The Virgin Society Collection

11. Distractible Guy

11

DISTRACTIBLE GUY

Layla

On Monday, I make plans to see David at the end of the week, then I take a ferry across the river to meet Geeta at a tea shop in Hoboken. We mostly zoom and call, but we try to meet in person now and then, and I do my best to come out here since it’s easier for her. As she sips chai, we review my reports from the conference.

“I especially like Farm to Phone, and it’s not just because of the clever name,” I say, showing her the proposal from a hot-shot digital marketing firm that wants to work with us. “They’ve helped some of the best new apps rise up and get noticed. A handful of their apps have gone on to become part of Omega Media.”

One well-groomed brow rises at the mention of an app holding company with a sterling rep. Geeta sets down her cup. “Let’s sell this baby to Omega.”

The endgame for us has always been an exit. We want to sell The Makeover to a bigger company, one with a family of apps already. I have two years to make that happen with Mom’s timeline breathing down my neck.

“Definitely. Or Marcus Media. Or Limitless,” I say, naming some other app holding companies. “Which is why I think we should consider Farm to Phone. We need a marketing partner and, with our growth this spring, now’s the time to get The Makeover ready.”

As she reviews the proposal on screen, Geeta twirls a strand of magenta hair amongst her sheet of black locks, then shrugs her yes. “If you like their proposal, I like their proposal.”

When we’re done with the recap, I check the time. “I need to shoot some new videos today. I should take off.”

She sighs heavily. “Me too. This is my first time out in days. But I gotta jet. Dad’s PT is coming over.”

“Of course. Tell Dad I say hi,” I say, though I’ve never met her father. He has MS and she lives with him and takes care of him.

“I’ll send him your lipstick love. But I better get home before he flirts too hard with his PT,” she says.

Laughing, I scoop up my laptop and take off.

Once I’m back across the river and in my Manhattan neighborhood, I swing by Blush, one of my favorite makeup shops on Columbus Avenue, where I hunt for a few items. When I spot a new pink lipstick and liner from a company called Mia Jane, I’m too enthused to keep it to myself. “You have Mia Jane,” I say to no one in particular.

This brand is a dream. Started by the fashionista and former model Mia Jane, it’s all cruelty-free and made in the USA. She ruled the runway a couple decades ago, and since then she’s dabbled in several hustles from perfume, to cropped sweatshirts, to vegan purses. She finally jumped into the makeup world last year with a pop-up shop in Los Angeles for her brand. Hard to say if she’ll stick with this new project, but her taste is extraordinary, and her rep is strong, especially among young people, since she offers one of the largest lines of inclusive shades for a wide range of skin tones.

A stunningly pretty man at the counter looks up and flashes a grin. “We sure do. Have you tried Mia Jane yet?” he asks. He’s wearing silver eyeshadow, which pops beautifully against his skin. His name tag reads Storm/Store Manager.

“Yes! It’s my go-to brand whenever I can get it. I went to their pop-up shop in LA last time I was there, but I could only stow so much in my luggage.”

He laughs. “We’re birds of a feather. I stocked up on her ebony shades for myself. That color’s not easy to find.” Then he brings a finger to his lips. “But don’t tell anyone I wear foundation.”

I mime zipping my lips, then say breezily, “What foundation?”

He smiles. “I knew I liked you. Anyway, I hope her lines go big. We’ve started carrying all her stuff, and rumor has it she might be opening some Mia Jane shops soon.”

We both squeal.

I shop a bit more, then, goodies in hand, I head to the counter, where I study his lids. “Love that silver color, and your blend is perf, Storm.”

“Thank you, hun.” Then he blinks, points, grins. “Wait. Wait! You’re Lola!”

I smile, giddy from the recognition for this reason. “That’s me.”

“Girl! You taught me how to fill in a brow with your series,” he says, then he strikes a pose and gestures to his perfectly groomed eyebrows.

“That’s fantastic. You should be doing videos,” I say, then head home, saying hello to Sylvester, the evening doorman, and Grady at the concierge desk before I head to the sixth floor, lock my apartment, then deadbolt it.

I turn on all the lights and look around.

Once I’m safely inside and alone, I take off my skull rings, I’ll put one on before I go to bed, since it’s always wise to have a weapon with you, and these are self-defense rings, with a tiny, serrated blade hidden under each skull. Next, I set up my lights and shoot several new videos. They’ll go on social, then Geeta will integrate them into the app.

Finally, Friday rolls around, and I head out to meet David. I haven’t seen him in months, and I’m ridiculously excited.

