I’m driving to meet Tommy at the gym, feeling a little guilty about the nooner I just had with Eva at her apartment. That’s a new thing for me. Not the nooner—the guilt. Eva is young and eager, and that’s part of what makes her sexy as fuck, but those are also two things that bring on the guilt, even though I’ve made it crystal clear that I’m not into long-term relationships. I don’t want her to get too caught up in me, seeing as her internship will come to an end in a few more weeks. It’s been fun while it’s lasted, and from the moans and gasps she gives when I’m on top of her, it’s obvious she’s enjoying the sex as much as I am. My mantra in the bedroom has always been that the woman comes first—figuratively and literally. That’s the goal, and then and only then do I focus on my wants.
So I try to be considerate and giving and make sure that everything’s on the table so no one gets the wrong idea or has hurt feelings. I’m definitely less of an asshole than I was in my college years, and I suspect as I get older, I’ll improve even more. I read some study about how the male brain isn’t fully developed until the age of twenty-five, and how men mature about eleven years after women. Makes total sense to me. I wasn’t thinking with my big head in my early twenties, that’s for fucking sure.
On the other hand, I must be quite a ways away from full maturity if I’m trying to find a fake girlfriend to fend off my mother’s plan to fix me up. Christ. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and since Portia Bellamy is soon to arrive, I need to act quick. And that’s the reason I set up a meeting with Delaney for tomorrow, so I could make the proposal...replace will you marry me with will you make-believe with me? I’ll have to go to plan B, or C, or D—whatever it takes—if Delaney isn’t interested.
Jesus, I really hope she is. I’ll find out for sure tomorrow, but I think she has the potential to be an ideal candidate for my plan. I didn’t want to walk away from her last night. I had to, though—didn’t want to put too much pressure on her because even though she was pretty hammered, I could tell she had some major league anxiety going on underneath. I got her to agree to meet with me, and that was all I needed. Like I said, though—I didn’t want to walk away. This girl looked beautiful from a distance when I first saw her in October, but up close...she was even more attractive. Delicate, refined face..high cheekbones dusted with pink, sparkly blue eyes, and a mane of blonde hair curling at her shoulders. She’s tiny, too—the kind of girl you could lift up easily, have her wrap her legs around your waist. I like those kind of girls. The blouse she had on was open at her neck, a blue that looked like it was reflected in her eyes. I could see under the table she was wearing white pants, but I couldn’t really see her ass. Believe me, I tried. Tomorrow, though, hopefully.
I hit the gas on the Range Rover as I cruise down 102 toward Herrick Road and Harbor House Fitness Center. Tommy and I joined a few years ago and try to coordinate the days we work out, although it doesn’t always happen. He’s one of my best friends from high school and took over the family car dealership of European luxury vehicles about five years ago when his dad passed away. Tommy was all over my ass about Delaney last night. I wouldn’t tell him much...all I said was that I got her number, and then I changed the subject by asking about the girl he was hot for.
It’s a good thing I’m working out today and can burn off some of this nervous energy. Afterwards, I plan to visit my secret happy place—that always calms me down, gets me centered.
One major hurdle is getting Delaney to say yes. Then all I have to do is convince the eagle-eyed woman who’s known me since birth that I’m in a legit, serious relationship with a woman I just met last night.
Piece of cake.
I find a parking spot at Harbor House. Looks pretty busy today...people taking advantage of the weekend and wanting to get in shape for spring, and seeing as it’s cold and windy today, it’s better to work out inside. A sea of colorful spandex and sports bras is much easier on the eyes than jogging on dull gray tar and looking down to avoid puddles and potholes.
I say hi to Melly at the front desk and go to find Tommy. He’s over at the free weights, benching an impressive two seventy-five.
I set my gym bag on the floor and wait for him to finish his set. “Hey, dude. Working off some sexual frustration?”
“No need, my man. I got laid last night.” He sits up, pulls at the top of his t-shirt to wipe his face with it. “I’m guessing you might need to spend a couple hours on the treadmill, though, since you didn’t go home with Blondie.”
“Good things come to those who wait, my friend. We’re meeting tomorrow.”
