“Good. Because I’m not sharing you, and I’m not competing with anyone, and I definitely don’t want you dating anyone besides me.”
I part my lips and am about to say “I’m yours.” But I can’t quite go there yet. Instead, I nod, and say “The next Fashion Hound will be the announcement that I don’t need or want a Trophy Husband anymore.”
“Can I be your trophy boyfriend?”
Boyfriend. There’s that sweet, magical word again. There’s the word that has mattered, the word that I wanted, but I let another word get in the way. Because the truth is I know what I want. I’ve known since way back when I first went trolling for a Trophy Husband on Craigslist. I knew then I wanted a boyfriend, not a husband. Now, I just know who I want that boyfriend to be.
I am all grins, and I’m sure that this is what happy looks like as I say yes.
Chapter Sixteen
I ignore the comments on my Web site asking where’s the footage of my Friday night date with Chris. My viewers all know the date was last night. They were expecting to see how it went. I want to jump for joy in my next video and tell them it went fabulously.
But there will be time for that. For now, I am working on my concession speech. I’m lounging on a deck chair, sunglasses on and Ms. Pac-Man at my feet panting from our tennis ball in the waves session a few minutes ago. I’m trying to find the right mix of humor and contrition. Do I tell my viewers “Sorry, Contest over?” Or do I give a lengthy explanation about my change of heart?
I stare at a blank page on my laptop. I’m not usually at a loss for words. I’m pretty damn fast at whipping out my blogs and assessing outfits with the 1-2-3 snappiness of a sassy cable show host. But when it comes to penning my own truths about the heart? Well, the keyboard might as well be written in a foreign language.
When my phone rings, I am thrilled for the distraction.
Then I see Todd’s name flash across the screen. I would like to ignore him. I really would. But I don’t trust him, and that’s the problem. Untrustworthy people, by their nature, demand attention because they are loose cannons.
“What’s up?” I say in a resigned voice.
Ms. Pac-Man tilts her ears as if she’s listening. I like to think she’s protecting me from him. But then, I don’t think anyone, even if my dog, could have protected me from the damage Todd inflicted with one shot.
“How are you, McKenna?”
“Fine. But you’re not calling to chat, so what is it?”
“I was just thinking,” he begins, and then inserts that pregnant pause that marks all his conversations.
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about how I helped you start The Fashion Hound. Remember?”
When I first came up with the idea for my show, I shared it with Todd and he encouraged me to go for it. He also set up my Web site, bought the domain, and installed my first blog template. He worked in tech PR and he knew his way around the tools of the Internet. I could have done that all myself, but he wanted to help, so I could focus on the writing, and the fashions and finding a talented videographer.
My chest tightens with worry. “Yes. What are you getting at?”
Then I hear a baby cry.
“The baby just woke up from her nap. I’ll call you later.”
He doesn’t call back, and I hate the way I carry my phone around the rest of the afternoon, even as I get ready for another date with Chris. But there was something in Todd’s voice that made me uneasy, and now I have a knot of worry pooling low in my gut. I wish he could leave me alone, so I do a few yoga moves, stretch my neck from side to side, and tell myself everything will be all right.
Then I head to the karaoke bar.
Because tonight, I am with Chris, and I want to only be with Chris. I don’t even want the ghost of my ex infecting this night.
I listen to him adorably bungling his way through Foreigner’s Jukebox Hero in a fetchingly off-key singing voice. He’s wearing jeans and a brown tee-shirt. The design on his shirt is of two ultra-stylized dinosaurs in orange silhouette sparring with each other. I love his taste in clothes.
He sings from the low stage at Gomez Hawks Karaoke Bar, deep in the heart of Japan Town, tucked in a dark corner of the second floor of a mall that’s stuffed with Japanese bookstores, crepe dealers, sushi bars and other assorted Tokyo-flavored shops. Chris finishes his number, does a quick little bow, and bounds off stage to join me at the bar.
“Very nice, Mr. McCormick,” I say, nodding approvingly.
He shrugs. “I have a horrible singing voice.”
“I thought it was cute.”
“Cute blushing, cute singing, pretty lips.”
“Hey! I told you this is all new to me. I’m working on my lines for you.”
“Don’t use lines on me,” he teases.
“So isn’t your sister a Broadway singer or something?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us have her talent. Besides, she has no mechanical aptitude and there’s where I have all my skills.” He cracks his knuckles in a playful way as if to demonstrate his skill with his hands. He does have skill with his hands.
“So when does her show open? Crash the Moon, right?”
“Two more months, I think. I’m going to see it opening night.”
“Well, of course. You have to.”
“I am going to be the one cheering the loudest and longest. Well, all of us will be.” Then he leans his shoulder against mine. “You should come with me.”
“To New York?”
“No. To Istanbul. Yes, New York. That’s where the show is.”
My heart skips a few beats. He’s making plans with me two months from now. “I would love to.”
“Now why don’t you do some cute singing yourself then.” He gestures to the stage.
“I will,” I say, as I toss the list of karaoke songs aside.
Gomez Hawks is a tiny bar, the whole place no bigger than my living room. But it’s low-lit and serves terrific mixed drinks and boasts the biggest and best selection of songs in the city, a list about the size of two New York City phone books put together. That’s why Gomez Hawks is popular and that’s why Chris made a reservation tonight. All the tables are full, all the stools are taken. I begin with a few astronomically off-key “whoa, whoa, whoas” of my own before I launch into the opening lines about Tommy’s work on the docks in Bon Jovi’s anthemic song and karaoke standard.