Nese
Ispend the next couple of days dragging a reluctant guitarist to as many shops as I can in the city.
I make him try on a wide variety of outfits, trying to get him to prefer—or at least like—some of the trendier ones.
I even succeed in persuading him to purchase a few, which I call a win.
My ankle is about seventy-five percent healed, and I make an effort to overlook the remaining twenty-five. When I’m not limping.
I’ve managed to keep my comments on the strictly platonic level for two reasons.
One, unlike me, he’s as skittish about sex as a newborn colt.
Two, I have no desire to prove Jenna and Hayden right.
It makes no difference that the times I’ve been with him have been the best in my life.
I am not ready to settle down like they were.
Hell, he was married when he was younger than me—an important warning!
Still, I wouldn’t mind tapping him one last time.
We’re at the final stop—looking for a watch. A statement piece.
“As I explained to you before,” he begins this conversation for the fifth time. “I can’t wear a watch when we’re performing for the same reason UC’s drummer never wears a shirt onstage. Besides, I had a watch that was in my luggage.”
“Which was lost,” I supply. “It was what? A Timex?”
He looks like he drank pickle juice, but I don’t care. It’s beyond time for him to come clean, as I suspect his ex-wife gave it to him. Finally, he says, “It was Lillian’s first gift to me in high school.”
My lips purse. “You did wear it, right? Just not during a gig. I’m only replacing what you had—with something more stylish, of course.”
“I don’t need one. My cell phone tells the time.”
I slant him a dirty look. “Do I have to lecture you on this again?”
“No.” He kicks the dirt. He must recognize he’ll never win this fight. “Fine. Let’s get a watch. But be warned—I’m not buying a Rolex or something ridiculous like that. My Timex kept perfect time.”
I open the jewelry store door, keeping my jubilation in check. “Remember, we’re only going to look at their selection.”
We enter the men’s section and a salesclerk extols the virtues of each watch he puts in front of UC’s guitarist. There’s a dizzying array, even to my standards. Poor Coop doesn’t know what hit him.
Coop holds up a Breitling, Omega, and Tissot. “These look nice.”
Only a man without any money concerns would consider watches ranging from one to thirty-five thousand to be “nice”. My guess is he’ll choose the Omega, as it looks the most masculine and heavy-duty. But, honestly, all three would do the trick.
“Do any of them speak to you?” His eyebrow raises.
“Not literally, silly. Are you gravitating to any? Prefer one style to the other?” I could go on, but I’ve learned he maxes out at two questions, and I’m not going to push my luck.
Especially considering what I planned for tonight while he’s been checking out the watches.
His eyes flit between the Breitling and the Omega. I’m glad I was able to speak with the clerk and prevent Coop from seeing the prices. I want this to be a purely gut-check decision.
“I think the Tissot is out.” He places it down onto the watch cushion.
I pretend to be Río and do a drumroll. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.
He turns to me. “Don’t quit your day job.”
“Fine. Stylist it is.” I stick out my tongue at him. “I’m dying to know— which one is it going to be, Coop?
He puts both on his wrist, then drops the Breitling. “This one.” He holds up the winner—the Omega.
I smother my smile. I knew it! My man has mighty fine taste.
My man. The record in my mind skips. Get a grip, Nese. Fuck buddies and nothing more. Not even that…
“Put it on. Let me see.”
He struggles with the clasp, so I help him. His wrist is larger than most men’s I bet because of his many years playing guitar. I tap his wrist, now adorned with the Omega.
He checks the new piece of jewelry, admiring it from every angle. “It looks great.”
The clerk points out some of the more unusual features, to which Coop listens intently, then smiles at the timepiece. “I know I fought you earlier, Nese, but this watch is pretty cool. I bet all the guys are going to want one after they see mine.”
The clerk puffs up. His commission would be astronomical.
I tap the Omega. “You might dethrone Tris to be called the band’s trendsetter.” I toss my head back and laugh.
Coop chuckles. “Not even a remote chance.”
He checks the invoice and whistles.
I suck in my breath, praying he doesn’t balk. When he remains still, I urge, “You like it. Splurge a little.”
Following a long pause, he stares at his wrist then hands the clerk his black credit card.
I want to clap at his indulgence, but hold myself in check.
This does reinforce the disparity between the performer and the help, though.
I don’t envy him his success, but know I’ll never be free of balancing my checkbook to the penny.
