The Beau & the Belle
Page 46
“Actually, I’m comfortable here. I have a theory, Preston, and I’d like to get your opinion on it.”
His eyes are daggers trying to dice me up.
“You know those congressmen who spend their careers shouting about how gay people are ruining the world, only to be caught cheating on their wives with a man?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he hisses.
“It’s called reaction formation. These men feel angry and ashamed, so they project their guilt on others then lash out against them.”
“I don’t have time—”
“You don’t have feelings for Lauren, Preston. You don’t have feelings for her any more than you have feelings for any of those women whose pictures you hang up on the wall to show off to your buddies. To you, she’s a trophy, someone your parents approve of. You want to marry her and put her on a shelf so you can get back to what it is you do best: thinking about yourself.”
He opens his mouth and I hold up my hand. If he argues with me now, there’s no guarantee that I won’t punch his fucking face. Even now, I’m having a hard time resisting. “Stop calling her. Stop bothering her. You’ve shown you can’t resist slandering me any time you cross paths with her and…well, you see, Preston, that makes you my problem. I’ve worked hard for my name. Maybe it’s time you start doing the same.”
“Get the fuck out.”
I smile. He gets it, but I want to hear him say it.
“I don’t like leaving problems unsolved. I need you to tell me you understand.”
I’m not touching him, but the effect is the same. My knee is on his spine. My hand is digging into his neck, cutting off air. His face is smashed against the carpet and he’s croaking for mercy. It’s hard submitting. I’ve only ever done it a few times in my life, and never once as an adult man. I don’t envy him, but then again, he put himself in this situation. It’s time he learned his lesson.
“Preston.”
“I get it,” he bites out, barely above a whisper.
I clap my hand on his shoulder and nod, smiling. “Good. I’m glad to hear it, man.”
LAUREN IS STILL upset with me about how I treated her at the concert. It’s been two days and she hasn’t let me walk her home; when I arrive at NOLA, she’s already gone.
My phone calls go unanswered, but sometimes she replies to my texts.
BEAU: I’m ready to eat crow.
BEAU: Also prepared to eat humble pie. Your choice.
BEAU: Lauren…
LAUREN: I’m good at holding a grudge. Go away. I’m watching Seinfeld reruns.
BEAU: I like The Office better.
LAUREN: One more reason to hate you.
BEAU: Come get a beignet with me tomorrow.
LAUREN: Humble pie isn’t supposed to taste good.
BEAU: I’ll sit there and watch you eat. I won’t ask for a single bite.
LAUREN: Watching me eat is a privilege, not a punishment.
BEAU: Manny’s sent a king cake to the office this morning. I saved some for you.
10 minutes pass before she replies.
LAUREN: Leave it outside NOLA in the morning.
I do one better. The next morning, I’m outside holding a dozen red roses and a quarter of the king cake in Tupperware. Lauren turns the corner and spots me right away, leaning against the front door. Her pace slows for a moment, but then her gaze falls to the cake and she speeds up again. I’m not proud of myself for bribing her, but at least it’s working.
Clearly, our fight hasn’t affected her. She’s a breath of fresh air—pink cheeks, full lips, wild curls. Her jeans hug her hips and her boots add a few inches so if I wanted to kiss her (and I do), I’d hardly have to bend down.
She reaches me and I smile. Her eyes narrow and she plucks the Tupperware from my hand without laying a single finger on me.
She nods to the flowers as she unlocks her door. “Nice weeds. Who are they for?”
I hold them out, but she doesn’t accept them. Instead, she pushes the door open and I follow her inside. She flips on lights and fiddles with the thermostat. I search in the cabinets beside the espresso machine and find an empty glass pitcher. I add water and the roses then place them in the center of the counter.
“My dad told me you dropped in on Preston at work the other day.”
“I did.”
“He said Preston stomped and sulked around the office the rest of the afternoon, threatening to call the police.”
“I can’t imagine why. We had a conversation. I didn’t break any laws, even if I wanted to break his jaw.”
Lauren shakes her head. “My dad said the entire office was talking about it. Apparently, they were placing bets on who would win in a fight.” Her eyes meet mine. “A lot of his coworkers were rooting for you.”
“I wasn’t there to fight him.”
“Well fight or no fight, he sent me a text in shouty caps with an ultimatum. I need to decide, either you or him.”
“What’d you tell him?”
She picks up the roses, smells them, and then scoots them a little to the left so they’re in the sunlight. “I didn’t pick him, if that’s what you’re asking. Where’d I drop that Tupperware?”
“It’s over near the espresso machine.”
She finds a fork, pops the lid, and rounds the bar. She sits and I stand. We watch each other in silence while she scoops bites of cake into her mouth. She licks the fork clean every time, like she can’t stand the idea of wasting a single morsel.
