I pause for a second or two because this is the spot where Andy will edit in a few choice clips from my iCam-captured conversation with the Meter Boy. The clips include my awkward ask-out: “So should we meet in the Golden Gate Park near Shakespeare Gardens on Saturday?”
Am I the world’s biggest dork or what? I couldn’t have just asked Meter Man out for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, or even, God forbid, something as simple as lunch. Nope, I had to go nuts and ask him to meet in the frigging park. He’ll probably bring champagne and strawberries too.
Anyway, after my three-count pause, I give my traditional sign off, with a tip of the hat to my dog, who sits dutifully by my side. “That’s all for today, you fellow fashion hounds.”
Andy turns off the camera and I ask my usual question. “How was it?”
He gives me a thumbs up, his standard cameraman-slash-videographer response.
“That’s why I like working with you. For the wordless thumbs up,” I tease as I wind the cord to the microphone around my fingers, barely paying attention, doing the routine by memory. Then I hand Andy the microphone and wipe one hand against the other. Done.
“I’ll have that online in thirty minutes,” he says as he breaks down his gear, carefully folding up the tripod and shutting off his camera. His curly brown hair is a little shaggy as it hangs close to his brown eyes. Andy clucks his tongue a few times but says nothing. Uh oh. That’s what he does when something’s bugging him.
“What is it, Andy? What’s bothering you?”
“I dunno,” Andy says with a shrug, his hair flopping down in his eyes as he leans in to put his camera into its sturdy Port-a-Brace bag. “I guess I just don’t think this is such a good idea.” He zips his camera bag, averting my gaze.
“The bateau top? You really hate it that much?”
“You know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“You looking for this, this…” His voice trails off. He can’t say the words.
“Oh c’mon. You probably want a Trophy Husband as much as I do.”
“Ha. But not funny.”
“Fine. Sorry. But I’m twenty-seven, you’re twenty-nine. Don’t you like a hot young guy?”
“Who I like is not what I’m worried about.”
“Andy, what are you worried about?”
“Anyway.” He hoists the bag on his shoulder and heads to the stairs.
“Hey.” I follow him. “This is not how we have conversations. This is not how we talk. Don’t walk away. Talk to me.”
“McKenna.” He sighs.
“What, Andy? What is it?”
“I don’t think you should look for a guy on TV.”
“One, I am not looking for a boyfriend. I’m looking for a husband,” I say, correcting his word choice. But, to be honest, the two words are kind of interchangeable for me: A Trophy Husband feels a hell of a lot more like a boyfriend right now, especially since husband is a term I’m not terribly fond of, given how the almost husband I had dumped me. But Trophy Boyfriend just doesn’t have the same ring to it. “Two, it’s not TV. It’s the Web. Three, it’s not even about the guy. It’s about making a point.”
“Look, I’m just worried. You don’t know what sort of problems this is going to create. I gotta go.”
Then he shuts the front door behind him.
Later, after the video posts, Erin calls from work. “You are so totally wearing that bateau top. It’s you. No question about it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I loved it and Julia loved it. I couldn’t reach Hayden because she was meeting with a client, but I say two out of three ain’t bad.”
I laugh as I step away from the computer. “You’re crazy. I can’t believe you called the Brain Trust to survey them on my wardrobe choices.”
“We’re your inner circle. We are part of this project. We watched the video together. Well, on the phone, but together. And if viewers get to have a say, we get to have a say as well in every single aspect of the Trophy Husband quest, including how you dress.”
“So it is written, so it shall be.”
“And details, McKenna. We all wants details on the date.”
As I say goodbye to Erin, I keep thinking how my girlfriends are always the ones who know what’s best for me.
* * *
I told you so.
When I see those four words in my text messages, I tense. Was Andy right? Are there some weird problems already?
Then I see the name. Chris. The Video Game Guy with the green eyes and the smile that both melted me and made me want to climb up on his body and wrap myself around him.
I tap the message, opening it fully. There’s a close-up picture of my camera, zoomed in on the the green on-button. He pulled it off.
I write back. Wow, you are Mr. Fix-It.
Minutes later he replies: I’m having tee-shirts made up with that saying. In any case, your camera works again, so let me know how to return it to you.
I stare at the message. For a minute. Then another. I don’t know what to say. Should I say “by mail” is fine? Or “Should we meet for coffee?” But that would be so weird. He didn’t ask to meet for coffee, just to give me back my camera. Am I supposed to suggest a meeting place? A means to return it? Carrier pigeon? Dog sled? I am entirely baffled, and so I stand at my kitchen table, the phone in my hand.