Darcy
Elliott and I have been best friends since Kindergarten, so I don’t think it’s a stretch to say I probably know him better than anyone. However, I have never been able to figure out why he dates the women he does.
Take for example the one he’s with tonight. First of all, it’s the World Series and Atlanta is playing. Elliott and I always watch the finals when they’re in it. Granted, it’s been years since they’ve made an appearance, but I knew it’d take more than a hot date to keep Elliott away from my place tonight.
It’s fairly obvious his date, the second woman he’s dated this October and henceforth referred to as O2, wasn’t made aware of Elliott’s plans prior their arrival. Not with the way she’s leaning against the table examining her nails and the dagger of ice glare she shoots Elliott with every five minutes. Elliott is, of course, clueless. But that’s Elliott for you.
He probably thinks the skintight dress she’s wearing is fine for an evening of baseball and beer. More than likely, he’s perfectly content to wait until after the game to peel the red fabric off of her, but O2 is not. She wants Elliott and she wants him now.
Not that anyone can blame her. I’ll be the first in line to admit Elliott is one of the best looking men I’ve ever seen. And thanks to his job as a trainer for the state’s professional lacrosse team, the Georgia Storm, his body is pretty fantastic, too. Of course, I haven’t seen him naked in ages.
Seven years, two months, five days, and about four hours, to be exact.
So yes, Elliott’s a catch and a half and any woman would be proud to be on his arm. And yet, he keeps going out with these plastic lookalike women.
I skirt past O2 and sit on the couch beside him.
“O2’s a little overdressed, isn’t she?” I ask, reaching across him to grab a handful of chips.
“Her name is Alice,” he says, keeping his eyes on the television.
“She makes it to November, she’ll be Alice. Until then, she’s O2.”
“Don’t let her hear you call her that. I don’t feel like explaining your naming system to my date.”
His voice is sharper than normal I look at him in shock. He’s not actually serious about this one, is he?
“What crawled up your ass today?” I ask. I’ve been refusing to learn the names of his women for a least the last year and he’s never minded. I turn my head to see what this latest one is up to and find she’s chatting with, Richard, one of the players Elliott works with.
I actually end up watching her for a few minutes and not once does she ever turn her head toward Elliott. She’s completely caught up in her conversation with Richard. At one point he says something and she laughs this horrible sounding laugh that is part hyena and part strangled cat.
Then, right there in my kitchen with God and half the Storm players present, she reaches out a perfectly manicured nail and runs it down the guy’s chest. Now I’ve never mastered fine art of lip reading, but I’m pretty good at interpreting body language and her body wasn’t so much saying You must excuse me so I can go sit with my date but rather, Let’s blow this joint so I can blow you.
I’m not sure if Richard knows she came with Elliot. I’d like to think not. In the Utopia I’ve created in my brain, work friends do not walk around with their hand on your date’s ass. But then again, I work in the hotel industry and Elliott works with professional athletes. I know from previous conversations with him that a few members of the team are into some pretty kinky shit, so I don’t know, maybe they do.
But when I glance back at Elliot, he’s watching them with a look that is so raw and vulnerable that I swallow the smart ass comment I was about to say and put my hand on his knee.
“You deserve better, Elliott Taber,” I whisper, so no one hears, but the game is back on following a commercial break and no one is paying us any attention.
He shakes his head and looks surprised for a few seconds. It’s almost as if he’d been asleep and I woke him up.
“What?” he asks.
I nod to the corner of the kitchen where Richard and O2 are trying to make out without looking like they’re making out. Which really means they’re standing in the corner of my kitchen and being all handsy when they think no one’s watching.
“I was just saying you deserve better than O2 over there. I mean, really? What’s she doing hanging all over Richard when she came here with you?” I suddenly can’t stand looking at them anymore so I turn back to face Elliott. “She’s a guest in my house. I have a good mind to kick her out.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not,” he says and he actually doesn’t look upset or put off in anyway.
I can’t get over how calm he’s acting. Seriously, this is not normal and all at once I’m growing more and more concerned about his state of mind. How can he calmly sit there like it’s nothing while his date is all but climbing over another man who also happens to be his work associate?
“You’re entirely too calm about this,” I tell him. “It’s not normal.”
He sighs deeply right as a chorus of cheers go up around us and we both realize we’re missing a good part of the game. When everything calms back down, he leans over to me.
“We don’t have a normal relationship,” he says in a low voice.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask. “How many people do you know that have been friends for twenty-five years?”
His gaze is steady. “I wasn’t talking about me and you.”
“Then who were you talking about?”
Another cheer goes up and Elliott brushes me off. “We’ll talk about it later. Come on and let’s watch the rest of the game.”
Our conversation isn’t finished and he knows this. But I agree that this isn’t the best place or time to talk. Besides, if he wasn’t talking about our relationship, then he had to have been talking about him and O2. And if there was any relationship I don’t want to talk about while my boys win the World Series, it’s that one.
For the next few hours, we fall back into our old and comfortable routine of yelling at the players and the umpires. We eat way too much, drink way too much, and laugh way too loud. In other words, good times.
When the game ends and people begin to leave, I look around and both O2 and Richard are gone. Elliott shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I’m not going to let him get away with it that easily.
As it so happens, I’ll be staying in Atlanta for an extended period of time. Typically, with my job as a brand expert with an international hotel chain, I’m only in my home city for two weeks out of the month. Since the season has just ended for the Storm, Elliott will be around as well. It’ll be the perfect occasion for me to finally get to the bottom of what the hell his problem is with women.
“Looks like O2 left your sorry ass,” I say with a punch to his arm when everyone has left other than him.
“Alice and I have an understanding.” His smile is back in place and I can’t tell if he’s putting on a mask or not.
I can’t imagine any couple with any sort of relationship that finds it acceptable for one person to leave the other in the middle of an evening out, but whatever. He can attempt to explain it to me later.
“You and me,” I tell him. “Tomorrow night. The Barn. Seven o’clock. O2 isn’t invited and you best not even think of bringing O3.” It’s our favorite steak house and he wouldn’t dream about not showing up.
He jokes arounds, but eventually agrees. Before he leaves to catch the cab he called, he leans over and kisses my cheek goodnight. It’s something he’s done countless times, but in the second before he pulls away, I notice a hint of hesitation. He’s gone and out the door before I realize I’m standing in my doorway with my hand on my cheek, lightly touching the place his lips had been seconds before.
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