We walk out of the store and are greeted with another perfect sunny LA day. As we’re not far from the beach, I suggest a short trip. “To make sure your new watch keeps as good time as your old one,” I clarify.
Shrugging, he agrees. Soon, we’re walking on light tan sand, carrying our shoes. “How’s the ankle?”
Lifting my left foot, I admit, “It still hurts a little. Thankfully, nothing like it did a few days ago.”
“You’re over the hump. I bet you won’t even remember hurting it by next week.” He pauses. “When you’re safely back in Georgia.”
This again? Well, if he wants me gone so badly, I don’t want to stay. It’s not like we’ve created anything special here in LA—I merely acted as his stylist in his time of need. Plus a tiny bit more.
“Fine.” I pull out my phone and book a flight to Atlanta, then turn the screen toward him. “I leave at ten a.m. tomorrow.”
“Good.”
I study his profile. His patrician nose. Sunglasses covering intriguing hazel eyes. Ripped torso. I’ll miss having his strong arms wrapped around me, but I’m sure any man’s will do. He’s obviously lying to himself about me, but to each his own.
At the shoreline, I kick the water. It splatters him from mid-torso down his legs. “Oops!” I take off running, but have to stop almost immediately. “Ouch!”
He picks me up by my waist, spinning me around. “Not such a good idea, would you say?”
In between laughter, I eek out, “No!”
He stands me up on my feet but keeps his hands on me. Staring into my eyes, he asks, “How is it?”
What’s he talking about? All I can concentrate on are his kissable lips and hands kneading my shoulders. “Huh?”
“Your ankle,” he prompts. “Did you reinjure it?”
Oh. Right. He’s inquiring after my stupid injury. “How can’t you feel this undercurrent between us?”
Oops—must’ve said that out loud because he steps backward. “Nese.”
I place my fists on my hips. “Coop.”
I can read his expressions. Without words, he’s telling me we’re done. He has no further interest in me. Something more, too. Sadness.
Suck it, Grandpa.
He separates his torso from his wet shirt and airs it out. “Let’s head back.”
“Sounds good.”
We walk through the sand. This time I take a lot longer since I’m babying my foot. We pass by the now familiar buildings and stores, some of which we’ve shopped at and/or made purchases. My time here is over—I need to move on.
In the Rover, I flip through my texts and land on the one from a bunch of UC coworkers inviting me out to a club tonight. Sounds good. It’s my last night in LA and I’m sure Coop would prefer to read a book or something.
We enter his house via the Zen Garden. This time, I’m careful not to disturb the precious lines in the sand.
And it hits me. Coop is the sand. Carefully arranged.
Deliberate. Peaceful. I'm the one who keeps disturbing it.
I add color to his life, but at his core, he doesn't want to be disrupted.
Call me many things, but I have an innate ability to disrupt his staid life.
He leaves me at my door, and I text the group back:
Sounds fun! Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there!
My friend the makeup artist replies, telling me she and a few others are meeting at a restaurant beforehand. Makes sense to me.
I gather my luggage—minus tonight’s outfit—and start packing.
In the bathroom, I collect my toiletries and say goodbye to the most wonderful private space I’ve ever had.
Coop’s mansion is amazing, yet he takes everything as a given.
I hope never to be so rich that little luxuries don’t mean anything to me.
As I’m putting my jewelry together in its travel case, Coop knocks on the open doorway. He puts his hands in the back pockets of the jeans I helped him select. Objectively, they hug him in all the right places. Good for them.
“I was going to ask you if you’d like to go out to dinner? We could knock another place off your Restaurant Bingo card.”
“That’s thoughtful, but I have plans. I’ll be leaving shortly. But don’t worry, I’ll be here in time to make it to the airport.”
“Oh.”
We stare at each other, neither knowing what to say. I lift my jewelry case. “Well, I better finish packing.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it. Glancing around my room, he says, “Have fun tonight.”
“I will.” I don’t tell him I plan on getting laid, considering he’s told me—in no uncertain terms—he’s not interested.
He knocks on the door once, then leaves, a trail of patchouli and jasmine lingering.
I sit on the bed, where he played my body like his favorite guitar.
Pushing away our interlude, I ensure all my things are in my luggage.
Especially considering I don’t plan on arriving here with more than one hour to shower and dress for the airport tomorrow.
Itake my second shot of tequila from the server’s tray and down it as quickly as the rest of my friends. Dinner was a smart idea, particularly given this club specializes in tequila. Just as smart was my taking pain relievers before heading out.