Thirty-One
Ryder
Time slows and speeds at once.
The trip is both amazing and frustrating.
I finally feel as if I have my groove back when it comes to work. The show is a blast, and the events Hanky Panky Love has set up in cities around the country energize me. We’re not talking Tony Robbins stadium-sized crowds, but a couple-dozen attendees soon turns into fifty, which turns into a cool grand. I do the radio shows live from the stage, taking questions from the audience, and everyone has a blast. Cal even sends an email telling me he’s pleased.
That’s all he says. Literally.
From: Cal Tomkin
To: Ryder Lockhart
Re: Your work
I’m pleased.
Honestly, that’s all a man needs from the guy who signs his paychecks. The next thing I know, my lit agent sends an email, too, and tells me sales for my book ticked up, and Got Your Back is going into another print run. It’s been ages since that’s happened. I tell my agent I’m thrilled, but we need to change the bio on the jacket. It takes me forever to write a new one, which is slightly embarrassing since it’s so short.
Ryder Lockhart loves his family, his dog, and spending time with good friends and good people.
It’s the truth, and it’s also true that my life now doesn't hurt like it used to.
One night in San Francisco, after a workout at the hotel gym and a hot shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and stride across the room to grab my buzzing cell phone.
A bead of water slides down my chest as I open a text from Nicole. Nerves tighten my gut. There’s this ever-present worry now that any message from her could bring bad news. I’m not a pessimist by nature, but I’ve accepted this worry.
I want good news from her. She had a doctor’s appointment at the end of her day, and I asked her to tell me how it went.
Nicole: Everything is good! The doctor says I’m officially fat.
Ryder: Ha. You’re not.
Nicole: No, I am. It’s the medical definition. She also said it’s totally normal that I ate spicy pumpkin curry, a jar of artichoke hearts, and a whole pineapple for dinner last night.
I laugh as I sink onto the edge of the mattress.
Ryder: Calling your bluff. You did not eat an entire pineapple.
Nicole: But a jar of artichoke hearts is plausible?
Ryder: Fair point. Plus, pineapples are delicious. I’ll believe your tropical fruit tales after all.
Nicole: I might also have fruit on the brain. She said the baby is the size of a papaya.
Ryder: How do they come up with this stuff? Anyway, got pics of the papaya?
Nicole: You really want to see them?
I’m smiling as I answer. How can she think I don’t want to see them?
Ryder: Yes. Show me the papaya. Please.
My knee bounces as I wait. I’m an addict, craving a hit. A minute later, an image loads in my text messages, and I slide my finger against it, clicking it open. My chest does funny things, like a jig. I stare at the grainy black-and-white image. I can see the shape of a nose, the jut of a chin, and perfect tiny hands with matchstick fingers. That's all I can make out, and it blows my mind that a doctor or ultrasound technician can actually identify the gender, so I decide to tease her.
Ryder: So it’s a boy? I see his penis.
Nicole: What??? You cannot tell if the papaya has a penis. No way.
Ryder: So it’s a girl papaya?
Nicole: I’m not finding out the sex. I’ve told you!
Ryder: That’s definitely a penis.
Nicole: I’m giving you a side-eye glare right now like you’ve never had before. You. Can’t. Tell. I was in the exam room, studying the machine, and I have stared at the photos for hours. You can’t tell the gender unless you’re the doctor, and she knows not to tell me.
Ryder: You really don’t want to find out?
Nicole: This is one of the last true surprises in life. You don’t like surprises?
The word is like a kick in the gut. Surprise! I fucked seven men. Surprise! I’m a sex addict. Surprise! Our marriage was a complete sham.
Ryder: No. I’m not into surprises.
I hold the phone, waiting for a response. But it doesn’t come quickly, so I set the cell down and return to the bathroom to rub the towel over my hair. I leave and pull on a pair of boxer briefs. The phone buzzes again.
Nicole: I can find out the sex for you. Do you want me to?
I close my eyes, inhale, and let my breath fill me. She is utterly wonderful. She is so good to me. This woman is everything I want, and everything I don’t want to lose again.
Ryder: I want you to have your surprise.
Ten short and long, miserable and wonderful days later, I’m on a flight back to New York.
I plug in my earbuds, buckle my seatbelt, and toggle through my podcast app. I download the latest episode from Nicole’s radio show, hit play, and close my eyes.
“Who wants to talk about the best positions for sex when you’re pregnant?” Her bold, pretty voice fills my ears. “Anyone? Oh wait. It’s just me. Look, ladies. I know I’m not the only one sporting a belly. With the amount of lovemaking my listeners are doing with their significant others, I’m surprised the whole lot of you aren’t pregnant. But I’ve heard from enough, and it seems my pregnant ladies want to know the best positions for getting busy when they’ve already gotten the busiest.”
I sit up straight, my interest 100 percent piqued.
She’s talking about sex, and this is precisely what our boss wants. Because there’s no mention of getting laid. No talk of hookups. It’s all about intimacy, all about pleasure, and I’m all about how very much I want to give that to her tonight.
I want her to experience an overdose of pleasure.
Especially when a caller says, “Do you find that you’re just constantly horny? The second I walk in the door from work, I pretty much tackle my husband. Oh, and yes, edge of the bed works wonders.”
Nicole laughs. “Edge of the bed. Make a note, ladies. And to answer your first question, yes. A big fat yes.”
Yes. She’s going to be saying that very soon.