Complicated Girl (2 page)

I’m about to start a massively self-indulgent sob session when I feel cat feet on the backs of my legs and then my back.

Muffin has sensed that I need his furry comfort, and begins kneading my back, between my shoulder blades. Of course I am still in deep despair over the disaster that was my almost-date, but one cannot wallow in despair when a loving ginger cat is giving you a compassionate back massage.

He leans forward and gives my earlobe a nip.

“Muffin, I thought you loved me, but you just want tuna, don’t you?”

He purrs louder, and nips my ear again, harder this time.

Cursing him, I get up and walk to the kitchen. The orange cat follows along, trotting on his white-socked feet, a look of pretend surprise on his face.
Oh, you’re going to the kitchen? Oh, you’re opening the fridge? What? There’s tuna in there? In that can? For meeeeee? Well, I suppose if you insist!

I sprinkle his blood pressure medication onto a tablespoon full of low sodium tuna. He’d love the whole can, but it would give him painful gas and irritate his pancreas. Then I’d have to google feline forums and get the cold sweats over cat care disasters.

The powder turns bright green. Opening the capsules with my thumbnail and doing this always reminds me of a Disney witch, happily poisoning children. Sometimes I cackle.

Muffin doesn’t care what I say or how I laugh, as long as I deliver the goods.

Once he’s been taken care of, I give the countertops a wipe down and pull out the canisters to do some baking. I tap the radio on with flour-dusted fingers, and then lose myself in classical music and a divine batch of cinnamon buns.

My unhappiness over what happened with Duncan is still present, but it’s more of a dull ache than a raw hurt. I’m practicing one of the things I learned at group—procrastination. When I think about bad thoughts, I tell myself I’ll just worry about it later.

Meenie, you told Duncan his goatee makes his mouth look like a lady’s privates.

Did I? Oh, well. I’ll worry about that later. I’ve got to put on a fresh shirt for group, because this one’s covered in flour.

Meenie, no man can ever love you.

Really? Is this because—oh, wait. I’d better think about this some other time, when I can truly focus on the issue. I’ll worry about this later. Not now.

I pull into the parking lot for the community center and park my mother’s big Cadillac at the far end, where it won’t get dinged. I like this big car. It makes me look skinny.

I’m already late for the group session, but I have a pan of cinnamon buns, so I’m okay. This group loves my baking. I could probably murder one of them at random, and the others would help me bury the body, if I had cinnamon buns.

I walk down the hallway, past the community bulletin board, and arrive at the door to Room 3C.

Most groups will put a sign on the door saying what the meeting is for. Our coach just tapes a small business card on the door—a business card that is really not that descriptive.

The door to Room 3C opens with a squeak.

Our coach, a pretty blonde named Feather, waves for me to come in. I put the cinnamon buns on the back table, careful to keep the plastic wrap on so the smell isn’t distracting, and I take an empty chair in the circle.

One of the older ladies, the librarian, is sharing the news that things are going well with the widower she’s dating. When she talks, my eyes get leaky. I’m happy for her, finding not one, but two great loves in a lifetime. It gives me hope that maybe if I’m half as decent a person as her, I might get half as lucky. That would be enough.

Feather leads the group like a true professional, offering some comments and asking the group for thoughts before moving to the next person.

Someone raises his hand, and everyone turns with interest.

I turn as well, and for an instant, the chair under me disappears and I feel like I’m falling.

There’s a new guy, and he’s hottt. That’s HOTTT with three T’s.

First of all, he’s wearing a suit. It’s 8:15 on a hot Tuesday night in August, we’re at a community center that’s showing its budget cuts, and the guy is dressed for… I don’t know, the opera? He’s got that fancy pants look to him. Good breeding. Like generations of his ancestors selected their partners based on a points system. I think racehorses are bred that way.

His hair is dark, but not black. He’s around thirty, and if his hairline is receding, it’s at a rate of one follicle per year. His brown eyes look sharp and inquisitive. He glances at me, then looks away almost immediately, as though he figured me out in a microsecond. As I stare at his perfectly-square, thoroughbred-horse-like jawline, I long for him to flick his attention back over to me and linger.

Instead, he says to our group’s coach, “How does this whole thing work? How many sessions does it take for people to fix their problems?”

I hear a collective gasp from the whole group. I can’t help but smirk. Feather tucks her pale, perfectly straight hair behind her ear and licks her lips. She always does that before she rips someone a new butthole.

As she collects her ammunition of words, her pretty earrings swing gently. People always give her feather-themed jewelry, because of her unusual name.

Feather says, with authority, “Andrew—”

“Drew,” he says, cutting her off. He turns on the grin to soften his rudeness. Damn it, the smile works. His teeth are bright and perfect.

“Drew, I’d like to tell you how many sessions it takes before a person solves their problems, but first, you tell me: How many ties should a man own?”

He blinks and pulls his head back, seemingly caught off guard by Feather’s question. His smile becomes a genuine one, a dimple forming in the cheek visible to me.

“As many as he wants,” Drew says. He looks down at his own tie, a simple blue pinstripe. He frowns at the tie, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Exactly,” Feather says.

He keeps looking at the tie, all his seriousness gone.

“I don’t even like this tie,” he says, laughing.

