I close my eyes, then press my thumb and forefinger against the corner of my eyelids, squeezing them, trying to find some sort of answer. But I don’t even know what the question is and now my brain starts to hurt. I’m not in the mood for heavy reflection.
So I say goodbye to Andy and head to Your Other Office, trying to remember the name of the Trophy Husband candidate I’m meeting there soon. Craig? No, Craig was Monday’s date. Craig and I had pizza at lunchtime sitting by the water. We grabbed slices at Martino’s, a New York style pizzeria that uses the flimsiest paper plates possible. We walked a few blocks to the water, our plates sagging in the middle, grease threatening to spill out. We sat on the rocks just a few feet from the Bay, looking at the gorgeous Golden Gate Bridge. There is no more stunning bridge in the entire universe. I have lived in the Bay Area for six years and have never once grown tired of our rust-colored bridge. Its beauty always captures me, whether I’m driving across it, watching it from the ferry, or gazing at it. The Golden Gate Bridge is one of the wonders of the modern world. It is a marvel.
But Craig disagreed. “That is such an ugly bridge,” he remarked as we sat down on the rocks. I choked on my pizza.
“What?” I said in between coughs.
“Man, if it were up to me I’d rip that sucker down,” he said, casting a disdainful look toward the bridge.
“You’re joking, right?”
He shook his head. “I’d make a sleek steel bridge. None of this suspension shit.”
“Maybe you could tear down the Sistine Chapel, slash The Nightwatch, and see if you can get Shakespeare banned from school curriculum too.”
Tuesday’s boy was a little better, but still no prize. His name was Jared, he was a computer repair guy, and a major fan of Chris’ show. But then all he did was talk about Let the Wookie Win. He told me he’d seen every episode twice. He told me he had added Chris to his Twitter account, so he got updates on Chris’ online “status” throughout the day. He was vying to become one of Chris’ “Top Friends” on Facebook, and could I do anything to help him achieve that goal?
I was already thinking of Chris the whole time during the date. With those constant mentions, it was as if Chris was running at a double-time loop in my brain.
As I walk into the coffee shop, I finally remember the name of today’s date. Jean Paul Peter. I don’t know his last name, but he has three first names. When he arrives, I switch on the iCam. The cards are all on the table now, so I’m going to share some of this date with the viewers. They’ll be happy since Jean Paul Peter looks better than his picture. He’s tall and built with lovely dark skin. He’s wearing jeans and a long sleeve pullover, one that can’t help but accentuate his sculpted arms. His hazel eyes are flecked with gold.
I stand up and shake his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, McKenna.” Then he gestures to the counter. “May I get you a coffee, latte, hot chocolate?”
At the rate I’m plowing through caffeine, I’ll be immune to the stuff pretty soon. He gets a latte, I order another coffee, and he carries them back to our chairs.
“I’m glad I made the cut,” Jean Paul Peter begins.
“I’m glad you made the cut too, Jean Paul Peter.”
He holds up a hand. “You can just call me JP.”
I wipe my forehead in the mock “whew” gesture. “Jean Paul Peter is a mouthful of a name.”
I spend the next thirty minutes chatting with JP. I learn that JP grew up in Florida, played football in high school, studied communications in college, and now at the ripe old age of twenty-two, he works as an assistant for a sports marketing firm. He’s perfect. Truly perfect. He would be a perfect man for some woman.
“So JP, you’re in sports marketing. What do you want to do with that?”
“Nothing really. I want to be a ski instructor. I try to go every weekend. Leaning in and out, speeding down the hill,” he says, moving his sturdy frame a bit from side to side as if to demonstrate how to ski. “I would love to get a place in Tahoe and set up camp there and spend all day on the slopes, teaching people how to ski and skiing myself.”
He wants a place in Tahoe. That means he wants me to get him a place in Tahoe. That’s what the Sugar Daddies do for their ladies. They get them lakefront property, weekend getaways, houses in Hawaii. Apparently, that’s what Trophy-Husbands-to-be expect from their Sugar Mamas too.
I realize for the first time that two people are playing the game. It’s not just me taking Dave and Steely Dan Duran out for test drives, unbeknownst to them. Everything is on the table now. The candidates know the game is on and they’re here because they want a meal ticket. I’m no longer the only one with requirements. They have their prerequisites too. JP wants a woman with money, a woman who can set him up, a woman who can make him a kept man so he can play on the slopes all day.
“So that’s why you’re in this contest, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
I strip the chit-chattery veneer away as I shut off the iCam. “To get a house in Tahoe, right? That’s why you want to be a Trophy Husband?”
“Oh, that? Well, I like you, McKenna. I am having an excellent time with you. And I just believe in trying new things. And I thought this would be a fun way to meet someone.”
“Someone who can set you up with a house in Tahoe?”
“Uh, well. You have always kind of said that you were looking for a kept man. And frankly I wouldn’t mind being kept. So I thought I’d give this a shot.”
“Right, of course.”
I feel a momentary sense of kinship for the well-to-do older man who scouts out a trophy wife. Does he ever wonder if his woman is using him, if she only loves him for his money? Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe I need to be more like a man and not care.
But I don’t feel that way. I do care. I do care about someone. A lot.
And I have no idea what to do with these feelings. The last time I felt this way, I was about to walk down the aisle, and then went on to have my heart smashed.
* * *
The letter from Todd’s lawyer arrives this afternoon. He is no longer contesting custody of the dog. I pump my fist in victory, but something about this feels empty. Or maybe it’s just that I feel that way right now.
Empty.
Chapter Fourteen
There’s a knock on my door. It’s ten p.m.
These two facts should not occur simultaneously.
Fortunately, I have a dog who knows her job. Ms. Pac-Man emits a thunderous growl, then hits the repeat button on her vocal cords as she races to the front door, lifting her snout high in the air to express her displeasure at a late-night houseguest.