Penny
Kicking Dalton Croft out was equal parts exhilarating and deflating. His ego was expanding by the second, and the best thing I could do was toss him out. But damn if I didn’t miss looking at him the second the door closed between us.
Principles be damned. I dug into a vegan option. Its presence was evidence of a thread of compassion in him—even if he kept it hidden beneath layers and layers of assholery.
I wondered what Kylie would think of him. On paper I bet they have a lot in common. Like her, he thinks I’m not capable of holding down this apartment. I saw it in his eyes. Right in the middle of several I’d fuck you right now looks there’d been a glimmer of—pity? Or am I just tired and seeing my entire life in the eyes of a man who normally wouldn’t give me a second look? It’s been a long exhausting day of walking dogs, teaching back-to-back yoga classes, and running across town to check on my dad.
I don’t need Dalton to believe in me. I can do this.
I work my way through some of the non-vegan dishes. I’m not anti-meat, but I try to keep my lifestyle healthy and my negative impact on the planet to a minimum. Throwing this food away, however, would be an empty gesture, and I’m not into those either.
My phone starts ringing and I nearly ignore it because I don’t want to pull myself away from the tray of calamaries.
“Hi, Millie,” I say through a mouthful of food while pressing the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Hey girl, how is it?” Millie is buzzing with excitement, and I love that about her. The moment she knew I’d be staying in this apartment she was ready to throw a party. She’s all about any excuse to bake a cake and blow up balloons. Far too few adults have the level of joy and energy that Millie seems to wake up with every day. We’ve been roommates for two years, and I’ve never tired of it.
“It’s going all right,” I say, not wanting to admit the way I just devoured some of the most extravagant food I’ve ever seen. Millie, Sarah, and I live the humble lives of starving creative souls. Somehow we manage to scrape together enough money for our outrageous rent every month, because living in the city is where we all want to be. I may one day seek the quiet of the country, but for now I like having museums, cultural events, and political rallies all within walking distance. I like to stay involved, and I enjoy meeting new people too much to want to live anywhere else yet. There’s an energy to Boston, a feeling that people actually can make a difference, and I like to think I do my part.
My sister tosses around the words wasted potential nearly every time we talk. She doesn’t approve that I spend more time fundraising for backpacks for children in foster care than I do networking. I don’t need more or different clients. I like the people I work with and for, and I like my life. My happy doesn’t have to be Kylie’s happy.
“Stop holding out on me,” Millie demands playfully. “I walk past that building every night on my way to the bakery. The bar is always loaded with gorgeous people all dressed up and sipping exotic-looking drinks. I’d never go inside. I can’t imagine having anything in common with any of them, but I’d love to be a fly on the wall just once. What are those men like? Do they really have a masseuse on call twenty-four hours a day? They say there’s nothing those men can’t get—nothing. I’ve even heard there are parts of the building no woman has ever been in. I know you don’t care about the pampering services, but you have to explore while you’re there. You’re like the first man who stepped foot on the moon, only instead of conquering hundreds of thousands of miles of space via propulsion, you walked your vagina right through decades of sexism. Too bad you can’t YouTube that shit. You’d be famous.”
“I don’t need fame,” I protest, even though I don’t have to. She knows my story. My parents split up and took very different paths for their lives. I chose the less materialistic one my father did. I’ve watched both my mother and my sister fall prey to the trap of always needing more. More hours in the day for work. More dresses in their closet. More titles attached to their name. What they don’t realize is the cost of those things is not only money—it’s time as well. When worshipping at the altar of MORE, there’s no time to hike up a mountain. No time to comfort an upset friend. No time to sing simply because it feels good.
“Have you met anyone yet?”
“The doorman is nice. And I met the guy next door.”
“The guy next door?” she sings, and I can hear the squeal of excitement in her voice. “Is he hot?”
“It doesn’t matter if he is. I can’t get involved with anyone here.”
“Come on,” Millie jokes, “this is like a vacation from your normal life. You should indulge. Eat imported chocolate. Have your back rubbed by a pool boy. Kiss your hot neighbor.”
“I didn’t say he was hot.”
“But you didn’t say he wasn’t, and I’m reading between the lines here. I know you and your sister are complete opposites. I’m not saying you have to become her, but maybe look at it like an experiment.”
“Experiment?”
“Yes, maybe spending some time living the way she does will give you some perspective. Maybe you’ll gain an appreciation for how and why she does what she does. Don’t you always say you wish you two were closer?”
