Chapter 10
As the town car chauffeuring Lucy and the Packers to LAX crawled down the driveway, I watched Lucy wave through the back windshield.
She did this for long enough to make me feel she might in fact miss me, though her excitement this morning, which bordered on maniacal, had told a different story.
Sam The Dog and I stayed outside, me waving and him barking, until well after the car had disappeared.
By the time he gave up barking, I had to admit I was beginning to understand the appeal of howling one’s raw emotions.
Two weeks stretched out before me, an absolute eternity without Lucy.
I was only twenty seconds in, and already I missed her with a deep, clenching ache.
On the flip side, for two weeks, I would have no parenting duties and no agency work.
My only responsibilities would be a bit of book promotion and taking care of Sam The Dog.
The idea of so much freedom was intoxicating, and I was determined to take full advantage of it.
The morning had been so hectic with getting Lucy ready for the unscheduled trip that I hadn’t even had time to do my first ritual check of the book’s ranking postlaunch.
Now was as good a time as any to dive into that anxiety-filled whirlpool.
Barring any unusual developments, novels tended to perform best in the first few weeks after launch due to pent-up preorders and prelaunch publicity.
From there, it was either a slow descent or a cliff-jump to irrelevance.
I was torn. The prideful author in me yearned for favorable reviews, a period of sustained high rankings, and a slow descent from there.
The fearful part of me would just as well go from recently published to irrelevant in a nanosecond.
All I really needed from this book was proof that I could write and publish a work of fiction without my words creating their own reality.
Then maybe I could see my way to taking more risks.
On , I typed in love you mars and scrolled down to the rankings.
They were respectable. Under the radar. Perfectly positioned to dwindle into obscurity.
With all the emotions stirred up by the Lucy send-off, I didn’t have the strength to click on any reviews or read my email.
I closed my Safari tab and looked down to see Sam The Dog peering up at me, practically begging for his walk.
I grabbed his leash and set off for the dog park to wear him out and mentally prepare myself for whatever was to come.
In the year and a half since he’d joined our family, Sam The Dog had acquired almost as many nicknames as Lucy had toys.
Some of them were necessitated by William and Rebecca’s continuing resistance to his given name.
As for me, I usually called him Sam The Dog in private, but even I was a bit embarrassed about using that name out in the world.
Now, as we entered the dog park, I unclipped Sam The Dog’s leash and exclaimed, “OK, Buddy, fly, be free!” He looked at me, his head tilted in question, until I shook the leash in his face and he recognized his dog-park name and figured out the game.
I plopped down on the nearest bench and pulled out my phone to see four unread texts. The first was from Rebecca: All good! Onboard. Have a wonderful 2 weeks. We’ll take good care of our girl!
I replied: Safe safe safe travels. Pls let me know when you arrive. I miss you all already!
The rest were from Frannie:
Big news! Ran into Hot ER Doc at the gym this morning.
He’s back on the market!
Pleeeeeassse let me set you up!?
I thought about it for a second. And then, perhaps influenced a touch by my new taste of freedom, albeit time limited, I figured: Why the hell not? I was about to press the thumbs-up emoji when a low voice grumbled in front of me, “Goddamnit.”
I looked up, surprised to see one very fine ass roughly three feet from my face.
It was sheathed in gray athletic shorts that clung and draped in all the right places.
I tried to swallow a giggle as I watched a man squat-perching on one muscular leg, dragging a stick through the treads of the sneaker on his raised leg.
He somehow continued to balance in this standing pigeon position while also swiveling his face toward me. “Is something amusing?” he said.
“Well, amusing is one word for it,” I responded impulsively. “I feel like we should find you a pole.”
He barked out a laugh. Setting down his foot, he pivoted his body to face me.
My breath caught as I saw his shorts had the same familiar star that had been on nearly every article of Sam’s tennis clothing ever since he’d accepted an endorsement deal from a luxury start-up brand owned by a friend of his coach.
I was nearly overcome with the urge to run a finger over the beautifully embroidered logo, to feel its edges.
I tucked my twitching hand under my thigh.
“That’s absolutely fair,” he said. “I didn’t see you there or I wouldn’t have, you know, twerked at you like that.”
