The Love Coupon Page 4

  She had to hire a corporate wardrobe consultant with her first salary deposit, and spent a bucket load of cash and credit on the right suits and shoes, and elegant dresses for after-hours events. All of which had to be updated regularly, because not being on trend, with the right hair and makeup, was some kind of professional slip-up, a bigger crime than not going to the right school.

  Not something men had to deal with, and goddamn, she resented that. Her credibility was at stake if the cut of her skirt was out of fashion, but a man could wear the same suit every day and no one would notice, let alone think it affected his judgment.

  “You know there was an Australian male newscaster who wore the same blue suit five days a week on air for a year. No one picked it up. Same suit, five days a week, one whole year, millions of viewers. And not one person was bothered about it. But people called the network and complained if they didn’t like the color of his female colleague’s shirt on a single day.”

  “I did not know that,” Tom said. And he said it in a “don’t spook the horses” way, as if he thought this was the beginning of her burnout, the very moment she started to unravel, and it was a good idea not to excite her any further.

  “I need pie.” I need you to back off on the judging. You only think I’m a wildcat because you are a stone wall.

  He went behind the kitchen counter. It might have been to check on the pie, but since he didn’t go to the oven, it had to be to take shelter from the blast radius. She went to the counter and stood there looking precisely like someone who’d never eaten homemade pie.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said, without reading the back of a pack or anything. Impressive. Annoying.

  “I’m not going to burn out.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Fifteen minutes was a long time for two tense people on the verge of an argument to wait for pie and not speak.

  Finally, Tom went to the oven and Flick moved across to the kitchen. He took the pie out and set it on the counter. It was golden and puffy, the top of it crosshatched so you could see the yellow of the peaches. They looked almost liquid. Drool gathered in the corners of her mouth.

  “This has to cool,” he said.

  “I shouldn’t have said the thing about the rails.”

  “But you believe it.”

  She nodded. Two tense people backing off cautiously. “And you believe I’m a fire hazard. I’ve got lots of energy. Always. I don’t need much sleep. Multitasking is my jam. Make me do one thing for too long and I’m tearing out my hair. But all you can see is that I’m undisciplined and inefficient.”

  “You want me to lie with your pie?”

  “No, I want it not to be weird between us.”

  “Tell me you sleep in pajamas.”

  “T-shirt and panties as a concession to being here, in case I sleepwalk.”

  His brows went up. “You sleepwalk?”

  “I’m not technically asleep when I do it. I might visit the fridge in the middle of the night and I’d forget not to do it naked, so the makeshift PJs are about not wanting to flash my landlord should he also decide he needs a glass of milk at three in the morning. Also, while we’re talking about nakedness—”

  “We’re not talking about nakedness.” He looked her right in the eyes as if he was doing some secret military industrial-complex mind-control shit, and he wanted her to forget they were talking about sleeping naked.

  “I’m not terrible in bed. There’s a drought, but that doesn’t presume any correlation with my suckiness in the sack.”

  “I didn’t say you were terrible in bed.”

  “You implied it.”

  “You’re a nun. I didn’t imply anything. That would be sacrilegious.”

  “You don’t sleep naked, do you?”

  “Maybe we could make this not weird some other way.”

  “Like trade our Tinder profile info.”

  “Like eat pie.” He went to the freezer. “Ice cream?”

  It was vanilla bean, some designer brand. “Sure.”

  He moved about getting plates and fancy cake forks out of their places while she sat on the stool she’d used earlier.

  “My Tinder tagline says ‘older-than-she-looks professional woman seeks hostile man for mutual psychological torture, rough sex, sleeping together naked, potential codependency and certain heartbreak.’”

  He didn’t look up. “It does not.”

  “It says everything except the rough sex part. That’s for negotiating later.”

  “And your picture is you with your tits out.”

  She laughed, because he looked up and his face colored. “Now who’s not talking about nakedness?” He had a Tinder profile, she was sure of it. “It’s a selfie taken in a club—it’s too dark. I’m making a peace sign. There’s two people behind me sucking face. It’s terrible. I wasn’t trying. Haven’t gone on there in forever. My bio really says ‘probably don’t bother.’”

  “You have a bad photo and a crappy tag. That makes no sense.”

  “Had no incentive to get into dating. I knew I wanted to be in New York or Washington. But I like sex, so Tinder seemed perfect, except not, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You called me a ghost. You thought I ghosted you, that’s an online dating reference, and since you like things uncomplicated I figure you have a Tinder profile. No shirtless pic. No image-softening animals. You’re wearing shades. No, I know, it’s an action shot. You’re riding a mechanical bull and your tagline says, ‘I’m Thomas, and I cuddle at the level that should require a subscription.’ No, wait, no, it’s ‘treat you like a Disney princess on the streets and a porn princess between the sheets.’ Or, or, ‘whenever I meet a pretty girl, the first thing I look for is intelligence, because if she doesn’t have that, she’s mine.’”

  Not even a snicker. He took a cake server from the drawer and cut into the pie, plated two huge slices then spooned ice cream on them. “It’s ‘pizza is my second favorite thing to eat in bed.’”

