Capture
“Technically he’s not the first.”
I grumbled, but said nothing.
“You didn’t have a problem saying no to Martin last year in chemistry lab when he asked.”
“But I thought Martin was a jerk. It’s easy to say no to a jerk. Plus he never helped with tabulations so I felt no guilt. Landon seems like a nice guy. It’s hard to say no when a nice guy asks so nicely, and he spent most of the night helping me keep creepers at bay.”
“So you gave Landon your number because he was helpful and nice?”
“I don’t know…maybe? I feel like I should reward his nice behavior.” I hung my jacket up in the hall closet, noting I had two jackets on the rack and the rest were Sam’s.
Sam shook her head, walking past me to the kitchen and calling over her shoulder, “When he calls don’t go out with him. He’s actually a douche canoe. And he’s a big baby on the court.”
“Then why did you invite him?” I followed her, abruptly in the mood for Cheesy Poofs dipped in Nutella.
“Because he’s tall and menacing looking. His face reminds me of the eagle news reporter from the Muppets.”
“He does have thick eyebrows, I should give him the name of the lady who waxes mine.” I crossed to the cabinet and searched for the ingredients for my junk food fix. I was still down seventeen pounds from last year. I’d gained some back over the summer, but running around at the coffee shop and playing gigs at night kept me busy and cut into my cookie time.
“They’re like caterpillars sitting on his face, I bet they’re fuzzy…but forget Landon for a minute. What I want to know is, does this mean you’re finally over Martin?”
I lamented the contents of the cabinet pitifully, partially because there was no Nutella and partially because I hadn’t told Sam about my run-in with Martin over the previous weekend.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s no Nutella, and I’m in the mood for Cheesy Poofs dipped in Nutella—”
“That’s disgusting.”
“—and I saw Martin last Saturday.”
“Whoa! Wait, what?” She spun on me, her mouth open, her eyes wide.
“There’s no Nutella—”
“Don’t be clowning me. You know I want to hear about Martin, not your Nutella woes. You saw him? Where? When? How come you didn’t tell me?”
I grabbed the Cheesy Poofs from the cabinet and turned to face her, feeling weary and wary of the subject already. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I guess I needed to…no, that’s not right. I think I didn’t tell you because we kind of gave each other closure and I needed a few days to process it.”
Her eyes abruptly narrowed. “He gave you ‘closure’?”
“Yeah. At least I think he was trying to. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Seeing him was a total fluke. He was at a gig we were playing in New York. We talked a little, he drove me to the train station, then we said goodbye.”
Actually, I said goodbye. He didn’t say anything. But I’d assumed his goodbye was implied. As such, I felt comfortable with my version of the story.
Sam looked me up and down, her face twisted in a way that betrayed her disbelief and/or confusion with my story. At length she said, “Huh…that’s weird.”
“Why is that weird? Honestly it was kind of nice. We were both adulting like adult adults who behaved like adults.”
“It’s weird because of that one interview he gave in the fitness magazine over the summer. I think it was in Men’s Health. Did you ever read that, by the way?”
I shook my head, taking a bite of a poof and lamenting the obnoxiously crunchy sound it made; I spoke around my chewing, orange cheesy food dust puffing from my mouth like a cloud. “No. Never read it.”
“Hmm…”
I ate another poof as she studied me. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I was just about to stuff my face with another when she said, “It’s about you, you know.”
“I… What?” I did not eat the poof. Instead I held it in front of my mouth as I frowned at my best friend.
“The interview, it’s about you. Well, not the whole thing. Just…half of it.”
I choked on nothing and could feel my eyes bug out of my head. “Wait, what? What? Why? What?”
“If you’re feeling over him then it might not be a good idea to read it.”
I stared at her, my mouth opening and closing as I struggled for words. Finally I settled on, “What did he say?”
“Are you going to read it?”
“Should I?”
“Are you over him?”
Was I?
Not knowing how to answer, I ate the suspended cheese-rice-puffed-food. This time the crunch felt satisfying instead of obnoxious, like an exclamation mark.
