Thursday … Friday Eve. Yeah, we’ll go with that
IF I HAD MY CAR, I could convince myself that this was all just a bad nightmare, but I don’t have my car. I’m in his car, and the nightmare is still alive. “Are you hanging in there?” he asks, halfway to the office. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me since we got into his truck.
“I’m fine,” I respond in a way that mirrors his coolness.
“So, what’s on the agenda for today, boss?”
We’re all the way back there now. I shouldn’t care. I should focus on the discomfort of having this completely out-of-my-league man sitting just a car seat away from me. It’s not like I have a chance, had a chance, or ever will, so the nerves and whatever else is floating through my intestines right now should just go away.
“Um, just preparation for the event next week.” I think I need to stop talking. It’s suddenly apparent that speaking is only highlighting the internal battle between my organs, making their sore presence known.
“You look like you’re pretty deep in thought over there.”
I am. More than he knows. “I—don’t know. I’m just trying to wake up, I guess.”
“We have time for coffee,” he says.
Coffee will loosen things up in my gut; not so sure I need that after this morning’s blowout, but if I don’t caffeinate, I’ll have a migraine before noon. There is no winning. None. Tea, maybe that’ll be the easiest on my stomach. I don’t normally drink tea, but I’ve wanted to give it a try. I pull out my phone and start a Google search for, “Does tea cause the shits.” I’m super classy this morning, but I need to get a direct answer to this question.
“No, tea does not cause the shits,” Logan says, stifling a laugh.
I close my eyes slowly, twist my head, and look over at him. “How did you see that from over there?”
“Your text is quite large for a woman your age. I just glanced over, and there was your question. You don’t need Google, you can just ask me.” He’s smirking, and while I enjoyed his smirk at one point yesterday, I’m not enjoying it right now. He’s making fun of me and knows I’m worried about shitting myself.
“So, I’m at the point right now where I want to leave the state and cross out any chance of ever running into you again after what you’ve witnessed in the last day. That’s how I feel. Except, I can’t do that because I have a job, a daughter who can’t leave the state without permission from her father, and a mortgage, which means I’m stuck.”
“Why does this all bother you so much?” he asks, simply. I’m sure he’d be totally fine if I watched the bowels of hell expelling from his body yesterday.
“I’m mortified,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t even want my ex-husband seeing what happened yesterday, and he watched me giving birth. That’s why, never mind … you.”
“Have you considered that may be the reason he’s your ex-husband?”
Did he just go there? He did. He totally just went there. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean it in a rude way,” he says, peering into the rearview mirror as he switches lanes. “It’s just that … if you’re so closed off, maybe that put a barrier between you and Rick, you know?”
“From one divorcée to another, do you really think you should be giving me advice? Especially since I was cheated on and replaced by some Barbie bimbo, who can hardly spell her name. What’s your excuse? Where did you go so wrong, Mr. Perfect?” I snap at him defensively.
He stalls, looks over at me, and swallows hard, before returning his gaze to the road. “I never said I was perfect.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I know why my marriage went down the shitter. That’s the difference between the two of us.”
I reposition myself in my seat, feeling the heat rise through my neck and into the backs of my ears. “How do you have the nerve to make that kind of assumption after knowing me less than a week and having very few facts about my life to go on?”
“I’ve seen a lot in the last week,” he says.
“So, you’re blaming me for getting cheated on? I just want to make sure I’m understanding you correctly. I guess Rick is still as slick as ever with his greasy salesman spiels. I should have known you’d take his side when I heard you two laughing together yesterday.”
“I didn’t say that,” he says.
“Then just say it, Logan. What have you figured out about me while watching me puke my brains out? I’m honestly intrigued.” By the anger searing through each of my words, I doubt he believes I have any sort of curiosity about what he might say, but I do want to know where this crazy assumption is coming from.
“You don’t want anyone to care about you,” he says. “Just as men act like they don’t want to be cared about, it’s never the truth, so I can only assume you do want to be cared about. However, the big difference between men and women is that women still have a sense of nurturing even when pushed away. Men don’t have that sixth sense, so if they think a woman doesn’t want to be cared for, they may walk away.”
I open my mouth to snap back with something, but nothing comes to me. No thoughts. No words. He just described me, but did he describe Rick’s actions too? Rick never struck me as the type to want to feel needed. He’s always been the one who has the needs and wants.
