44 Chapters About 4 Men (34 page)

In my mind, I’d always fantasized about seeing my name broadcast to the world in an old school heart and banner, but in a moment of inspiration, I’d decided to go with a traditional compass rose, the only tattoo motif Ken had ever admitted to liking. Only, on this compass, instead of the letters
N
,
S
,
E
, and
W
, every direction was labeled with a tiny
B
.

Because where Ken goes, I go.

It was exquisite. It was masculine. It was Ken. And most importantly, it was me.

Peeking up at Ken through my lashes, I held my breath, crossed my fingers, and waited, every muscle tensed, for his reaction. Ken removed his hand from mine just long enough to turn it toward himself and assess the damage.

Oh God, please like it. Please, please like it. Look! I didn’t even draw a heart! It’s a compass, just like you wanted! See how selfless I am? It’s like I was channeling Gandhi!

Ken raised one eyebrow, followed by the opposite corner of his beautifully chiseled mouth. I couldn’t tell for sure if he actually liked what he saw or was simply amused by it.

Without saying a word, Ken gently placed his hand back in mine and let his default mask of detachment slide back into place. With his left hand, he picked my phone up from the nightstand and offered it to me, finally looking me in the eyes but giving nothing away.

Hypnotized by Ken’s guarded stare, I slowly accepted the phone.

Confused, I asked, “Wh-what’s this for? Do you want me to call the tattoo parlor?”

Ken’s face softened a bit, but there was a smart-ass twinkle in his eye that told me I wasn’t going to like what came next.

“No. I just thought you might want to take a picture of it before I wash it off. I’m not getting a tattoo on the back of my hand, crazy. I have a meeting with the CFO in six hours.”

No.

No?

I stared at my husband like a moron with my mouth open in disbelief that he’d had the balls to pull a mindfuck like that and also in disbelief that I hadn’t erupted into a full-on nuclear meltdown after being told
no
.

All only children, myself included, are classically conditioned by their parents from birth to pitch a motherfucking fit whenever someone tells them
no
.

All
no
really means is,
I would like to hear you scream and cry and berate and guilt-trip me about whatever it is that you want in a loud, glass-breakingly shrill pitch for approximately five to ten minutes until I am satisfied that you really, really want it. Then, I will I give it to you. Ready? Go!

So, why wasn’t I upset? Or at least pretending to be upset?

I know I heard it. That little
no
bounced around in my skull like a racquetball while I stared, unblinking, into those obstinate aqua eyes, but my brain simply would not or could not process the meaning behind it.

I tried repeating it in my head with different emphases, in different languages.

No?

NO?

Nope?

Nein?

Nyet?

Naheen
?

No way?

But still nothing.

Had I actually suffered a full-blown nervous breakdown earlier, and now, I was completely detached from reality? Was I having a stroke? Was this what Wernicke’s aphasia felt like?

Perhaps my refusal to comprehend was just a psychological defense mechanism, trying to protect me from the anguish of having my hopes and dreams crushed twice in the same night.

Then, it hit me.

As much as I loathed the word
no
, I had equal and opposite feelings about pet names. My brain wasn’t broken. It was simply caught in a tug-of-war between two tiny little words, both fighting to gain control over my next emotional response.

In the red corner, foaming at the mouth and having his shoulders massaged by Satan himself, was the word
No
, the ugliest word ever invented. The word that makes me want to drop to my knees the instant I hear it, only so that my fist will make better contact with the naysayer’s genitals.

It’s too bad Ken went and paid all that money for a vasectomy…because if No wins this battle, he might be getting another one for free—from my foot.

In the blue corner, flitting around like a drunken hummingbird and laughing at nothing in particular, was the word
Crazy
. Although I’d heard Ken use this pet name to refer to me once before, he had been half-asleep, and I had only been half-paying attention, so I hadn’t really gotten the full effect. This time, I had been close enough to see Ken’s pupils dilate fractionally, and I’d watched his sculptured lips part as he exhaled the word,
crazy
, like he was blowing me a kiss. If Crazy won the battle over my emotional response, one of those lips was going to be between my teeth in no time.

Ken and I sustained our silent staring contest for a few seconds, both waiting to see which way my vicious internal struggle was going to go.

When the dust finally settled, I was pleasantly surprised (as was Ken, I’m sure) to find that, instead of being overcome by the desire to head-butt him in the nose, I was overtaken by a warm, fuzzy flirtatious little tingle. It was the kind you got when a boy you really, really liked touched your hand for the first time or locked eyes with you from across a classroom and smiled or batted his espresso-colored eyelashes at you and teased you about something he secretly liked.