“Don’t read it,” she said suddenly.
“Maybe I want to.”
“Then read it.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
She grinned. “Then don’t.”
***
I didn’t read Martin’s interview. At least, I hadn’t read it as of Saturday night.
Friday and Saturday were busy; we played four gigs. Two afternoon holiday parties in Boston, one evening wedding in Yonkers, and one crazy late night Bat Mitzvah on Saturday in New Haven.
As well, I had a very odd conversation with Abram after the third set at the Yonkers wedding; it started with him saying, “What you need is a rebound guy.”
I glanced over my shoulder, found him standing just to my right, facing me, his mouth curved in its perma-smirk.
“You mean for basketball?”
His smirk became a grin. “No. Not for basketball. For getting over that stockbroker douchebag.”
I scrunched my face at Abram and sipped my Coke. “What are you talking about?”
He shifted a half step forward, lowering his voice. “A warm body, someone who’s good at kissing and fucking. You need a rebound lay.”
“Oooohhhh…” His meaning finally sank in, which only made me nervously gulp my Coke. My eyes grew wide as I tried to look everywhere but at him and my brain attempted to figure out how to extract myself from this conversation. His comment sounded a lot like, Hey, I’d like to have sex with you to help you get over your boyfriend. Use me.
“I’m not offering,” he clarified, correctly guessing that my abrupt bout of anxiety had everything to do with my assumption he wanted to be my rebound guy. I relaxed a bit, but then he added, “Though I wouldn’t mind being the guy after the rebound guy.”
I choked on my Coke.
He laughed, a deep, baritone laugh that sounded more sinister than merry, and he patted my back. “Hey, are you okay?”
I nodded, sucking in air through my nose, then coughing again.
“Did I surprise you?” His dark eyes were warm and still held his earlier laughter.
I continued nodding as his hand stopped patting my back and switched to stroking it instead. I shivered, because his hot palm and capable fingers against the thin material of my tuxedo shirt felt good and was sending little tingles along my spine; as well he was standing in my personal space, his magnetic maleness making me a bit dizzy.
I stepped away and caught his arm, halting his movements.
“So, I’m…that is to say, I’m—”
“You’re not over the douchebag,” he supplied, which wasn’t what I was going to say; nevertheless it was the truth.
“No. I guess I’m not.” My voice was raspy from my coughing fit.
“Then take my advice and get laid. Let someone else make you feel good. Hell, I bet Fitzy would cream himself at the thought.”
I winced. “I don’t like the idea of using people.” Plus I didn’t like the idea of having sex with someone when I wasn’t in love, but if I’d said that to Abram, I assumed he would make fun of me.
“You need to. Sure, be upfront about the arrangement. Let him—whoever him is—know that it’s a no-strings kind of thing. But do yourself a favor, and find a rebound guy. Otherwise it’ll be years before you get over your ex.”
I studied Abram for a long moment, releasing his arm and leaning away, wanting to really see him. He wasn’t teasing; in fact, he appeared to be speaking from experience.
“How many rebound girls have you been with, Abram?”
His smirk was back, but it was somehow less sharp. “I’ve lost count.”
“And have they helped?”
“Yeah. I mean, they have helped. I’m not nearly as miserable and pathetic as I was before…” He trailed off, and his smirk waned, his eyes turning serious. “But I’m not going to rebound forever.”
“When will you stop?”
“When I see someone who’s worth hurting for again. Someone worth the risk.” He lifted his hand and tucked several strands of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my throat. “Or she finally sees me.”
***
By the time my alarm went off on Sunday morning for my shift at the Bluesy Bean, I was cursing Sam for telling me that Martin’s interview was about me, or half about me.
I was also cursing Abram for planting strange ideas in my head—about a rebound guy, about him as a potential post-rebound guy. I was all mixed up. I was attracted to Abram, but hadn’t allowed those feelings to deepen beyond passing interest. But what if I let myself actually get to know him? What if I liked him?