Oh, be still my beating heart. A good-looking man, laughing at himself? Marry me, New Guy Named Drew. Sweep me up in your thoroughbred-horse arms and carry me off to make sweet, sweet—

“Forget the tie,” Feather says. “If you need help with your style, you can schedule one of my assistants for one-on-one personal shopping. Why don’t you share a few words about why you’re here?”

“If I give it up now, I’ll have nothing left for next week,” he says, chuckling.

Feather nods, makes a note in her little notebook, and turns to the person seated next to the librarian, a white-haired lady who’s been part of the group since long before I started. “Let’s hear from you, Abbie. Have you been making progress talking to your sister about your mother’s reluctance to move into a home?”

With the sigh of someone who’s been waiting to be asked, the woman starts talking about her family drama. Well, I shouldn’t say drama. That word implies that someones problem’s aren’t real. Feather doesn’t like us to say
drama
.

I put on my best I’m-listening expression and try to pay attention to Abbie. I’m distracted by Drew, though. He’s also paying attention to Abbie. His well-bred dark brown eyebrows push together in concern. He’s also slowly loosening and removing his tie.

Wow.

Paying attention to a woman talking about her problems, AND undressing at the same time? Be still my… everything. I think I’ve just discovered the equivalent of pornography for women, and it’s this.

I want to sit on Drew’s lap, cradle his head in my hands, and lick every square inch of his face.

What’s happening to me?
Licking his face?
Is this because I didn’t eat dinner, and I can smell the light sweetness wafting over from the cinnamon buns? Why are my boobs feeling so sensitive? This room is warm, but I swear my nipples are hard right now.

For the next hour, I do my best to keep my face pointed at whoever is speaking. My eyes, however, keep darting over to explore every visible part of Drew.

I’m getting the same feelings I get watching Patrick Swayze movies, by which I mean I’m getting some very intimate sensations. Yearning sensations.

Suddenly, it’s my turn to talk. All eyes are on me, including Drew’s.

“I went on a date and it was really bad,” I blurt out.

Everybody is very still. I definitely have their attention, and Drew’s. I want him to like me, and this is my only chance. We get a lot of people who come to the group once and never come back. We call them sightseers. Drew seems like one of those people.

Everyone is waiting, so I keep talking about my awkward date. “The guy was totally rude. Everything happened so fast. One minute we were ordering pizza, and then he was saying he wouldn’t hire me to sweep his floors.”

Drew straightens up in his chair, looking outraged. “Was this during an interview?”

“No. I thought it was a date.”

Drew looks even more outraged than I feel. “Do I need to kick his ass? Just say the word, and I’ll take care of this jerk.”

A flush of warmth like I’ve never experienced before washes over me. “He didn’t threaten me. He was just… mean. He said mean things.”

Drew’s jaw gets even more rugged and sexy as he grits his teeth. “Just say the word, and I’ll give him a little chat.”

I get so warm, I’m in danger of melting into a puddle of goo.

Around the group’s circle, everyone starts talking at once, and Feather has to clap her hands to get everyone’s attention.

She finally gets the group calm, and then we go through and share reactions. Some people tell me I was brave to put myself out there on a date, and I should keep trying.

I barely hear a word that anyone else is saying. Every time I look over at Drew, he’s looking back at me. I’m still thinking about sitting on his lap and licking his whole face.

I don’t know why I’m suddenly such a freak. This kind of instant crush and weird face-licking fetish has never happened to me before, I swear.

I feel the way I did the first time I watched
Dirty Dancing
.

Drew keeps looking at me like he feels it, too.

Yes, this attraction is real, and it’s bigger than both of us.

My insides are fluttering for the second time of the day when the formal part of tonight’s session ends.

We have twelve members present tonight, but they sound like three times as many when they stampede to the back table for refreshments. Everyone dives into the snacks and thermos of half-decaffeinated (or half-caffeinated, if you’re an optimist) coffee.

The cinnamon buns are a hit. As usual, people joke about calling our little group Carbohydrate Lovers Anonymous.

Abbie wields a shining spatula, her big grin taking ten years off her face. “I’m Abbie, and I’m a Carboholic! Oh, Meenie, you spoil us so good.”

The object of my Patrick-Swayze-like affection, Drew, pauses mid-pour of a half-decaf. His brown eyes twinkle as he says to Abbie, “Excuse me, but did you just call this nice girl a
meanie
?”

Abbie excavates cinnamon buns and distributes them on paper plates. “She’s Meenie with two E’s.” She blinks at me, frowning. “Sorry, love, I don’t remember if that’s your real name or a nickname. Is it ethnic? You don’t look ethnic to me, but I don’t see color. I adore everyone. Unlike my sister, who has a problem with the kinds of ethnic people working at the seniors facility.”

Feather interrupts to remind Abbie that we don’t talk about our big issues during the coffee chat. This time is supposed to be for pleasantries only.

After Feather leaves the area, Drew walks right over to me and leans in close. Is he smelling my hair? He’s practically touching his beautiful chiseled cheekbone to mine.

His voice low and rumbling, he murmurs, “Did you hear that? We’d better stick to pleasantries, or we’ll get in trouble.” He leans back and gives me another dimpled grin. “She runs a tight ship.”

“But she is a great coach. You made a good choice coming here. She’ll definitely help you with your issues, which are…”

He gives me a devious look. “You’re trying to get me in trouble.”

I roll my eyes. “I know you’re not here for booze or gambling, because there are dedicated groups down the hall.”