Chapter 6
Andi
I ease out of bed to use the bathroom before I fall asleep. I find a washcloth and do a rudimentary washup while I’m in there. I don’t bother with the fake tattoos. Or the hair product.
When I crawl back into bed, he reaches out one long arm and pulls me in close. Makes a satisfied sound and buries his face in the crook of my neck. “I smell soap,” he mumbles, his eyes still closed.
“I washed up a little.” Not sure he’s really awake, so I say it softly, my voice almost gone anyway.
“Must investigate.” And before I realize what he’s talking about, he has slipped away under the sheet, where he proceeds to “investigate” me thoroughly. Leisurely. Delightfully, with lips and tongue and fingers, till I’m gasping, gripping his hair, rising to meet his mouth, my own eyes squeezing shut as he brings me to another climax.
I’m laughing weakly when he crawls back up beside me. “That was… Wow.” I wrap both arms around him. “You are a lovely, lovely man.”
He cuddles me close, his smile a little smug but mostly just sweet. We drift off to sleep in our warm nest together, and I’m not aware of anything else until his phone alarm goes off a few hours later.
His arousal is hard against my hip. The sheet slips, giving me a tantalizing glimpse when he reaches to silence his phone, and it’s my turn to investigate. His breath catches and he strokes my hair with one hand, gripping the sheets with his other. I grope blindly for a condom on the nightstand, ease it onto him, and then crawl up to straddle him, taking him into me, riding him drowsily, slow and deep, to a powerful, shattering climax, smiling down into his eyes the whole time because I’ve so enjoyed being with him and he is such a nice guy, and because, okay, I’m not in a hurry to say goodbye knowing I’ll never see him again after this. So I save up the feel of his touches—the press of his fingers into my hips, the scrape of his palms over my nipples, the delicate tracing of my cheek with one fingertip—and his expressions and every one of his pleasure sounds.
Afterward he holds me and kisses me with bone-melting sweetness until the alarm goes off again, and with a “Shoot!” he’s throwing on workout clothes over those glorious muscles, zipping me into my dress, pressing one last quick kiss to the nape of my neck, and apologizing profusely for not being able to fix me breakfast in bed.
And then we jump into his car and I direct him to Lenny and Chris’s apartment complex, because I rode to Lindon’s with them. I say, “No, go, you’ll be late!” to his offer to walk me inside, and I blow a kiss as he drives away.
My car’s parked beside the band’s big white van. I glance around for would-be assailants and then head home to the little stone cottage I shared with Grandma, a million feelings, good and bad, swirling through me.
***
I have to force myself awake a few hours later when my phone rings.
Lenny, soft chords sounding in the background, as usual. I think he does all his thinking and communicating from the piano bench. “There something you want to tell me, babe?”
I shove my hair—which is reverting to its usual wavy state—off my face. “What? Lenny?” My voice isn’t quite back to normal. Still a little hoarse.
“ Some body got flowers today. Somebody who doesn’t happen to live at my apartment. Hmm…let’s see… The card is addressed to ‘Andrea.’”
I sit up fast, both warmed and panicked. Shit. This was supposed to have ended this morning. I didn’t want to involve Chris and Lenny. “Is the card sealed?”
“No, the envelope flap’s just tucked in.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, knowing this is a risky move. “Would you read me the card, please?”
Lenny chuckles. There’s a rustling of paper and then he reads, “‘Andrea, I’m so glad I met you. May I take you to dinner and a movie? Ball game? Concert? Other date of your choice? Kevin.’ Then there’s a phone number.”
Shit shit shit. Such a sweet guy. Such a big, sexy, warm, classy guy. I should’ve known he wouldn’t write anything sleazy or embarrassing.
Why couldn’t I be a normal, uncursed person with faith in men and love? I might actually say yes if I were.
But nope. One night is all I do. All I want.
And it was a hell of a night. Be tough to live up to that one.
Lenny’s patiently waiting for a response.
“Is the florist’s name on the card?”
“Yep.”
“Call them, please, Lenny. Tell them there’s been a mistake and there’s no one there by that name.”
He blows out a breath. “Ooh, cold. You sure, babe?”
No. Yes. I sigh. “Yeah. He seems like a good guy but I’m not looking for a boyfriend.” There’s silence as we think on that. I break it by asking, “Y’all need me tonight?”
“Naw, ’Shad called and said he’s feeling better, so we’re good. But thanks. Usual deal with the money?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I always split my cut with whoever needed the night off. That way I get to have fun and put a little extra in savings, whoever I fill in for doesn’t lose much income, and the Blue Shoes have an incentive to call me again next time. “Tell the guys I had fun last night.”
“Will do. We did too, babe. Good to see you. You know you missed your calling.” Pause. “You sure you want me to…?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Lenny.” I end the call and flop back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, reliving my time with Kevin: his kisses, his big gentle hands, his low teasing voice, his brown eyes full of humor and warmth, his hard powerful body on mine…
When I hear my whiny moan of regret at giving that up, I roll out of bed and head to the shower. It takes a while to scrub away the temporary tattoos and all the hair product I’d used. I’d nearly shrieked when I got home earlier and saw the rat’s nest that is my hair today. Good god, if that look is what Kevin likes, he really wouldn’t want regular day-to-day me anyway. Which is too bad, because the girls and parts south are all begging, “Please, Mom, can we keep him?”
There’s beard burn on my face and neck and breasts and thighs. I apply lotion with no-nonsense, not-thinking-about-Kevin-touching-me-there-at-all strokes. I’m glad to remove the fake nails. I like mine short and natural and clean. I pull my wet hair back in a thick braid, brush and floss, and when I glance in the mirror again, it’s regular Andi looking back at me.
***
Kevin
“You look like shit, Farm Boy.” Steve greets me with a big obnoxious grin. “What’d I tell you? Crashed and burned, didn’t you?”
