Soon, when I can form words again, and when he’s standing and looking at me with those dreamy eyes that say everything I want, I kiss him, tasting myself on him, tasting what he just did to me. He loops his arms around me, and I lean my head on his chest. “That was out of this world. You know how to go down on a girl.”
He kisses my forehead. “I know how to go down on you because I want you. Because I can’t get enough of you.”
“You are the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
Those words feel a bit like a promise, and that promise feels a bit like falling in love.
Chapter Seventeen
The afterglow lasts through Sunday as I spend the afternoon strolling through my favorite boutiques in Noe Valley with Hayden and Erin.
Erin prowls through a rack, then shows me an adorable cream sweater with little pearl buttons and tiny baby blue embroidered birds. “It’s so kitschy cute I almost can’t stand it,” she says as she holds it against my chest. She looks at Hayden. “She should wear this on her next date, don’t you think?”
“Definitely.” Hayden nods her approval. Then taps her lips with her index finger, and furrows her brow. “But for what guy?”
“JP?” Erin asks, then shakes her head. “Nope. Chris. Wear this on your next date with Chris.”
Erin thrusts the sweater into my hands, and I know this is the moment. This is when I should tell them. I should let them know that the dates with Chris are real and that the sweater could truly be for me to wear with him. That the contest is over and I have a boyfriend rather than a husband. And I like it that way. No, I love it that way.
“So, um,” I start to say, then my voice becomes vapor.
And it hits me why. It’s not that I’m afraid of disappointing them. They care about me more than a contest. They’ll forgive me for lying about his age. They’ll probably even laugh about it, and about my worries over breaking an oath that was all fun and games. What they’ve truly wanted for me all along is to heal from heartbreak. That’s precisely what makes me clam up. Fear of heartbreak. Of getting hurt. Of being broken. Because there’s a part of me that knows as soon as I give voice to what’s happening with Chris, then I may very well have to tell them someday about it ending. It’s as if I am trying to hold it in my hands, like a fragile glass globe and keep it safe until it’s immune from heartache, until it’s safe from the breaking.
So for now I stay quiet, keeping the bloom of falling for Chris to myself through the evening, as I walk my dog, and read a text from my boyfriend telling me that Qbert misses me, and it’s almost enough for me to drop everything and invite him over. But the next time I see him I know I’ll want him in every way, and I won’t let myself go there until I’ve come clean. So I resist, telling him instead that I’ve never enjoyed a game of Qbert more.
Then I reach for my laptop, write out a script for tomorrow’s show, going with the simplest admission of all. “Thanks for your support. I’m pleased to let you know that I found someone who makes me ridiculously happy, and because of that the contest is over. It wouldn’t be fair to him, you, me or anyone else to keep going because this guy has already won. He’s won my heart.”
I exhale.
I’ve written it down. I’ve given voice to my feelings. I’ll be putting it out there. I can do this. I can step forward into the great unknown of a new love. Tomorrow, I’ll call Hayden, Erin and Julia right after my shoot and before the video goes live.
I close the computer, slide under the covers, and scratch Ms. Pac-Man’s ears just the way she likes.
“You’re a good girl.”
* * *
The next morning as I finish my makeup, Todd’s name flashes across my phone. My stomach tightens, but I answer it anyway. He’s holding something over me, and I need to know what it is.
“So about the sale of your blog to Fashion Nation,” he begins, picking up our truncated call where we left off. “I hate to do this, McKenna. I really hate to do this. But I feel a little bit, what’s the word? Shafted. A little bit shafted. Left out with the sale.”
I must get my hearing checked. I’m sure he didn’t just say that. “You feel shafted? Well, isn’t that just the pot calling the kettle black.”
He ignores me. “I’m only talking about what’s fair. You made a pretty penny on that sale, and you surely deserve most of it.” I grit my teeth as he repeats the words, “Most of it.”
“I deserve all of it.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that. And I’ve been talking to some folks who think it’s a little unfair that I didn’t receive any of the buyout money. After all, I did play an instrumental role in the intellectual property of The Fashion Hound. If not for me, you would probably never even have a blog.”
He is gasoline and I am a flame. “Let me guess. You’re not making as much money as your new wife wants to support your family. So you’re looking to dip your fingers in my bank account?”
He scoffs. “No. No. No. I want what’s fair. This isn’t about money. This is about equality. That’s something that matters a lot to you, isn’t it? You’re all about equality. You’re going after equal treatment in your show with your little project. I want equal treatment in the sale.”
I am fuming, twin streams of red fury pour out of my ears, as I slam my mascara tube on the sink, only one eye done. I am a teapot about to boil over, a geyser about to blow. “I would rather wear baggy jeans and shapeless shirts for the rest of my life than ever give you a cent of what you don’t deserve.”