I stay low on my couch and wait for Ms. Pac-Man to stop. I make a mental note to buy her meat bones tomorrow as a reward for being the best guard dog. She keeps growling and then I hear a familiar voice over her practically lion-like roars.
“McKenna, it’s Andy!”
I hop up from the couch, run downstairs, and open the door. I expect him to be all disheveled, maybe with a cut on his face or something. But he’s normal Andy, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt from Tokyo.
I hold my hands out. “Happy to see you, but what the hell are you doing banging on my door at ten o’clock?”
“Can I come in?”
I gesture for him to enter. He does. I shut the door.
“Diet Coke?”
He nods and follows me into the kitchen. I open the fridge and hand him a cool, cold can. I get one for myself too. He opens his, I open mine, and we stand there, like two gunfighters, caffeinated weapons at our side, waiting to draw.
“You scared the shit out of me. What can I do for you?”
“We have to talk.”
“Okay.”
“Look, I know I’ve been a jerk these last few weeks. But the fact is, I think you’re better than all this Trophy Husband stuff.”
I lean against the counter. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t need a husband. You don’t even need a boyfriend. You’re amazing as is. I love working with you, and I love being your friend, and you’re beautiful and smart and funny, and I hate watching you make a fool of yourself week after week.”
“A fool?” I repeat. “I’m making a fool of myself week after week?”
Andy swallows and nods hard. “Yes, you are.”
I put my hands on my hips. “And just how am I making a fool of myself?”
“Because you don’t even like these guys. I watch the videos you send. I edit them. And I can tell you’re not into them. The only time you ever seem interested is whenever you talk about that Video Game Guy. Chris.”
I blush. It’s as if I’ve been caught.
“So why are you still doing this?”
“Because…” Suddenly the words aren’t coming to me. Suddenly the reasons are escaping me. Suddenly I am trying to tap into my well of anger and I am coming up dry. Maybe I have no more fight left.
“See?” Andy says, softly this time. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t even know why you’re doing this anymore.” He reaches for my Diet Coke and hands it to me. “Take a drink.”
I do as I’m told, enjoying a long, cold, bubbly gulp.
“I’m doing this because I want to show that women can do what men do. I want to even the score. I want to set things right.”
“Right for who?”
“For everyone!”
“McKenna, it’s over with Todd. He doesn’t care what you do. He doesn’t care if you prove him wrong. I doubt Amber cares either.”
“It’s not even about them anymore. I’m just trying to make a point,” I say a little petulantly. As I do, I notice for the first time how ridiculous I sound.
“I just don’t think this is a point worth making. Because this isn’t just a point, McKenna. This is your life. It’s not a game. It’s not a show. It’s your heart. You don’t need a Trophy Husband to prove Todd was a dick for marrying Amber. Todd is a dick and nothing you ever do will disprove that. He will be a dick for time immemorial. He will go to his grave being a dick. The dude committed the ultimate crass and cruel act. But you know what? You don’t have to find a husband on the Internet to prove you are better than a cheating scum! You are better than a cheating scum.”
I run a hand through my hair, holding it tight against my scalp.
“Do you really want to marry JP or Joshua? Do you want to marry someone who wants to be a Trophy Husband? Someone who wants you because it’s a fun game? Because you’re loaded? Do you want someone who wants you for your money or for all that makes you totally f**king rock star fashion hound awesome?”
I don’t answer at first because my instinct is to blow him off. To scoff. To hold up a hand and say whatever. But something about his questions have pierced their way through my Teflon. They’ve hit me inside, where it matters.
I’ve always seen a Trophy Husband as, well, to be honest – sort of like a little pet. Like a little pet I’d keep and feed and water and allow out on certain occasions. Not a person, not a lover, and maybe not even a friend. But that’s what I really want. Someone who wants me for me. Someone who loves me for me. Someone who wants to take a chance on all that I am.
I look back at Andy. His eyes are sharp and focused, with so much passion in them. Passion as a friend. He’s not here as my “employee.” He’s here, late at night, because he’s my friend, and he cares. My throat hitches, because I’m so damn lucky to have friends who knock sense into me late at night. I didn’t know how badly I needed this until he said those words. But I do. I do need this because I’m just doing the same thing I’ve done the last several months. I’m firing bullets at bad guys, when I should be tending to the wounds. Stitching up. Moving on.
“Do you even want a husband? Do you want to be married in a contest?”
“No,” I croak quietly.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“No, Andy. I don’t want to be married, I don’t want a Trophy Husband, I want someone who loves me,” I say, then I cover my eyes with my hand so Andy won’t see that I’m starting to cry. But he can tell anyway, by the way my shoulders are shaking, so he pulls me against him. I bury my face in his tee-shirt. He pets my hair.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay”
“How is this going to be okay? How am I going to get myself out of this? What am I going to tell my girlfriends?”
“They love you, and so do your viewers. We’ll figure it out.”
“I am an idiot. I am a huge idiot.”
“No, but you are the most pig-headed person I know.”
“The most!”
“The absolute and most.”
“The most pig-headed, hot-headed, stubborn person in all of San Francisco.”
He scoffs. “In San Francisco? Try the world, baby”
I step away and reach for a tissue. I blow my nose. “I’ve made a big mess out of my life.”
“Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll figure this out on Monday, okay? Go on that date with the guy you like and we’ll figure this out on Monday.”