  She near head-banged the countertop she laughed so hard. She’d given up on thinking he’d react. And he would never eat pizza in bed.

  He pushed a plate toward her. “You think you’re the only one who can go for the shock-and-awe lines?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, he cooks, he critiques, he slams down the one-liners.” She made spirit-finger hands and the haaah sound of a crowd cheering.

  “Eat your damn pie.”

  She ate the pie and it was a kind of bliss in her mouth that made her want to fall in like with Tom. The guy had a special place to put the TV remote, so the chances of that happening were snowball-meet-hell.

  Some other guy strumming a guitar was singing about shooting up and not knowing who he was. It was the story of their evening. “Who is that?” she said, hoping to distract Tom while she licked her plate.

  “Velvet Underground.”

  “Is the song called ‘I’m Trying to Kill Myself’?”

  “Close enough. ‘Heroin.’”

  “Dude is probably on Tinder.”

  “Lou Reed. He’s dead.”

  “Too much heroin?”

  “He walked on the wild side. Liver disease, so maybe.”

  “This is an excellent pie.”

  “You licked the plate, you’re a heathen. You can have another piece.”

  She sucked on her fork. There was half a pie left, but she’d pop if she ate any more now. “What’s going to happen to it?” Leftover pie, it was unheard of in her life.

  “It’ll keep.”

  “Are you saying I could have another piece tomorrow?”

  “No, I was saying it will keep.”

  He was so, so, so deliberately provocative. “Are you really on Tinder?”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m asking
the questions.” He deserved that.

  He knew it too. He groaned. “I’m on it. It’s a hiking shot, lots of scenery and a little of me. I go by TC.”

  And she deserved that. Finally, something about him that wasn’t polished. “Tom Cat?” Typical.

  “Oh God, no. Top Cat. My mom used to call me that.” He passed a hand over his face. “I need to quit the app. I never look at it. Josh set it up so we could compare Tinder and Grindr. He was into all of them for a laugh. Scruff, Growlr, Recon, Daddyhunt, Guyspy.”

  Impressive knowledge of dating apps. “I hooked up with it once. It was awful. I mean, it wasn’t dangerous, just made me sad.”

  “I failed to hook up with it twice. Got stood up once and did the standing up once.”

  “Disaster. We should have a ritual app deletion ceremony.” Yeah, if they were fifteen-year-olds. The pie had gone to her head.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Oh.

  Tom walked past her on his way to his room. She went after him to hers. They were doing it. Back in the living room, phones in hand, she said, “We’re saying goodbye to the meat market of casual, meaningless, demoralizing sex. We’ll have to scratch the itch another way.”

  “We’re quitting a service that drives social isolation by replacing sustained intimacy with single-instance, shallow encounters.”

  “You’ve thought about this. That’s very good.”

  “It’s Hillary Preston, professor of behavioral sciences at UCLA School of Medicine. She calls it cupcake socialization. Cupcakes are ubiquitous but unique, simple and desirable, calorie-laden, habit-forming reward schemes. A diet of them is bad for you.”

  “Go, Hillary.” She lowered her chin. “You stood someone up.”

  “She was a kid. Way too young.”

  “She might’ve been me.”

  “I wouldn’t have stood you up.”

  Ah.

  Awkward.

  Maybe he didn’t think she was a lousy lay. She tugged at her top. “You weren’t judging my dress casuals earlier.”

  “I reacted to seeing you look so different.”

  “Not that I mind. This is your home. I’m just passing through.”

  “I’m not judging.”

  “I’m not going to explode or backfire, or have a meltdown. You can trust me. I’m happy with where my life is. I wouldn’t change a thing right now. Except I’d already be in Washington.” And the bank of Flick would be closed for everyday business.

  “You can have the rest of that pie.”

  “You’re a good man, Tom O’Connell.” Stiff and particular, and in need of messing with, but a decent person. “Do you miss Josh?”

  “I do. Easiest, closest friend I ever made.”

  Look at the two of them. Many talking. Much relationship. Who needed thirty-six questions designed to create intimacy like Jack and Derelie? They had honest distrust, mutual necessity and grudging sexual awareness. “Are you gay, bi? I never thought to ask.”

  “No—” he looked at the ceiling “—but I run on tight rails.”

  “You can’t dispute it.”

  His eyes came back to hers. “They’re my rails and they got me to where I am. Living the way I do works for me. I’m happy with my life. I’m one promotion away from it being perfect.”

  She brandished her phone. “Then what are we waiting for? Giving up on cupcake. Pie all the way. Deleting on three.”

  “One.”

  “Two.”

  They deleted on three.

  Flick got her pie and she got to tease a cupcake too.

  Chapter Five

  Week two of living with Flick was less weird than week one. She still left for work earlier than Tom and came home earlier, but he heard her about the place: trying to close the door softly and mostly failing, going out late to the gym, having a heart-to-heart with his Keurig machine, taking an involved work call on the balcony, walking into the coffee table and swearing up a blue streak. She did that twice. Her shins would be paying for it.

