy shit, these are amazing. I mean, I knew Lucy was smart and all, but this biting sense of humor is vicious. And I love it.
Next, she has a bunch of things written under what you’ll get out of this book:
1. DIY: Build a better you without a man’s help
2. Playboy spotting: Avoid his charms
3. Heartbreak-proofing: Develop a backbone of steel
4. Ex-files: Turn disaster dates into lessons learned
5. Future-proofing your heart: Upgrade your taste in men
6. Squad goals: Assemble your anti-fuckboy task force
7. Be a better boss lady: Your transformation toolkit
Okay. She’s serious about this, not that I’m surprised. She’s not the type to half-ass anything. I flip the page in her notebook and find what looks to be an outline:
Introduction
Purpose of this book
The allure of the playboy
Personal stories
Chapter 1: Understanding the playboy
Traits and tactics
The psychology behind the charm
I’m about to continue reading but a yellow sticky note falls out and flutters to the ground.
“Almost ready,” Lucy calls from her bedroom.
“It’s okay. Take your time.”
I grab the note from the floor and as I’m tucking it back into the notebook, I see my name on it.
Huh.
Says he doesn’t want to date other women – lie?
Probably a cheater – ask Petal to ask Rake
Penthouse apt with views – bought to impress the ladies?
Is his little sister chick bait? Or his wing woman?
Lays on the compliments – too good to be true?
Holy shit.
She made notes… about me?
As if that isn’t weird enough, the real kicker is that this is what she thinks of me. I mean, sure, at first, she dropped some hints about the ‘kind of guy she assumed I was.’ But I was pretty sure I debunked those myths a while back. I thought I’d set her straight. After all the time we’ve spent together, she still thinks I’m a shallow asshole?
Guess so.
A sweat breaks out on my temples and in seconds I am hot all over. Actually, steaming, the way my adrenaline kicks in when I start a game.
Only this is not a game. It’s real life.
All I can think is to get the hell out of here.
I tuck the sticky back in the notebook, closing it and setting it on top of the French textbook.
I just don’t get it. Lucy is a smart woman, and she thinks these things of me?
Worse, could they be partially true?
Her heels click on the floor behind me. “Ah, finally ready. Sorry for the wait. Oh hey, checking out my French book?” she asks, still fastening her earrings.
“Um. Yeah. Just checking it out. Didn’t, um, know you spoke French.” I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. Not sure it’s working.
Is this me getting a taste of my own medicine? I’m part of her book and she’s part of my bet?
“I don’t speak French,” she laughs. “Thus the challenge. I’d like to visit France, so I pulled out my old textbook from college. I hope some of it comes back to me so I can at least ask where the bathrooms are.”
I barely hear what she’s saying, I’m so stunned.
Confusion runs through me, which is to be expected I suppose, but it’s mixed with a side of frustration. And shame.
Frustration because in spite of being what I consider a good guy, someone thinks of me this way, but also shame for being just as big a dick to this woman as it looks like she’s been to me.
Beaten at my own game. And I deserve every bit of it.
I rub my temples. “You know, I’m getting a headache. Actually, I’ve had one all day,” I lie, “but it’s getting worse now.”
I make a move toward the door.
“Wait, I have aspirin. Let me get you a couple,” she says, reaching for me.
But I move too fast. “I… I gotta head home. I’m sorry. I’ll… call you later.”
I make the drive home on autopilot and don’t remember a thing about it until I’m in my apartment, but when I get there, I head straight for the kitchen and pull out my cookie sheets. Well, they’re not my cookie sheets, they’re my mother’s.
Or they were my mother’s.
They’re old and crusty and warped, but I normally look forward to seeing them. Baking cookies is my pregame ritual, at least when I’m in town. It helps me wind down. De-stress.
And while I’m tempted to make a batch right now of whatever I have the ingredients for, something is putting me off.
I’m pissed. That’s what it is.
First and foremost, I’m pissed at myself. And I’m pissed at Lucy.
Do I have the right to be? I have no idea. But I am. No doubt about it.
I half-heartedly take the flour and sugar from the cabinet over the stove and pull out my mom’s old measuring cups. But my heart isn’t in it.
It’s not in anything.
My freezer’s full of goddamn cookies anyway. I could have a bake sale out in front of my building and still not be able to get rid of them all.
Stupid fucking way to decompress. I leave everything out on the counters and wander over to the sofa. I click through a few channels but, not surprisingly, nothing looks interesting. So I lay back on the sofa, my head propped on a pillow, and fall asleep.