I flash him a middle finger and a grin and don’t answer.
“That’ll teach ya.” He laughs his big belly-laugh all the way to the head coach’s office as his football players begin to trickle sleepily into the locker room.
“Yeah.” But I’m remembering the feel of Andrea in my arms, the scent and taste of her, the sound of her low laugh in my ear. The only thing I learned last night is that good things come to those who wait.
If I weren’t so genuinely tired, it would be nearly impossible for me to hide just how good I’m feeling.
Or how good I’m feeling until I finish meeting with student athletes about my personal training program. Then I find a voicemail message from the florist saying I must’ve given them the wrong address but that they’ll redeliver for no extra charge if I can provide them with the correct one.
She’d been out of the car and I’d been halfway to practice before I realized I hadn’t officially asked to see her again. And that we hadn’t exchanged any contact information. I’d been just assuming that of course we’d get together again. We were good together, so why wouldn’t we see each other again?
I’d remembered the name of the apartment complex—Galway Arms, very simple—and was pretty sure I’d read the number right on the door closest to where Andrea told me to let her off, so I’d used my phone to order flowers before I even got out of the car at school.
Guess I’ll have to go by and recheck the address and hope she doesn’t catch me doing it. Don’t want her to worry that I’m some creepy stalker type.
I go to the apartment she’d directed me to and verify the number and the building and the street, and then I call the florist, who says, “That’s where we delivered it to, sir. Right after the driver dropped it off, the gentleman there called us back to say there’s no one there by the name on the card.”
The gentleman? She’d told me she was single, hadn’t she? Or had I just assumed, because of her question to me about it…
She hadn’t mentioned a roommate. Then again, we didn’t spend much time talking.
I find the mailboxes and check the one for the apartment I’d thought was hers. The box has two last names and first initials on it. Neither initial is A , and I don’t know Andrea’s last name. Another first—sleeping with someone without knowing her last name. The only A on the whole row of mailboxes is a last name—Alexander—for a couple, Mike and Leah.
I don’t know whether she has a vehicle, much less what make or model it might be, so looking around the parking lot wouldn’t help. I walk back to my car and sit staring at the apartment door for a few minutes, out of ideas. Is it possible she isn’t really single? Or that Andrea isn’t really her name?
Yeah, either one’s possible.
Crap, I hope she’s not in a relationship. I really like her, and I’d be really disappointed if she lied. It would suck even worse if I unknowingly helped her cheat on her partner.
I’m stumped. I can’t go knock on that door. If the people there don’t know Andrea, they’ve already been bothered once today. And if she has a significant other here, it might get her in trouble. Dangerous trouble. I don’t want to endanger her.
If she didn’t get the flowers, then she didn’t get the card, so she doesn’t have my number. And I have no way of finding hers. I pull out my phone and do a search. Three Andreas in Galway on social media, but none are the right age or look anything like her.
Maybe she didn’t go inside after all.
I may be boring, but this is a real first. First woman I get interested in in North Carolina. First woman to use me for sex and then ghost me an hour later. That’s not fair though; I didn’t ask for her information either.
Is there a chance she might still want to see me?
She might remember where I live and what color my Toyota is. If she wants to get hold of me, she could do it that way. Leave me a note on my windshield or my apartment door or something. And how pathetic is that, that I’m hoping she’ll do that? Dammit.
But…I don’t know for sure what she wants. Maybe it was just a one-night thing for her, or maybe she thought I wasn’t interested because I forgot to get her number.
Maybe I’m losing my damn mind.
My concerns yesterday about how I was going to get through the long weekend seem laughable now. I’m going to spend it obsessing about Andrea, of course.
I give up on the flower delivery idea, head home and take a shower. Run errands, do laundry. Google the Blue Shoes. Read everything about them, view every picture of them, and learn absolutely no more about her than I already knew.
I try to talk myself out of the idea forming in my mind, but no. At 10:00 p.m. I’m at Lindon’s, paying the cover charge and squeezing through the crowd to the bar where I take the last available stool and watch the Andrea-less band.
There’s a second guitarist with them tonight. Must be the Rashad guy Steve mentioned. The band’s got a different feel without Andrea but they’re still great. I’m not here for the music, though. At the band’s first break, I fight my way through the crowd to the keyboardist, who doesn’t really look surprised to see me.
“Lenny?” I shoot for friendly but not too friendly.
“Yep.” He looks me up and down and waits. I get the feeling he already knows what I’m going to say.
“My name’s Kevin Mahoney. I met Andrea last night and got to spend some time with her”—gotta be careful with my words—“but we were in a hurry when we said goodbye and I didn’t realize until later that I hadn’t gotten her number or her last name or anything.”
Lenny just looks at me.
“I’d like to send her some flowers. Ask her to dinner. But I can’t, because I don’t know how to get hold of her.” It’s already obvious this approach isn’t going to work.
“That’s a shame,” Lenny says, deadpan. “Andrea’s a fine woman.”
I sigh. Cut straight to the chase. “You’re not going to give me her number, are you?”
“Can’t, man. Not a safe thing to do to a woman.”
I nod, resigned. “Yeah. I understand.” I fish in my pocket and pull out a little piece of paper from my wallet. Hold the paper out to Lenny. “Would you give this to her then? It’s my number. That way she can call me if she wants. No risk.”
Lenny stares at me for a few more beats before taking the paper and shoving it in his own wallet. “I’ll give it to her. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
I nod. “Too late. But I understand. Thanks.” I take a step or two away, then turn back. “She’s not going to be here tonight at all, is she?”
Lenny shakes his head.
I leave, unable to tell from any of his responses whether Andrea has a partner or whether she’d told Lenny anything about our night together or how she feels about it. About me. Crap.