  She also left a trail of evidence of her existence. A hair tie on the kitchen counter, earrings on the hall table, a pair of running shoes by the door. Her satchel took up residence in the living room and there was often a scarf draped over a stool back.

  The items appeared and disappeared about the place with bewildering frequency. He tolerated it. Flick had the larger of the two bedrooms and the attached bathroom and only those two suitcases of possessions. Was it that women had more things than men? Was it just that Flick’s things were an extension of her personality and needed room to expand around the fairground of her life?

  One morning, he found a banana-curved metal prong on the kitchen counter. Six inches, ends sculptured to a point. He had no idea what it was. Goddamn hoped it wasn’t a sex toy, because if it was, he couldn’t imagine what you did with it. It was gone when he got home that night.

  Every day was an exercise in wondering what he’d find. The day he found a bra hanging over a lamp was the day they’d have words.

  They also had words on Thursday night, though technically it was Friday morning, the witching hour of 3 a.m. Tom fumbled to answer his ringing phone, dread in his throat. No one called at this time unless it was an emergency.

  “Are you in your bedroom?” Prank call. He almost hung up. “Don’t go. It’s Flick. I’m locked out on the balcony.”

  “Where are you?” He shook his head, trying to clear the sleep fog.

  “I’m locked out on your balcony.”

  “My balcony?”

  “I didn’t do that thing with the lock like you showed me and I’m stuck out here.”

  He shoved the covers back and swung his feet to the floor. “And this is my problem how?”

  “Don’t be a shit. Come and let me in. It’s cold out here.”

  Cruelly summoned, he padded out to the living room and there on the balcony facing him, silhouetted by the night lights of the city, was Flick in her makeshift pajamas, a tiny sleeveless T-shirt that didn’t meet the edge of the skimpy briefs she wore, her hair wild around her face and shoulders and her arms wrapped around herself.

  He’d have laughed, but she was furious. She was also too much to take wearing so little when he wasn’t properly awake. A shock to his senses, all firm legs and goose bumps, raised nipples and curved hips and belly. He stood on one side of the door and she glared at him from the other as if it was his fault she was stuck out there, so he did laugh, and she threw her hands up and that made it worse, because there was more of her to see.

  He should’ve made it a condition of her stay that she wear flannel men’s-style pajamas that didn’t make him think about how he’d like to warm her up when she went walking about in the middle of the night.

  He slipped the catch on the door and slid it open. “Why did you close it?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you.” She looked over her shoulder toward the city. “It’s louder than you think out here when it’s quiet everywhere else. Sirens and traffic.”

  “And yet, here we are.”

  “It was that or slowly freeze to death.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Thinking.”

  “You come out here in the middle of the night with your phone to think?”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “I’m awake in the middle of the night and that’s a problem.”

  “Are you going to let me in, you big goof?”

  He had to step back out of the doorway to do that. He had to stop his sleep-befuddled brain letting his very awake hand cup her ass as she slid by. He followed that peach-shaped ass across the living room.

  “Stop looking at my ass.”

  “I rescued that ass. I get to look at it.”

  She stopped and turned and he was too close. Her shoulder brushed his ba
re chest. She flipped her hair back and the movement shifted her breasts. He shouldn’t have said what he was thinking. He should’ve stepped the hell back, but he was mesmerized by the shiver that rippled through her and the come-at-me look in her eyes.

  Enter the Gravitron.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” she said. There wasn’t anything sorry about the way she looked at him.

  “Uh-huh.” He’d be sorry later, because getting back to sleep was going to be a problem.

  “You don’t wear proper PJs either.” He looked down to check what he was wearing. Cut-off sweats. He should’ve put a shirt on. “You could’ve rescued me naked and I wouldn’t have cared,” she said.

  It didn’t take a lot to imagine her naked.

  She dropped her eyes to their feet. He hoped that’s what she was looking at. “It won’t happen again.”

  Goddammit if he didn’t want that to be a lie. Her hair skated across his chest as she turned and made for her bedroom. “I’ll cook dinner tonight if you’d like,” he said before she disappeared.

  With most of her body sheltered behind her open bedroom door, she looked over at him. “Can you do tuna casserole?”

  “If that’s what you’d like.”

  She smiled, lopsided and bright. Coy and come-on. He felt it in his gut. “I’d love that.”

  “Seven thirty.” That gave him time to get organized, because until the moment he spoke he’d had no intention of being home early enough to cook.

  “I am sorry I woke you.”

  He was stupidly keyed up about all this. “You need to put your stuff away.” Her satchel was on the countertop, her gym bag by the front door.

  “You’re bothered about my stuff right now?”

  He moved past her to his own door. He was bothered by her, full stop. By the way she looked, by the way she looked at him, by the fact he might be imagining some shared arc of attraction. It was all a sideshow. “Goodnight.”

  She closed her door with a thump, and sixteen hours later when he was layering pasta in a casserole dish in an otherwise Flickless condo while Bowie sang “Space Oddity,” he had every expectation of eating tuna casserole for days.

  Her gym bag was gone from the door and there were no trinkets around the place and if he’d wanted her company he shouldn’t have made a big deal out of nothing.