Chapter 11 Why You’re Like That
Why You’re Like That
— F IFTEEN D AYS A FTER B ARBARA’S W EDDING —
I snort, studying the Marguerite’s latest tweet. Whoever’s writing these is good, I’m gonna give them that.
My turn now.
Just as I tap on the “retweet” button, the apartment door opens and my stomach plummets. My gaze flies to the door through which, with a cautious smile, Frank enters with his suitcase. He’s been gone for two weeks, which is also when we properly talked last. But he’s back for the weekend, and it’s finally time to face the music.
“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him. He kicks his shoes off and drops the luggage, turning to me a couple more times. “I thought you’d be at work.”
“In half an hour,” I explain. “Welcome back. Was the trip okay?”
“Got stuck in traffic for a while. But it gave me a lot of time to think about, um… what I asked you.”
So we’ll get right into it, huh? Sounds good. I’ve been thinking, too—every day and night for two weeks. And I think—I know —I’m ready to have this conversation. “Yeah. If you’re not too tired, maybe we should talk.”
“Of course. But let’s not fight, please?”
“Uh-huh.” I rub my hands together, trying not to get immediately annoyed. If he doesn’t want to fight, maybe he shouldn’t act like an idiot.
“Look, Ames, it’s not that bad. We can set our own rules and boundaries. Adjust this to our needs as a couple and—”
My eyes narrow at his words. “Did you research this?”
“Yes,” he says, looking down at the floor to avoid my judgmental expression. “I just checked a couple of websites, you know? To help you—us.”
“Yeah? Perv.com and How-to-ruin-my-engagement.net?”
“You said we wouldn’t fight,” he says. “I’m not in the mood, Ames.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms and click my tongue. “So enlighten me. What results did your research yield?”
He hesitates, glancing around for a rescue. “There isn’t only one way to do it. It depends on what we want.”
“And what do we want?”
“I want nothing emotional,” he says with a firm shake of his head as he paces in front of the window, warm light peeking through and highlighting the beads of sweat on his neck. “I’m in love with you, and I want to marry you.”
“Just sex, then,” I say with a dramatic sweep of my hand as I cross my legs on the couch. “No big deal.”
“ If it should happen.” He opens his mouth, then closes it. For a few seconds he says nothing, then he meets my gaze, an apologetic smile on his lips. “Ames, the sex we have is kind of… basic.”
I swallow and look away, because he said something I can’t possibly disagree with. At this point in our relationship, we just meet at night under the blanket and have missionary sex. If we’re feeling wild, I might give him a blow job. That’s it.
“Ames? It’s not an attack on you.” He sits next to me, his legs coming to rest beside mine as he holds my hands. “There are certain things that I’d like to try, but I can’t do them with you.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because you’re… you.” He shakes his head when my jaw drops. “No, not like that. It’s just… I see you as a… mom, I guess?”
My head jerks back, a cloud of shame and anger taking over my mind. Sliding my hands out of his hold, I yelp, “A mom ?”
“No, not my mom. Just like… the mother of our future children. Or… or my future wife.” He nervously scratches the back of his neck. “I respect you is what I mean. I can’t do that stuff with you.”
God almighty, what in the world does he intend to do with these poor women?
He hesitates, then pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I need to do this, Ames. I feel this huge weight pressing on my chest at the thought of never being single again.” As soon as I open my mouth, his voice rises. “Look at it this way: if I get it out of my system, then there won’t be any of that once we get married.” He pauses. “Can you think of any rules that would make you more comfortable if I… meet up with a woman?”
Burying the feeling deep down, I focus on his question, but it feels like discussing sci-fi. Rules. “I guess… don’t… don’t have sex with anyone I know,” I say, since it looks like common sense has been lacking in this household recently. “Whoever you sleep with, you can’t ever meet again after we’re married. And use protection, because I don’t need syphilis from my fiancé.” I ignore his sigh. “Don’t tell anyone about it.”
“Okay, yes.” He nods. “It’s all fair. Consider it done.” Leaning closer, he whispers, “And in six months we get married. Do you think you could do this? For me—for us ?”
I nod. It feels like I don’t have a choice—though, really, I guess I do.
“Can I have a kiss now?”