“I—” I still have nothing to say.
“Look at Tiana as an example,” Logan says. “She clearly needs more attention than the average woman. I mean, I heard her tell Rick at least once last night that she needed some attention. I wasn’t a huge fan of the baby talk that accompanied it, but I kind of thought … wow, it’s nice to just be told what she wants instead of making a man play the whole guessing game. I can safely assume that Tiana is just easy.”
I laugh because he hit the nail right on the head with that one. “That, she is, Logan.”
He raises a brow and looks over at me briefly. “I’m serious. I mean easy as in simple, not high maintenance emotionally.”
“Well, too bad for me, then. I am who I am, and if someone doesn’t like it, they can go find another Tiana.” I cross my arms, feeling defensive for the way I am, even though I don’t care—I’ve never cared about what anyone else thinks.
“Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying you are the reason for your divorce, but I’m telling you it’s okay to need help sometimes, and no one is going to judge you for it.”
“Okay, thanks for kicking me when I’m down,” I tell him. I don’t want this conversation to continue. I’m even more uncomfortable now than I was when I got into the truck.
“For the record, I think it’s hot when a woman can take care of herself, but there’s still a time and place to lean on help when it’s there. Sometimes we men need to be needed.”
I let him help yesterday. I don’t understand why he’s being so pushy about this. I was helpless, as a matter of fact. Rick had to have filled his head with so much shit, I can’t even process what he must know about me.
Did he just say it’s hot to be independent?
I inhale sharply and set my gaze on the side window. “I’m like this for a reason. Everyone has reasons for the way they are.”
“You’re right,” he says quickly. “and I’m pushy and forward, so because of that I’m taking you out on a date tonight.”
I whip my head around. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, I’m taking you out for a nice dinner. I might kiss you. I might even try to persuade you to do more, and I might break that sneering little look in your eye too.”
I’m having a hot flash. Is that possible at thirty-three? “What?” I’m a little blunter this time, but seriously, what the hell is happening?
“Now’s the part where I either say I’m kidding, or I reply with … is there a problem?” He clears his throat, pulls into the parking lot of the coffee shop, parks, and looks directly at me. “Which one do you prefer?”
What kind of question is this? Obviously, it’s the latter half of his assumption—or whatever I’m supposed to call it. Obviously.
“Are you propositioning your boss?” I reply.
“Am I?” he questions.
Answer him, Hannah. “I could have you fired for this.”
“Could you?”
“Yes,” I snap.
“Then fire me.”
“I liked you better before we had lunch yesterday. You were such a kiss ass.”
“I can kiss your ass if that’s what you like.” I should slap him. How rude is he? Who says that? Stop picturing him kissing your ass, Hannah. “Although, it all depends on whether you get tea or coffee right now,” he says with a chuckle, obviously amused with himself.
“Why did you pretend to be so sweet yesterday?” I ask him. Really, my brain feels like it might explode. Either he has multiple personalities, or he fooled me more than I’ve ever been fooled.
“I wasn’t pretending.”
“So, what is this?”
“I want you.”
“Who says that?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air.
“A thirty-five-year-old man who knows what he wants when he sees it.” How the hell do I respond to that? “Coffee or Tea? Or should I say, shits or no shits?”
“Tea,” I snarl. The only reason I’m not going in with him is that I don’t want anyone to see us together. “Here, let me give you money.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, then closes the door before I have a chance to argue.
During the time I managed to graduate college, become a wife, a mother, and an ex-wife, I seem to have forgotten the girl I once was—the one who played mind-games with the guys who played hard to get until I lost interest. I was the one who never let anyone close enough to know what was going through my mind. Now, like the weak skin beneath my stretch marks, my thoughts can be penetrated without much force.
If Logan wants to play mind games. I can play too. The old me—and the real me is still here somewhere. I just need to relocate the parts.
The reminiscence of playing games brings my wandering eyes to my phone and Words With Friends, hoping to see a notification I might have missed from Dickle. My sweet Dickle, who I pushed away too many times.
There’s nothing but a new game request from him. I open the game board, finding the letters spelling out the word, sigh.
I scan my letters, looking for anything I can respond to his sigh with. Rather than concerning myself with points, I use my “I” to add beneath his “H.” His turn.