I smile. “You’re right, it is a privilege.”
She pushes the cake aside and swallows. “I’ve been thinking the last few days…”
I nod for her to continue.
“Maybe it’s a good thing we had this fight.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighs heavily, glances out the window, and stalls for a few seconds. I don’t think she’s going to answer me, but then her mouth opens and the most unexpected answer falls out of it.
“You’ve probably noticed I’m not really what you might refer to as a sexual creature.”
I have to stifle a laugh. Where the hell does she get this stuff?
“Come again?”
She’s still facing the window. “I’ve had sex. I mean, obviously. Duh. I didn’t save my virginity for you all these years—oh my god, could you imagine?”
Yes. I could imagine.
“When was your first time?”
If the name Preston comes out of her mouth, I’m going back to his office and the cops will be called.
She waves away my question. “Oh, it was in college. Clunky. The guy sprinkled cheap rose petals all over the bedspread and they stained everything. It hurt and I hated every second. Anyway, I’ve had good sex since then. I mean, decent, solid, middle-of-the-road coitus. It’s been okay.”
“It sounds like you haven’t been with the right men, but I’m confused—where is this going?”
“Right. Where is it going?” She laughs and pokes me hard in the center of my chest. “It’s going to you.” She shivers. “You intimidate me, and I’m trying to figure out why. I think it’s your age, or your size, or maybe your confidence. You’re too much for me to handle. I think maybe I’m better off with someone…I don’t know, simple? Containable?”
She pauses for a moment, and I wait for her to continue.
“Maybe I need a guy with soft hands? My old boyfriend Clark always put moisturizer on his hands. They were softer than mine, and he never made me feel intimidated. Maybe I’ll give him a call.
“Anyway, even though you came out on top of this stupid ultimatum thing, I think you and I had better just stay friends, or maybe we should just put this on ice for another 10 years. That way I can stop worrying so much about how I’m not enough for you and I can go back to eating solid foods and sleeping through the night.”
“No.”
She doesn’t hear me.
“I mean for crying out loud,” she groans, “I’ve been researching sexual positions to get myself up to speed with what you’re probably accustomed to. No doubt you’ve spent the last few years with beautiful women who swing from the rafters like some sort of R-rated Cirque du Soleil shit. I don’t want to compete with that—my health insurance isn’t that good.”
His eyes are daggers trying to dice me up.
“You know those congressmen who spend their careers shouting about how gay people are ruining the world, only to be caught cheating on their wives with a man?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he hisses.
“It’s called reaction formation. These men feel angry and ashamed, so they project their guilt on others then lash out against them.”
“I don’t have time—”
“You don’t have feelings for Lauren, Preston. You don’t have feelings for her any more than you have feelings for any of those women whose pictures you hang up on the wall to show off to your buddies. To you, she’s a trophy, someone your parents approve of. You want to marry her and put her on a shelf so you can get back to what it is you do best: thinking about yourself.”
He opens his mouth and I hold up my hand. If he argues with me now, there’s no guarantee that I won’t punch his fucking face. Even now, I’m having a hard time resisting. “Stop calling her. Stop bothering her. You’ve shown you can’t resist slandering me any time you cross paths with her and…well, you see, Preston, that makes you my problem. I’ve worked hard for my name. Maybe it’s time you start doing the same.”
“Get the fuck out.”
I smile. He gets it, but I want to hear him say it.
“I don’t like leaving problems unsolved. I need you to tell me you understand.”
I’m not touching him, but the effect is the same. My knee is on his spine. My hand is digging into his neck, cutting off air. His face is smashed against the carpet and he’s croaking for mercy. It’s hard submitting. I’ve only ever done it a few times in my life, and never once as an adult man. I don’t envy him, but then again, he put himself in this situation. It’s time he learned his lesson.
“Preston.”
“I get it,” he bites out, barely above a whisper.
I clap my hand on his shoulder and nod, smiling. “Good. I’m glad to hear it, man.”
LAUREN IS STILL upset with me about how I treated her at the concert. It’s been two days and she hasn’t let me walk her home; when I arrive at NOLA, she’s already gone.
My phone calls go unanswered, but sometimes she replies to my texts.
BEAU: I’m ready to eat crow.
BEAU: Also prepared to eat humble pie. Your choice.
BEAU: Lauren…
LAUREN: I’m good at holding a grudge. Go away. I’m watching Seinfeld reruns.
BEAU: I like The Office better.
LAUREN: One more reason to hate you.
BEAU: Come get a beignet with me tomorrow.
LAUREN: Humble pie isn’t supposed to taste good.