I press my lips against his, but I’m hardly feeling it, and when he leans closer for a second peck, I stand and walk into the corridor. “Frank?” I call. He turns to me, and with a frown I say, “One more rule.”
“Anything you want.”
“Please, keep it to yourself. If you do sleep with someone, I don’t want to be informed.”
I step into the wooden gazebo in front of me, then lean against the railings and look down at the pond where a swarm of red fish is thrashing around. Most of the spaces available at this venue are way too vast for our fifty-guest wedding, but it might also be the best location I’ve seen so far.
My phone vibrates, my pulse racing as I check Ian’s answer to my pictures.
Ian:
Nice. Better than that shack from last weekend.
Amelie:
But that terrace…
Ian:
No terrace. You can’t get married next to a bowling alley.
A light chuckle bursts out of my mouth. Though Ian is the anti-wedding man whose kryptonite is marriage, he’s been nothing but supportive since we started texting. I’d even go so far as to call him a friend. And I’m ashamed to say I might have been taking advantage of it, texting him at odd hours with potential flower, menu, and photographer options.
Amelie:
Are you sure I’m not bothering you with this?
Ian:
Don’t ditch me right before we get to the good part.
Amelie:
What’s that?
Ian:
When you tell me what’s wrong with this place.
Amelie:
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Ian:
Pff. Please.
Fine, he’s right. Despite the cold September day, I can just imagine how perfect this garden would look like during my March wedding. The indoor spaces, though… they’re so luxurious and stuffy—nothing like the simple ceremony I envision. Nothing like the Kent Farm, which Martha has already stolen.
Amelie:
Isn’t it a little too country club–y?
Ian:
Golfers would feel right at home.
Amelie:
Right. I don’t want that.
Ian:
No shit. Golf is boring.
With a groan, I walk toward the villa’s entrance. I’ll never find a location that isn’t either impossibly big or absurdly expensive or just a total dump, will I?
Throwing a last look behind me, I text him that I’m driving and make my way home. Once the door of the apartment closes behind me, I find a missed call from Martha, and the usual weight settles in my chest. It’s been two weeks since her text, and though she’s been moaning through most of it, I haven’t given up my dress.
I haven’t seen or talked to Frank, either, since his visit, but I’m trying not to think about that too much.
Thankfully, something—or rather someone—has been keeping me distracted.
Fetching my phone, I take my usual place by the armrest of the black leather couch and notice Ian answered my last text ten minutes ago.
I know it’ll say what he always says when I tell him I’m driving.
Ian:
Text when you’re home safe.
Though I obviously appreciate his presence in my life, it also makes Frank’s shortcomings bigger by comparison. Ian is so sweet, so thoughtful and available. But no one is so damn perfect. There’s a catch, and I’m dead set on finding it right now.
Amelie:
Are you unemployed?
Ian:
No. I work for the family business. Why?
Amelie:
You always answer all my texts within minutes. Even at night. Don’t you sleep?
Ian:
You always text me late at night. Don’t you sleep?
Yes, but I’m a chef; I often fall asleep at three or four in the morning.
Amelie:
I don’t always answer immediately.
Ian:
I sleep. When you text, I wake up.
“Oh, come on,” I say to myself. I roll my eyes and walk into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of white wine and filling a glass. “Just be despicable already. Show me your true colors.”
Amelie:
You don’t need to do that. Wake up to answer.
Ian:
I know. I enjoy doing it.
“You’re just so very unhelpful,” I mumble.
Enjoying the fresh taste of the chardonnay, I stare down at my phone. He definitely has commitment issues, and I know there’s a story with him and relationships—no one is that against weddings for no reason—but there must be something more. Something terrible and disgusting about him.
I’m not giving up on this.
Amelie:
Are you a racist?
Ian:
I’m more of a love person than a hate person.
Amelie:
Aggressive tendencies?
Ian:
Are you trying to find out what’s wrong with me?
Amelie:
Is it aggressive tendencies?
I already know that’s not it. I bet he’s never thrown a punch in his life. Maybe he’s been arrested for public urination? Or his mom is a huge bitch? Because Frank’s almost too proper, and I love my future mother-in-law.
Ian:
I was caught cheating on a test in college, if it helps.
Amelie:
It doesn’t. I cut my own bangs in college. Everybody does stupid shit.
Ian:
PFP.
