Neanderthal Marries Human

His mouth devoured mine, right there at the counter of Giavanni’s Pancake House, as if he was starving. I knew he wasn’t starving because he’d eaten all of his pancakes and half of mine.

When he finished, and we were both breathing with some difficulty, I hid my face on his shoulder and wrapped him in my arms.

“That was really nice,” I said. My voice was a little shaky. It was more than nice. It was necessary. After a week of almost no touching, it felt like a moral imperative.

He cleared his throat, but he didn’t respond. I felt his fingers dig into my hips.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to seduce me,” I whispered against his neck.

“I said I had no plans to seduce you.”

“But now you do?”

“No.”

“So what was that?”

“Just a kiss.”

I huffed a laugh. “That was not just a kiss.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. That was a big, hot, wet kiss—with lots of tongue. I think there was even some groping. If judges were present, they would rule that a seduction attempt.”

“And where does one hire a seduction judge?”

“Well,” I glanced to the right and considered the logistics of a seduction judge; “I don’t think there is any central authority, but-”

Quinn shook his head, cut me off with his movements, and gently pushed me a step away. He guided me onto my stool. His eyes were cautious, but most definitely simmering with something that resembled wicked delight.

Smirking, he placed one hand on my leg and his other arm along the counter at my side. Leaning close to my ear, his whisper scorching, sending shivers down my spine, he whispered, “When we’re married, I’ll show you the difference between just a kiss and a big, hot, wet kiss…with lots of tongue.”

CHAPTER 13

I spent a lot of time in the bathroom over the next two weeks.

In fact, I started hiding my personal laptop in the cabinet under the sink, and when Quinn would walk around the apartment in only his boxers, I’d excuse myself to the bathroom and read about Lyme disease and the pollination of vanilla flowers in Madagascar.

I trusted his insistence that he had no plans to seduce me. The problem was that his mere presence was enough for my body to react like a sex-starved sex-fiend who was sex-deprived.

Other than existing, he was taking it pretty easy on me.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

It was hard to tell.

I didn’t know how to feel about the fact that he wasn’t making seduction overtures. In fact, his lack of overtures might have been worse than overt attempts.

We kissed every day—but never for very long and never very deeply—and we started wearing pajamas to bed, whereas before, we’d slept naked.

I was in tank tops and shorts.

He was in black t-shirts and draw-string cotton pants, Hanes brand. I knew they were Hanes brand since I checked the tag. I don’t know why I checked the tag; maybe because his pajamas felt like my adversary. Regardless, I was a little surprised by his simple choice in PJ’s since he was in the top point zero five percent of the wealth distribution curve.

Admittedly, I began to feel a measure of spite for the Hanes clothing company. The loss of his nudity was a travesty and part of me—the completely irrational, needing-someone-to-blame part—held them accountable.

He was also touching me less in general. Fewer hugs, fewer incidental caresses, no more cuddling or spooning in bed.

Another byproduct of the big wedding was that we seemed to talk about nothing but the wedding. Certainly, at work we talked about work. At home however, we talked about ferns, appetizers, and ribbons.

Ribbons!

Before Quinn, the lack of engaging conversation wouldn’t have affected me much.

But now, I’d grown used to sharing my random facts with him, having him ask me questions, discussing the broader ramifications of the information and how it might be applied to future situations and the interpretation of data.

Maybe I wasn’t sex-deprived as much as Quinn-deprived, and the lack of quality Quinn time—or Quinnime, which is Quinn + time—was messing with my head.

After we made the bet, the first two weeks were terrible. We talked often, but I began to feel lonely.

Marie called me one day out of the blue and offered her services for whatever I needed. She actually helped a great deal. As an artist, she had an eye for color and design that I lacked. She almost made me want to have an opinion about centerpieces, cake toppers, and chair covers.

I assembled a list of vendors in the Chicago area and left messages for photographers, videographers, caterers, venues, jazz quartets, DJs, and fireworks display professionals.

Unfortunately, the bad news rolled in immediately.