“Yes, but by that I mean I wish she’d tell me I’m right just once.”
“All I’m suggesting is that you make the most of this. You’re partners in crime so to speak. This could bring the two of you together. Take a stroll in her designer shoes for a couple weeks. You might be surprised where they lead you.”
“I wore a pair of her shoes once—it didn’t end well. She pays more for them than I pay each month for rent.”
“Don’t hold that against her. You want your sister to understand you? Maybe you should try to understand her a little as well.” There is a smile in her voice. “And maybe that starts by fucking her neighbor.”
I burst out laughing. “How would that help?”
“I guess it depends on how dishy he is. Come on, let me live vicariously through you. All I do is work all night at the bakery, make my own cakes during the day, and sleep while the rest of the world is out meeting people. I’m never going to have sex with a man in the Bachelor Tower. At least feed my fantasy of what it would be like.”
“Well,” I say, pretending it’s tough to conjure up his image, “he’s very sure of himself.”
“That’s not what I’m looking for.”
“His eyes are blue. Dark hair. Tall, I guess.”
“Please never write a book. You’d be the worst.”
“Fine,” I huff, like this is a chore. “He works out. A lot.” Millie doesn’t say anything, which means I’m still not giving her enough. “Sexy smile. Cocky, though. Clean-shaven. His hair is kind of between neat and messy. Like he might put effort into looking like he doesn’t. Always in a suit that is cut to fit him. Six three or four. Great hands. Big and strong. You know the kind of hands that make you wonder if he knows how to use them.”
“Girl,” Millie says, gasping, “get your ass over to his apartment now and enjoy yourself. He’s interested in you, right?”
“Yeah.” I would have said it with more pride, but I am the MCP (Most Convenient Pussy). Men, like water, tend to follow the path of least resistance. If it’s there, they’ll at least consider fucking it. At least that’s my theory. I came up with it after downing a cheap bottle of wine one Valentine’s Day while consoling a friend who had just had her heart broken. She discovered the man she’d been dating had started sleeping with the woman who lived across the hall from him. “Why?” my friend had asked over and over. His explanation? He’d claimed he hadn’t meant for it to happen—she’d just been there for him. There as in conveniently across the hall. “He looked interested. But not in anything meaningful. You know my rule.”
“Some rules are meant to be broken. I’m not saying sleep with every man in the building, but as you forge this battle against sexism, consider relaxing your view on sexual equality as well. Men don’t hold themselves to a certain number of hookups. No one is counting, Penny. Just you.”
“First, I’m not battling sexism—I’m squatting in an apartment for Kylie. Second, what is sexual equality? Isn’t that when we get to choose what we want for ourselves? I don’t want to be with countless men. Dalton is not looking for a relationship. He’s arrogant and cocky. Sure he wants me, but he probably looks at every woman the way he looks at me.”
“So he’s not your usual type.”
“Not at all.”
“I still think he’s worth the risk. I’ve never heard you describe a guy the way you did him. You sound like my mother when she’s dieting but baking cookies for my brother’s kids. She won’t let herself have one, but she’ll call and tell me about how delicious they look. I’ll tell you what I tell her—one cookie won’t kill you.”
“Even if I wanted to—I can’t risk losing the apartment over something like that. What if he—?”
“Then tell him to drop his pants and shut his mouth. Men are simple creatures, Penny. Just be firm.”
Something tells me Dalton is not as easy as that. He knows what he wants. I give myself the luxury of a brief fantasy of me standing over him, crop in hand, telling him what I want while ordering him to keep it all confidential. “You’ve got life all figured out don’t you, Millie?”
“Not even close.” She chuckles. “But I know when to have some fun. It is possible for you to enjoy yourself while you help your sister. One does not have to be exclusive of the other.”
I wince as I imagine Kylie’s response if I tossed that philosophy her way.
“Call me tomorrow,” I say, already knowing she will.
“You had better be walking funny and smiling.”
I disconnect the line as I double over with laughter. Millie is a bright light that warms everyone around her, and I count myself lucky to have her in my life. Love her, but she’s downright crazy.
One cookie won’t kill me.
It won’t change the way I see myself.
It’s just one.
No one will have to know.
Then I can go right back to making sensible choices.
I just kicked Dalton out of here. There is no way in hell I’m going over to his apartment now. What would I say? I feel a pulse of energy ripple through my body as I realize a man like Dalton doesn’t require words. He wouldn’t need me to say a thing.
My knock on his door right now would say it for me.
I’m hungry too.