PFP. He’s sent me about a million PFP s so far. I’ve sent a couple too. When he said he was eating at an underwater restaurant, and when he was at Mayfield’s Beckett Bridge.
After a deep dive into my social media, I find a cute picture of me with bangs. It’s very Little House on the Prairie , but the memory warms my chest.
Amelie:
There. Picture for proof.
Ian:
Still hot.
My lips pout as I think of Frank’s shocked expression when I showed up at his dorm with my home-cut bangs. I preferred you without. We had a big fight afterward, and I hate that I’m reminded of it now, because a very immature, very petty part of me wants to send him a screenshot of this conversation. Maybe text something like “Another man thinks I’m hot” with several exclamation points.
I wish that he’d flip out or warn me against other men or even just… check in. Be curious and ask if I’ve met this guy, kissed him, slept with him. A healthy amount of jealousy shows passion, doesn’t it? Why doesn’t he care?
Dropping my head against the leather cushion, I groan and angrily tap on my phone.
Amelie:
PFP.
Ian:
Of what?
Amelie:
Your hairline. I want to see if it’s receding.
He sends me a picture, and I tap on it. It’s a ridiculous shot from the top, his blue irises looking up as he sticks his tongue out. His hair is exactly where it’s supposed to be, thick and a shade darker than wheat, and he’s wearing a white sweater and jeans. I’m pretty sure he’s at a restaurant, maybe a bar, and he’s not alone, because from the weird angle I can see the bottom half of another man’s body.
Stupid Ian. He’s obviously doing something, yet he always finds time to answer.
It’s really annoying.
Amelie:
You’re out with someone. You should have told me.
Ian:
Why? Did we agree on an only-at-home texting policy?
Amelie:
It’s rude to spend lunch with your nose buried in your phone.
Ian:
It’s just my dad, and I’m a great multitasker.
Of course he is. And he must be rich and successful, with sweat that tastes like cotton candy and farts that can cure cholera.
Wait. I think I got it.
Amelie:
The problem must be south, then.
Ian:
Are you asking if I’m well-endowed?
Amelie:
As if a man ever answered “No” to that question.
Ian:
PFP?
I burst out laughing. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. Unsolicited dick pics: I hear some guys do that.
Amelie:
Shut up.
Ian:
Just tell Frank to buy you flowers.
Amelie:
Flowers?
Ian:
Tell him to surprise you with them next time he visits.
I haven’t said a word to Ian about my arrangement with Frank. We’ve agreed to be friends, and despite what I told my fiancé, that’s all I intend for us to be. And he’s a flirt, but I’ve got a feeling that has much more to do with his personality than with me. He knows I’m engaged, and he’s not looking for a relationship anyway.
We’re good.
Still, the comparisons I can’t help but make worry me. No matter how well-intentioned, Ian is making Frank look worse than bad, and I don’t need more doubts when my relationship has already taken such a huge hit.
No. I can’t let a random guy who gives me an ounce of attention be what breaks us.
Amelie:
I think we shouldn’t keep texting this much.
There’s a hole in my heart the second I send him the text. I almost wish I could unsend it, but I know it’s for the best. He’s become the highlight of my day, and that’s not healthy.
Ian:
Okay. I get it.
Not the answer I expected. Something tells me he’s sad: we’ve been texting enough that I can almost pinpoint the messages he types with a smile and the ones he sends with a frown. This feels like one of the latter. But even now he gets it; no need to explain.
I don’t want this to be the last time I talk to him.
Amelie:
We can still text sometimes, but not all the time.
Ian:
Sometimes.
But remember one thing?
Amelie:
What?
Ian:
It’s your rule. You can break it if you need me.
I exhale, slowly and so deeply that my whole body deflates. I need him so much all the time. He’s making this whole nightmare less stressful, and God knows I could use a friend. But right now he’s the only person in my life, which means some stuff desperately has to change.
Amelie:
I can’t need you this much. It’s not fair.
Ian:
It’s not fair that you’re so alone either.
Amelie:
Ian, you said you understood.
Ian:
I’m not saying you should text me, Amelie.
I’m saying you should talk to Frank and Martha.
Amelie:
Why are you like that?
Ian:
Like how?
Amelie:
Why do you care so much?
Ian:
Don’t worry about it. I’m not that well-endowed.