I’m so impatient, but then again, I’m not. I’m impatient with certain things, like waiting for Brooks to text back. I thought after his “Nice” comment, complete with his little smiley face, that he’d send me another message later in the day, but he didn’t. I’ve just been all What the fuck? ever since.
Is this what dating is like? Waiting for one person to scream out, “Hey! Hey, you! I like you! DO YOU LIKE ME?”
It’s a lot of extra work I didn’t anticipate. I mean, how can he resist me? I’m everything a guy like him wants. I’m single, I’m blonde, I have big boobs, a curvy butt, I suck a mean dick, and am open to anal. Getting Eliza away from him was exhausting enough. Now I have to figure out how to make him mine permanently—not just for a night or a week or a year or so. But forever. I have to do what took Eliza ten years in a span of about six months, because that’s all the patience I have left in my Patience Tank.
Speaking of tanks, I have driven all over town trying to get rid of the gas I had. I’ve been up since five, and it’s now nearly eleven. It’s finally at the point where the needle holds just above E, and the dash indicates I have only twenty miles to empty.
Perfect.
I drive roughly, stopping and starting any chance I get. After circling Chastain Park awhile, I get annoyed and throw the SUV in park on the side of the road. Rev my engine until the gas is all gone, and it clunks to empty.
Yes. Yes. Yes. With as long as that took, I’m not sure how any smart person ever runs out.
I call Brooks as cars fly past me, the ample shade from the trees a bonus to “being stranded” here. I’m such a genius. Really, I am. I wonder how many women have had the great idea to strand themselves on purpose like this?
Ring, ring, ring a thousand times, and then freaking voicemail. I want to know why people don’t keep their cells near them? It’s a cell phone, that’s what it’s for, nitwit. I dial again. Leave a message this time, to call me back. Hastily, I text him, too.
Hey, super embarrassing, but I ran out of gas in the area. Any chance you have a can I can borrow?
Within minutes, my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hey, uh … you okay?”
“Well, not exactly. Did you get my text?”“Yeah, sorry. I was in a meeting.” Hmm … were you really, my sweet Brooks? “Do you still need my help?”
“If you’re close by, yes. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe I ran out.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. It happens.” Pause. “Hmm, let me think. Actually, I am stuck in this meeting for another half hour. Are you able to call another friend or see if your insurance can get roadside assistance out?”
My shoulders drop, and I punch my steering wheel. Force the smile back onto my face so he doesn’t hear the disappointment in my voice. “My friends aren’t answering, and insurance said the guys are two hours out from being able to help.” Salt nips at my eyes. Why is he resisting? Why isn’t this working?
He sighs, and tells me to hold on. Mumbles something to someone nearby. “Okay, where are you? I can leave a little early, I guess.”
I wiggle in my seat, doing a happy dance of victory, despite his lack of sounding excited. Whatever. He just doesn’t know he should be yet. I give him the cross streets of the shoulder I’m pulled over in, and adjust my tits, because my knight in shining armor is on his way to rescue me!
“Cool. See you in a bit. Stay in your car.”
By the time he gets to me, it’s been an hour since we hung up. I am sweating my ass off, my shirt soaked because the AC wasn’t blowing cold enough, and I was killing the battery. I dab the beads of sweat streaming down my face and peppering my upper lip. Wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, and rub in the makeup under my eyes that has separated.
I watch him from the rearview, his broad shoulders and ripped chest still apparent under his suit, as cars zip by dangerously close to him. Silently, I curse myself for having done this, because it hasn’t gone to plan. He was supposed to be quick, just around the corner. I was supposed to be cute, not melting like a witchcicle.
His hand rests on the roof of my car. Reluctantly, I look at him, embarrassed with my current disheveled appearance and possible onion smell.
“Sorry it took me so long. Traffic was ridiculous.”
“It’s okay.” I turn my head back to the road, my eyes sheepish.
“You’re soaked!”
I clear my throat. “AC wasn’t working, and I had to turn off the car.”
“Yeah, it will kill your battery, but you should have gotten out.”
I shrug, and then lie. “I did. Just got back in.”
His thumb motions toward his Audi behind me. “Let me grab the can.”
Cautiously, I open my door, the passing cars blowing my damp hair, and the breeze a welcome reprieve from the heat. I watch as Brooks rolls up his sleeves, loosens his tie, and fills the gas into my tank. He makes helping a woman on the side of the road look like a photoshoot for GQ.
When the last of the gas is poured in, he reattaches the lid. Slaps the hood. “You’re good to go.” Then, he walks to his trunk, and sets the can back in.
I stand there, watching him as he steps back to his car door, astonished that he’s apparently about to … leave?
He hops in, and starts his car. Rolls down his passenger window. Stupidly, I walk over to it, like I’m following some treasure map, but Brooks is far from being a chest of riches right now with the way he’s fucking leaving me like this.
“Make sure you can start the engine. Turn the key a few times, but not all the way. Then turn it all the way.”
After I’m behind the wheel, I follow his orders, the engine cranking to life. I poke my head out of the car. Play the good, grateful lady, and say, “You’re a lifesaver.”
He smiles, and shouts from behind me, “Glad I could help. Have a good day.”
The ambiguous smile I give him is like poison wrapped in candy. “You, too.”
His car pulls out, but then halts next to me so that our cars are parallel. “Emily?”Our eyes meet, and his smile tells me he’s come to his senses. He’s inviting me to dinner. “Yeah?”
“Drive safe!”
With that, he’s gone, twisting around the curve like this is a fucking Nascar race, and he must get to the finish line. But the only finish line he needs is the crack of my ass.
I shovel broccoli into my mouth as fast as I can between silent cries, because I don’t eat junk food, and not getting what I want is my cold, hard, green reality. Today was a total letdown. Brooks is either stupider than I thought, or he totally brushed me off. Either way, I’m not a happy girl. I’m a depressed, broccoli-murdering girl who’s gonna have some terrible ass gas if I don’t stop.
Ugh. It sucked to feel like a complete inconvenience to him today. Even though he didn’t seem annoyed or upset to be there, he was indifferent, as if I were some random person on the side of the road instead of his future wife. He has a duty to protect me, to come to my rescue, and actually rescue me, not simply leave me with some goodies and go.
Lucy tries to sneak a lick of my broccoli, and I shoo her away. “No, Lucy. Not now.”
She trots over to her bed in one corner of the room, spins around, and lies down. I pull my laptop off the table, turn it on, and start Googling through my chews and ugly-cry sobs.
I stop chewing. Type in “Emily Jansen,” and click on Images. I’m always random with my Google searches. Sometimes I surprise myself with the things I look up. I can search Brooks Jansen or How to be the best wife or Top honeymoon spots 2017 or Make him love you again, and hours later I’m looking up how many marshmallows someone managed to stuff into their mouths.
I scroll through all the women lucky enough to have that sacred, holy name—wishing for it, praying for it, wanting to kill them for it and steal it away. To take it for myself. I cry a minute, my shoulders sagging and my tongue clicking as I try to figure out what I’m doing wrong. I sling the broccoli onto the floor and shriek in frustration, the veins in my neck feeling as if they’re about to burst.
Anger heats my cheeks as I stare at all these Emily Jansens. I am oh so jelly. But … ehh. There are a few pretty ones, but I’ll be the prettiest Emily Jansen on this results page once our wedding announcement is made. And I, and only I, will be married to Brooks.
I smile to myself. Slap both of my cheeks. Imagine the moment he gets down on one knee. Cheer up, bitch, I think. All in due time.
This is only the beginning.