My dad didn’t think a visit was a good idea. He said he’d think about coming to the wedding as long as it didn’t interfere with any other plans. This was disheartening, but not a surprise. As well, he said he hadn’t spoken to June, my older sister, since she jumped bail for her latest conviction. Like me, he didn’t know where she was or how to reach her.

My dad…goodness, I didn’t know what to think about him.

He wasn’t a bad guy.

Really, I think about my childhood in terms of my mother. There was never a time where she wasn’t the focus of my dad’s life or ours. Before she died and after she died, she was the alpha and omega, the zeta and tri-delta.

Actually, she was literally a tri-delta. She was in the sorority when she met my father, and he was a humble mechanical engineering student. I’m pretty convinced that my oldest sister, June, and my youngest sister, Jem, both have a different father. There’s also a high chance that my father is some anonymous, unknown sperm donor.

Regardless, my dad never turned my mother away. He paid for our daycare, dropped us off, and picked us up every day. He may not have tucked us in at night or made any attempt to calm us when we had nightmares, but he did put a roof over our heads and food in our mouths.

When we weren’t spending weekends with my mother’s mother, a pill-popping head case as well as a former beauty queen, we were running amuck around the neighborhood.

Now my relationship with my dad consists of him sending me email forwards, mostly jokes or chain mail or both, along with fifty other people on the To: line. The few times each year that I call him, he seems confused at first as to who I am. Then he seems confused as to why I’ve called.

Therefore, the call I made to him went accordingly.

The other bad news about the wedding was that almost every place in Chicago was already booked; I was forced to move down the lists to my third, sixth, and tenth choices. It was extremely stressful—which was satisfying as an outcome—and I spent a good amount of time with Quinn lamenting my inability to secure any meaningful part of the event.

Compounding matters, I couldn’t send out the invitations because I couldn’t finalize the reception location. This meant I would have to find a printer for the invitations who would be able to turn them around in two days or less, which was basically impossible.

Therefore, when Sandra insisted on taking over all activities relating to my bachelorette party, I gave in immediately and allowed her to do so. I then promptly forgot about it, figured she was bossy enough that I could trust her to tell me what to do, where to go, and when to be there.

Additionally, I wasn’t sure how to feel about Quinn’s parents. I did feel a good deal of guilt that I’d pushed him into the visit. My mind didn’t like feeling guilt, so it wandered to less uncomfortable topics—like what class of plastics corresponded to each recycling number.

Katherine continued to be lovely and gracious and even funny during our phone conversations. Desmond Sr., Quinn’s dad and his brother’s namesake, surprised me by joining our third call. He said almost nothing while Katherine and I discussed the difference between plastics denoted with the number 1 (PET—Polyethylene Terephthalate) and plastics denoted with the number 2 (HDPE—High Density Polyethylene).

But then, at the very end of the call, he said in a voice that sounded eerily similar to Quinn’s, but with a much thicker Boston accent, “We’re really looking forward to seeing you Saturday.”

I hung up feeling dazed and confused and maybe a little overwhelmed by what I’d initiated.

Everything was set and scheduled for our trip to Boston. But as the time approached, I couldn’t help but wonder if my insistence on meeting his parents had more to do with my wanting non-ambivalent parental figures in my life—most especially a maternal figure—or that I honestly wanted what was best for Quinn.

Signs of my distractedness and physical-and-intellectual-intimacy-Quinn-starved-addled-brain-disease presented at knit night just a few days before we were set to leave for Boston.

We were all gathered at the apartment I technically shared with Elizabeth, but she hadn’t arrived yet.

I thought I was covering pretty well. I even made margaritas for everyone, and they were good margaritas. I credited the addition of Limoncello and agave nectar.

Marie was discussing the wedding plans and lamenting our inability to secure a venue.

“Can’t Quinn help?” Sandra asked, “He does security for all those fancy places, like that club where he rescued you.”

I smoothed out the wrinkles of the Wonder Woman apron I was wearing. “I didn’t want to ask him to do that.”