Chapter 4 #2
I learned that the hard way when I showed up to our high school with a huge bouquet of helium balloons for her seventeenth birthday.
Until then, I’d never heard my tenacious, nearly unflappable best-friend-turned-girlfriend scream.
She’d run like it were a rabid bear. The funny thing is, I’d bet every dollar in my account that she could take on a rabid bear . . . and win.
I pick up the box, bringing it inside with a curious Bob following me, and pull my phone out of my pajama pocket to check my messages. Perhaps my assistant or my decorator ordered something and sent me a message about it. It wouldn’t be the first time.
When Bob lets out a dramatic whine—either because he thinks I’m not working fast enough or he’s worried for my safety—I set the box down on the kitchen counter and grab a knife.
The tape gives way and the flaps open easily to reveal . . .
Uh, what the hell?
I lift a package containing edible underwear in “Peachy Cream”.
Brows furrowing, I set it aside, only to lift out a dildo. There are six more below it in varying colors, sizes, and electrical modes. One even looks like Darth Vader.
“What the hell is this?” I mumble, confused.
At this point, I should put the items back since clearly, they’re not for me.
But my curiosity gets the better of me, and I forage through the packing material to find edible lubricants, with names like “Swirl-me-more, Melon” and “Treat-me-so-good, Gooseberry”.
There are also silk handcuffs in varying colors.
And, Jesus Christ, don’t even get me started on the number of condom boxes. Like a fucking lifetime supply!
Feeling guilty for having intruded on someone’s private life, I quickly toss the items back into the box, closing the flaps.
That’s when I see it.
My ex-wife’s name and address.
This time, it’s me who stares at it like it’s a ticking bomb.
And that’s when it hits me—a prickle of something I haven’t felt in a long time. Something I’ve only felt with, and for, one girl in my entire life.
Jealousy. Dark, raw, and completely irrational.
Or maybe it is rational?
Who the fuck knows.
Who did she order these for? The question burns my chest like it’s been doused with acid.
Who is she planning to wear edible underwear for? Who gets to watch as she uses those . . . those dildos? Does she allow him to use them on her? Does she let him watch as she gasps? As she screams his name?
It’s that fucking instructor, Michael or Micah or whatever the hell his name was, isn’t it? I’d taken one look at him last night and seen his thoughts written all over his smug face. He’d seen her, touched her the way only I had before.
Heat works up my neck, my hands rounding into fists. My thoughts turn murderous as I continue to glare at the box. I have half a mind to drive over to his dojang and put my fist through his pretty-boy face.
Instead, I take a long breath, reminding myself that I’m a grown man, so I can’t act like a petulant teenager, even if it’s exactly how I feel. And that Nisha has the right to date whomever she wants.
And I have a right to want to rearrange his face however I want.
Bob, with his emotional support bra hanging from his mouth again, taps his nails on the hardwood. It’s his way of asking me why the fuck I’m losing my shit.
“Well, because this shit . . .” I wave to the box.
“You don’t buy this kinda shit for just anyone, Bob.
Edible underwear and lube? Seven different kinds of vibrators?
!” My jaw hardens as I speak to him. “This is for someone you’re planning to spend a lot of naked time with.
You wouldn’t understand because you’re always naked. And you literally have no balls.”
Bob’s tail droops, his eyes finding a spot near my feet.
I bend to scratch behind his ear. “Sorry, buddy. That was a low blow. See how this box is already coming between us? It’s making me feel . . . unhinged.”
I run a hand through my hair.
“Should I just head across the street and tell her it was a delivery mix-up? I suppose it’s as good a time as any to let her know I’m her new neighbor. She’s not going to be thrilled either way.”
I pace around my large island and listen to Bob sigh dramatically, like he’s an exasperated housewife from a nineties sitcom.
“A part of me wants to demand answers, you know? I get it; we’re no longer together. But what about what happened last year? I thought it meant something. It meant something to me, at least.”
I point a weighty finger at him. “You know I haven’t been with a single woman in years. And all I’ve done since last year is work on this plan.” I pull at the ends of my hair with a fist. “This fucking plan that may be fucked because she’s fucking someone else!”
Bob can’t appreciate the many different ways I’ve used the same word in one sentence. Instead, he flops on the ground again, dragging his treasured bra—a constant reminder of my ex-wife—over his ear with a paw, looking like he needs a smoke.
“Fuck it,” I declare, clipping on Bob’s leash and grabbing a ball cap to place over my head. “We’re going over there.”
Tongue hanging out, Bob jumps to all fours, finally giving me a look of respect.
With the box in one hand and my dog’s leash in the other—him leading, of course—the walk across the street feels like the longest one of my life.
I don’t pause to admire her warm-toned stucco home with its broad driveway, oversized windows, and patio that looks like something out of a home and garden magazine, with ivy-wrapped stone columns, hanging lanterns, and enough potted plants to be considered a rainforest.
Instead, I march forward with my heart hammering inside my chest. My heart didn’t even beat this hard when I jumped out of a plane for my last film.
Bob, meanwhile, is as calm as a cucumber—bra in mouth, nose to the ground in full-on inspection mode, and tail wagging. When we reach Nisha’s front patio, he immediately does a forensic exam of the potted plants and anything else within sniffing distance.
With one hand gripping his leash, I ring her doorbell just as Bob starts circling one of her potted plants that looks like a rare and expensive tropical monstrosity.
My stomach drops, and I immediately tug on his leash, bracing for impending calamity.
“Bob, no!”
But I’m too late.
Because right as Nisha’s door swings open, my beast of a dog lifts his leg and starts to take the longest piss of his life.