This time, I laughed. “Your balance is impressive, though.” Truly, it was. “But then, I’m the one in yoga who holds an eagle pose for all of three seconds before tipping over, while the rest of the class pretends not to notice.” I gave him an “I am who I am” shrug.
“I may have good balance, but I’m not into yoga classes, either. Way too many posers,” he said with a straight face before breaking into a wide grin.
Weirdly, this made me laugh, but only thanks to his delivery.
“Sorry, that was a terrible joke,” he said.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but is ‘joke’ even the right term for that abomination?”
“No,” he groaned. “It really isn’t. Mind if I sit?” He gestured to the spot next to me on the bench.
“Sure,” I said as my eyes returned to Sam The Dog, who was currently chasing a giant Bernese mountain dog. “Which one is yours?”
“Which what is mine?” he asked.
Either this guy was one of the dum-dums Frannie dated, or I was more out of practice chatting with random hot guys than I cared to admit.
I pointed at the pack of dogs racing around the play area.
“Which dog is yours?” I smiled. Then I couldn’t help myself.
“Also, please note that a finger is a much more polite body part to wave around at a stranger than whatever it was you had going on over there.” Wait. Is this flirting?
He cocked his head and grinned. “You’re funny.”
“That’s an observation, right? Not your dog’s name?” Because if he’d named his dog “You’re Funny,” then maybe I wouldn’t feel so weird about sharing my dog’s real name.
He laughed again, and ran his fingers through his swoopy brown hair.
I couldn’t help noticing his head was tilted slightly to the left at almost the exact same angle as Sam used to do when something amused him.
Finally, he answered, “Mine is the Bernese over there being chased by that obnoxious beagle.”
I raised my brows.
“Oh no.” His face turned red. “That’s your dog, isn’t it?”
“He is indeed.” I nodded. I was profoundly curious to see how he’d dig himself out of this hole. He did not disappoint.
“Wow, so let’s take stock. So far, in the last minute, I’ve managed to, one,” he said, raising a finger, “invade your personal space with my gluteus maximus. Two, tell a joke so bad it should be against the law. And three, insult probably your favorite nonhuman creature in the world?” He grimaced. “Wow, really killing it today.”
Then he stuck out his hand and said, “Let’s start over.
My name is Max. This is my hand, an appropriate body part to extend for a greeting.
Over there is my dog—well, actually, he’s my friend’s dog, Buddy, who I’m taking care of for the week.
” Buddy? Seriously? I would have to think fast to come up with another nom de plume for Sam The Dog.
“And it’s very nice to meet you . . .” He widened his eyes, an unspoken invitation for me to share my details in return.
“Nice to meet you, Max.” I shook his hand. “My name’s Thea. And the obnoxious beagle over there is . . .” I hesitated for a moment and then thought, What the hell, throw this poor guy a bone. “His name is Sam The Dog.”
With a loud guffaw, Max held on to my hand and continued pumping it. I glanced down at his forearm. It was sturdy, with long, pronounced veins popping off his tanned skin. Strong forearms were my kink. Sam’s had also been well developed from all the tennis. A long-buried heat flared inside me.
“I’m a little afraid to ask this,” Max said, “but is there a story behind that name?”
“Yup, there is,” I said. “But it’s a long and winding tale, so suffice it to say: I have a young daughter and she named him.”
His eyes instantly flicked to my left hand. When he didn’t find a ring, he shot me a silent question.
I shook my head. “Not married.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Me either.”
“I don’t recall asking,” I quipped.
“Touché,” he said with a laugh.
“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Max, Not Married, With the Mad Balancing Skills?” I asked to keep the conversation going.
I liked chatting or flirting or whatever it was we were doing.
But the moment the question passed my lips, I recalled his use of the anatomically correct term for “sweet ass cheeks.” Had I randomly met Frannie’s Hot ER Doc?
Or, oh my god, had Frannie sent him here knowing I was at the park?
I would have to kill her. Or shower her with gifts. One or the other.
“Um, well,” he stammered. “Would you believe me if I said I’m an astronaut?”
I sucked in air and saliva, and it felt like I’d inhaled a popcorn kernel down the wrong pipe. Coughing, I tried to block out the terrifying sensation that I was on a spaceship myself, falling out of orbit, spiraling to the ground.
No, no, no. This absolutely is not happening.