Maybe my subconscious decided that it had mourned the death of my tattoo dream enough for one night and was ready to celebrate the achievement of another. Kenneth Easton, man of my dreams, called me something other than Brooke, while fully conscious.

Heart swell!

As soon as my mental master of ceremonies held Crazy’s little hand up in victory, I grabbed the front of Ken’s dress shirt in both fists and pulled him down with me as I tumbled backward into bed.

There I was treated to another of my recent accomplishments—Ken’s newfound libido.

That’s when I finally realized just how far Ken had come. I’d been spending so much time focusing on the objectives that I hadn’t yet accomplished that I’d failed to fully appreciate the magnitude of Ken’s transformation. In ten months, my husband had gone from a frigid old husbot whose idea of a date night involved curling up on his side of the couch to sleep through a Redbox movie (but only if they’d emailed him a coupon code because a dollar forty is evidently too much to pay for a cinematic experience), to a confident, insatiable sex panther who shells out hundreds of dollars for front-row concert tickets and meals (plural, as in, he no longer insists that we share an entrée to save money) at
non
-chain restaurants before pounding me into oblivion for dessert.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Ken had also tossed me a few compliments here and there as well!

God, I felt like such an asshole. I hadn’t even noticed!

Before the Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever, Ken’s compliments were only those that had been elicited under threat of dismemberment. But lately there had been a handful of times where Ken actually said something unshitty about
me
—not my cooking or my ability to change a diaper, one-handed, but about
me
.

For example, after getting ready for one of our dates last month, Ken did manage to squeak out a little, “You look nice,” without me having to pout or resort to ultimatums or
anything
.

At the time, I’d just assumed he was only saying it because he knew he’d have a royal bitch on his hands if he didn’t, but Ken had never even preemptively complimented me before, so it was still progress.

As I lay there, watching the hunky human Ken doll I shared a bed with disappear between my legs, his hand—still bearing my ink—splayed across my stomach, I finally felt accomplished. In less than a year, I’d pulled off three of my four objectives. Like water from a rock, I’d managed to squeeze some seriously passionate sex, a few compliments, and even a pet name out of Kenneth “Husbot” Easton, using nothing more than my computer, some well-channeled angst, and my ability to function in what medical science refers to as a “chronic sleep-restricted state.” Maybe I’m not such a bad psychologist after all.

I might never get everything I want out of this motherfucker—mostly because he has oppositional defiant disorder, but also because, on some sick level, I think I like it. Maybe it stems from being raised by two peace-loving hippies who usually folded under the strength of my will like a slobbery joint that had been passed around one too many times at a Doobie Brothers concert. Maybe I just want to be challenged. I have always gravitated toward challenging men, challenging educational pursuits, challenging cars (I still drive a Mustang even though my high heels always get caught on the floor mat when I shift and my kids have to sit with their knees pulled up to their chests in the glorified cubby hole behind the front seats.), and even physical challenges (my past anorexia, my current level of sleep deprivation, genital piercings, anal sex, natural child birth, the list goes on).

Or maybe (and most likely) I’m just so spoiled that
not
getting my way simply isn’t an option.

When faced with a challenge, I become obsessed with finding chinks in its armor and new angles to come at it until I eventually wear my ultimate goal down and make it my bitch.

Just look at the extreme lengths I went to in order to get Lance Hightower’s attention in high school. I worked my fingers to the bone covering everything I owned in tiny patches and studs, clomping around in knee-high socks and forty-pound steel-toed boots, even in the cruelest of summers. I pretended to like and learned every lyric to at least four thousand IQ-depleting punk songs. I shaved ninety-five percent of my head.

Thank God Lance and Brian were busted playing Hide the Salami when they were, or I might very well have died from some horrible back-alley boob job complication (which was going to be my next attempt to earn his affection) before I was even old enough to drive.

Given my track record of tenacity, this is probably not the end, Little Guy. Though my Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever might be closed for good, if I know me, this is most likely just the first in a series of immoral psychological experiments that I will subject my husband to in the name of trying to get him to express his love for me. And if I know Ken, he will probably continue to ration his affection and approval for the rest of his life just to keep me on the hook.

And as much as I hate to admit it, it will be fun. Ken might even laugh. I will most likely throw things. And we will do this little dance until we’re dead. At which point, I will probably scour the multiverse over until I find that motherfucker again, just so that we can dance some more.

Dear Journal,

If you took all the eyeballs from all the men I’ve written about in here and plopped them down on the table, some would be bloodshot, some might have overly dilated pupils from years of club drug abuse, and I imagine at least one pair would be stained yellow from Hep C by now (ahem, Ding-Dong), but all of them would have blue irises.