BEAU: I’ll sit there and watch you eat. I won’t ask for a single bite.
LAUREN: Watching me eat is a privilege, not a punishment.
BEAU: Manny’s sent a king cake to the office this morning. I saved some for you.
10 minutes pass before she replies.
LAUREN: Leave it outside NOLA in the morning.
I do one better. The next morning, I’m outside holding a dozen red roses and a quarter of the king cake in Tupperware. Lauren turns the corner and spots me right away, leaning against the front door. Her pace slows for a moment, but then her gaze falls to the cake and she speeds up again. I’m not proud of myself for bribing her, but at least it’s working.
Clearly, our fight hasn’t affected her. She’s a breath of fresh air—pink cheeks, full lips, wild curls. Her jeans hug her hips and her boots add a few inches so if I wanted to kiss her (and I do), I’d hardly have to bend down.
She reaches me and I smile. Her eyes narrow and she plucks the Tupperware from my hand without laying a single finger on me.
She nods to the flowers as she unlocks her door. “Nice weeds. Who are they for?”
I hold them out, but she doesn’t accept them. Instead, she pushes the door open and I follow her inside. She flips on lights and fiddles with the thermostat. I search in the cabinets beside the espresso machine and find an empty glass pitcher. I add water and the roses then place them in the center of the counter.
“My dad told me you dropped in on Preston at work the other day.”
“I did.”
“He said Preston stomped and sulked around the office the rest of the afternoon, threatening to call the police.”
“I can’t imagine why. We had a conversation. I didn’t break any laws, even if I wanted to break his jaw.”
Lauren shakes her head. “My dad said the entire office was talking about it. Apparently, they were placing bets on who would win in a fight.” Her eyes meet mine. “A lot of his coworkers were rooting for you.”
“I wasn’t there to fight him.”
“Well fight or no fight, he sent me a text in shouty caps with an ultimatum. I need to decide, either you or him.”
“What’d you tell him?”
She picks up the roses, smells them, and then scoots them a little to the left so they’re in the sunlight. “I didn’t pick him, if that’s what you’re asking. Where’d I drop that Tupperware?”
“It’s over near the espresso machine.”
She finds a fork, pops the lid, and rounds the bar. She sits and I stand. We watch each other in silence while she scoops bites of cake into her mouth. She licks the fork clean every time, like she can’t stand the idea of wasting a single morsel.
I smile. “You’re right, it is a privilege.”
She pushes the cake aside and swallows. “I’ve been thinking the last few days…”
I nod for her to continue.
“Maybe it’s a good thing we had this fight.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighs heavily, glances out the window, and stalls for a few seconds. I don’t think she’s going to answer me, but then her mouth opens and the most unexpected answer falls out of it.
“You’ve probably noticed I’m not really what you might refer to as a sexual creature.”
I have to stifle a laugh. Where the hell does she get this stuff?
“Come again?”
She’s still facing the window. “I’ve had sex. I mean, obviously. Duh. I didn’t save my virginity for you all these years—oh my god, could you imagine?”
Yes. I could imagine.
“When was your first time?”
If the name Preston comes out of her mouth, I’m going back to his office and the cops will be called.
She waves away my question. “Oh, it was in college. Clunky. The guy sprinkled cheap rose petals all over the bedspread and they stained everything. It hurt and I hated every second. Anyway, I’ve had good sex since then. I mean, decent, solid, middle-of-the-road coitus. It’s been okay.”
“It sounds like you haven’t been with the right men, but I’m confused—where is this going?”
“Right. Where is it going?” She laughs and pokes me hard in the center of my chest. “It’s going to you.” She shivers. “You intimidate me, and I’m trying to figure out why. I think it’s your age, or your size, or maybe your confidence. You’re too much for me to handle. I think maybe I’m better off with someone…I don’t know, simple? Containable?”
She pauses for a moment, and I wait for her to continue.
“Maybe I need a guy with soft hands? My old boyfriend Clark always put moisturizer on his hands. They were softer than mine, and he never made me feel intimidated. Maybe I’ll give him a call.
“Anyway, even though you came out on top of this stupid ultimatum thing, I think you and I had better just stay friends, or maybe we should just put this on ice for another 10 years. That way I can stop worrying so much about how I’m not enough for you and I can go back to eating solid foods and sleeping through the night.”
“No.”
She doesn’t hear me.
“I mean for crying out loud,” she groans, “I’ve been researching sexual positions to get myself up to speed with what you’re probably accustomed to. No doubt you’ve spent the last few years with beautiful women who swing from the rafters like some sort of R-rated Cirque du Soleil shit. I don’t want to compete with that—my health insurance isn’t that good.”