When I was cooking up this whole faux girlfriend scheme, I thought of how I’m going to handle being with a hot woman for four months without actually being with her. It’s like having a slice of three-layer chocolate cake with buttercream frosting on your plate and not letting yourself eat it. And I really like cake. But I also like my lifestyle the way it is—contrary to what Gloria Cavanaugh wants for her son, I don’t do long-term relationships, and at this point, I don’t plan to fuck things up with the faux by, uh, fucking. That could definitely complicate things.
I also realized that this arrangement has to be convincing to everyone in my inner circle, which kind of sucks, because this means lying to my best friend, and I’ve never lied to Tommy. Except for that one time in high school when he got his heart stomped by Angie Sutton, and I told him I heard that her father was a real dick and threatened to cut off your McNuggets if he found out you touched her.
“I’m gonna do the treadmill, Cav. You going to lift, or do you want to run first?”
“I’ll run.”
He grins. “Sexually frustrated. I knew it.”
We walk over to the machines. There’s some nice scenery—a couple of college-age girls on ellipticals in sports bras and running shorts, sweat glistening on their upper chests. They sneak glances at us and then look at each other with raised eyebrows. Funny as hell. Men apparently aren’t the only ones who are less than subtle checking out the opposite sex.
Tommy and I each take a treadmill and set our workouts.
“So, Cavanaugh—where are you and Blondie meeting tomorrow? And what’s her real name again?”
“Delaney. We’re going to have lunch at Peppers. What’s up for the rest of the weekend for you?”
“Driving to Manheim for the auto auction. I’m looking to bring home a couple of sweet Jags. You want to see them before they go in the showroom?”
“Shit, that’s tempting...I’m in the market for some oceanfront property, though, so I’ll hold off on the Jag. But I’ll most likely take you up on that in the future.”
We stop talking for a while, focusing on running. I’ve cut my time this winter to a seven and a half minute mile on the treadmill, and that should improve when I start training outside. I’m planning on doing the Beach to Beacon 10K in Cape Elizabeth this summer and work up to a half-marathon by fall. It’ll be good to get outside when the weather’s a little nicer—running on this thing is getting pretty damned old and monotonous. I like variety in my exercise routine, and the same can definitely be said for how I operate in the romance department. Guess you could call me a serial monogamist. I can’t quite wrap my mind around wanting to be with the same woman—same eyes to look into over lasagna, same face to roll over and see when you wake up, same pussy to fuck.
I probably get the roaming cock syndrome from Dad. When my mother gets pissed off at me (which is often), she’ll pull out the you’re just like your father card. And I’ve got to agree with her. I’ve got his height, his build, his eyes...and if I’m being totally honest, his penchant for sometimes being a prick. But I’d like to think I’m not nearly as bad as Trent Abbott, who isn’t what you’d call a great father, or partner, or human being in general.
One thing I didn’t get, though, was his last name. He and my mother never married. The story goes, the two of them hooked up in college, after the Harvard-Yale football game. Yale won, so they were partying...inebriated, obviously, but not so inebriated my father couldn’t get it up and in a moment of weakness and stupidity, forego the condom and get my mother pregnant. And it wasn’t like those relationships where on the surface, you hate each other but underneath, there’s true love...nope. This was loathing on every level. They stayed together for a lot longer than they should have. My father was an attorney, so even though he was an ass, he was also an asset because he was smart and business-savvy, and when my uncle tried to screw my mother out of the company, Trent Abbott the lawyer sailed in as the conquering hero—his main motivation being that he was enjoying living the wealthy lifestyle and didn’t want to lose it. He and my mother may have hated each other, but he hung on, given the perks of being the partner of a multi-millionaire business owner. He had affairs, Mother looked the other way, and when she couldn’t stand it anymore, she basically paid him off to leave and leave her alone, just before I entered high school.
He and his new, much younger wife live in Boston. I never see him, and I’m not complaining.
I increase the incline on the treadmill. My legs are pumping—the hard, steady rhythm feels good and counteracts my restless vibe. I’ve got to convince Delaney I’m a decent guy, and to view this proposal as a being a win-win for the two of us. I’ll channel some Trent Abbott charm, minus the prick factor, and hope she takes me up on my offer.
I’ll have my answer tomorrow.