Seeing him feels like a reward. I’ve made it through the first week without looking up Nick Adams.

That handsome man will remain a dirty, delicious memory.

The sound of Ms. Pac-Man eating a ghost greets me as I head into Cosmo’s, a retro arcade in the Village. I scan the joint for my sandy-haired friend, but I don’t see him at the bar, or the games, or at a table.

When Ms. Pac-Man dies loudly, someone behind me says, “Oh man, that’s the worst.”

Someone I know. My former boyfriend fills the arcade doorway, looking nothing like his history major, clean-shaven self of yesteryear.

“Is David Bancroft under that beard?” I ask. “Beneath that wild hair?”

“Don’t tell a soul,” he whispers, then wraps me in a tight hug in the entryway.

But I’m still shocked when he lets go. He seems so different from when we met at Columbia. I was a senior and he was a junior. He’d needed a math tutor, and the school’s tutoring program paired us. We hit it off, working on equations and, admittedly, flirting. We dated for four months or so, but eventually agreed we were better off as friends.

“C’mon, let’s grab a bite then play some games,” he says.

We order sandwiches and beer and find a seat, and I park my chin in my hand. “So, tell me all about Canada. Where were you? What did you do?”

He regales me with tales of his treks deep into the forest, his experience with nature, and the meaning he found in connecting with the earth.

“It just made me realize I want to do something that really helps the planet, you know? I’m thinking maybe I can do something for animals and the climate. Like when animals get displaced from homes or shelters due to hurricanes, floods, or forest fires. Maybe I could raise money for that.”

We discuss his ideas over our sandwiches until he finishes with, “I’m going to do it. I’m going to use some of my trust fund from my grandparents. Start a little non-profit and raise money to help animal shelters in the area. I’ll start with my mom’s friends.”

“I’d love to help,” I say. “I’ve planned a few charity fundraisers over the years.”

“You’re the best,” he says and reaches across the table to ruffle my hair. When he sits back, he shakes his head in amusement. “So ridic that our moms think we’re a thing.”

I laugh too. “Proof: you just ruffled my hair.” And never gave me an orgasm . But I keep that part to myself.

“I definitely don’t ruffle Cynthia’s hair.”

“Yeah, what’s the story with this girl you can’t get over?”

“She’s a bartender at a bowling alley in Newark. Her brother works as one of the guides for the wilderness trek, and Cynthia and I met when she came along to help out on the trip. But she loves camping and hiking too.”

“So you have the whole outdoor thing in common.”

“We do.” He sounds like a fool in love. But then his smile disappears. “I think I freaked her out when I proposed to her.”

“What???”

He just shrugs. “Yeah, she kind of told me to slow down.” He scratches his jaw. “Or maybe she said slow the fuck down. I just hope I didn’t scare her away.”

“Can you? Slow down?” I ask, genuinely concerned. David was always a full-speed-ahead kind of guy. I’m the one who pressed the brakes on us, though he immediately agreed that friendship felt right.

“Sure,” he says, maybe too quickly. But he adds in a resolute tone, “I can. I will. I mean, I’m not driving out to Jersey every day, am I?” He glances up at me like he’s looking for approval.

“That’s good.” I pat his hand affectionately. “So, a bowling alley in Jersey? Do I even have to ask if your mother had a coronary?”

“No, you do not.”

Alone in my apartment that night, I settle onto the couch, check on my social feed, and respond to comments on The Makeover. There’s a DM from Storm, too, thanking me for the shoutout the other day. Then he adds, Plus, there’s a rumor a Mia Jane shop is coming to New York soon. Prayers, girl!

I send him a praying hands emoji, then a note: I better be the first to know !

We chat some more then I return to my comments. I’m about to close out, but then I do a double take when I spot a post from DistractibleGuy . It’s a question— Does it hold up when you go dancing ?

A warm flush spreads across my cheeks and down my chest. Giddy with hope, I click on the name. I’m tingly, too, as I check out the profile, created just today. There are no videos. No photos. The profile pic is just an icon of a glass of liquor. Looks like scotch.

Then the description says… An American in London .

My breath catches. Forget tingly. I’m hot all over as I reply: I hope I’ll find out someday.

My comments are quiet while I get ready for bed, but when I slide under the covers, there’s a new one.

From him.

Dirty hope spins in me.

It’s three in the morning in London. I don’t even know if Nick’s there right now, but if so, he doesn’t sleep much.

And I’m not sure how I’ll get to sleep, either, given his reply.

You will.