WG2E All-For-Indies Anthologies: Viva La Valentine Edition (12 page)

An avid reader, her favorite authors are
Beverly Jenkins, Eric Jerome Dickey, Lisa Kleypas, J.R. Ward and
Suzanne Brockmann.

A New Jersey native, Brown and her family
relocated to suburban Atlanta, Georgia in 1994, and she now proudly
calls herself a “Georgia peach.”

Her many homes in cyberspace include:

Website:
http://www.chicki663.webs.com
Personal Blog:
http://sisterscribbler.blogspot.com
Twitter:
http://twitter.com/@Chicki663
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/chicki.brown

By Lisa Lim

“There is more to sex appeal than just
measurements. I don’t need a bedroom to prove my womanliness. I can
convey just as much sex appeal, picking apples off a tree or
standing in the rain.”
~ Audrey Hepburn

Sacré bleu!
If Audrey Hepburn were
still alive, she’d blanch!

Keeping half an ear turned to the
conversation transpiring two feet in front of me, I caught some
snippets.

“Sir, what size would you like this negligee
in?” asked a Victoria’s Secret sales girl.

“Oh the size doesn’t matter at all,” replied
the bald man with Buddha tits. “My girlfriend is inflatable!”

The sales girl gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, do
you mean to say that you date a blow up doll?”

“I do, and I’m not afraid to admit it!”
exclaimed the customer, pink with pride. “Blow Up Betty is a cheap
date. Heck, all she requires is a little bit of air and a lot of
love.”

Jenny and I exchanged a
look
, wearing
identical raised eyebrow expressions.

I flicked through the racks and sighed.
“Jenny, I’m not sure I want to go through with this.”

“C’mon, Liv,” she chided. “It’s Valentine’s
day! Don’t afraid to be sexy in the bedroom; I’m positive Ben will
love it.” She handed me a lacy, red teddy. “Here, try this on.”

Humph. That was easy for Jenny to say; with
her hourglass figure, she could look sexy in just about anything.
Whereas I was shaped like a Bartlett pear. Not an Anjou pear, Bosc
pear or an Asian pear. But a Bartlett pear — the King of pears.

“I really don’t think I can pull this off.”
My shoulders slumped. “I mean, I feel self-conscious in a bathing
suit. How on earth am I supposed to feel comfortable in this
strappy, stretchy lace teddy with a thong back and diamond snap
crotch?”

“Trust me.” Jenny nudged me toward the
dressing room. “Ben will be over the moon that you’re making an
effort.”

“But I don’t want to try it on.” I stood my
ground, refusing to budge. “I’m pretty sure it’s a health
hazard.”

“Fine,” Jenny huffed. “Just go pay for
it.”

“Shoot! I’m supposed to be meeting Ben for
lunch.” I glanced furtively at my watch. “In half an hour.”

With the nether garments in hand, I hurried
over to the register. The cashier rang me up and I swiped my Visa
with a sense of foreboding.

Oy vey! I hope I wouldn’t live to regret
this.

• • •

I arrived at The Parthenon Gyros restaurant
right on time but Ben was nowhere in sight. This was not like Ben
at all. He was never late for anything. After sitting and waiting
around for twenty minutes, I ordered a mega gyro and wandered
aimlessly around State Street, treading on campus grounds, trying
to kill some time. I found myself imbued with a sense of nostalgia
for my undergrad days at the UW-Madison, where all I had to do in
life was focus on my studies, hang out with my friends and look
forward to Spring Break. I released a heavy sigh. Those were the
good ol’ days. The life of an academic seemed so … romantic. I
don’t know where I got that from, but the idea of my life’s pursuit
being knowledge for the sake of knowledge just sounded so neat!
Well, the reality wasn’t so romantic. Now I was stuck in a job I
hated, with bills, bills, bills and a hefty student loan to
repay.

Still, I had no regrets; I wouldn’t exchange
my college experience for the world. It was where I’d met Ben. He
was the preppy boy from upstate New York, I was the Granola Gal
from Minnesota and we met and fell in love in a moth-filled
library. We had both worked in the college library over the summer
and embarked on a dorky Dewey Decimal romance.

Ben and I would flirt incessantly whilst
shelving books and shifting periodicals. Surreptitiously, we’d swap
kisses behind rows and rows of books. One night, after we had
closed the library, we did the ‘deed’ on the second floor, rattling
scores of bookshelves in the process. I still burn with shame at
the memory, but we spent that entire summer not worrying about a
thing.

We just lived. And loved.

I vividly remember lounging at the Memorial
Union, enjoying Babcock ice-cream cones. Ben and I would often
chill to live indie bands, staying up all night, watching the sun
come up from the terrace. And we’d wile away the hours at Library
Mall — an open and grassy space, abuzz with people, food and
activities. Food vendors sold Thai and Jamaican food, students
threw Frisbees and played hacky sacks. In my habitual position, my
head resting on Ben’s lap, I’d glorify in the feel of the sun on my
cheeks
,
losing myself in a good book.

Our summer romance turned into a winter
romance. The U-Dub was dubbed the Arctic campus. All winter long,
Lake Mendota stayed frozen, like a sheet of glass and the roads
were filled with gray slush and salt. During those dreary months,
I’d be holed up in my dorm room, snuggled up with Ben.

Soon, without either of us even realizing it,
our romance was no longer determined by the seasons.

We were a couple. Period.

Out of the woodwork, a Granola Gal came
walking toward me, jolting me out of my reverie.

The university had an interesting and
eclectic blend of students. But I was especially intrigued by one
particular species — the Granola Gals. Well because, simply put, I
used to be one of them. They were my peeps. We drank soy lattes and
drifted around in our Birkenstocks, wearing tattered wool socks,
baring our unshaven legs. And although the seventies was a bygone
era, we still shared a strong penchant for tie dyes.

Suffice to say, I was beyond ecstatic when I
spotted a Granola Gal sporting dreadlocks, headed in my
direction.

Whoo Hoo! I almost pumped my fists in the air
with joy.

The Granola Gals are not extinct!

Seconds later, she was standing right in
front of me.

As I stood there, gazing at her dreadlocks, I
caught a whiff of patchouli.

“Excuse me, are you Liv?” she asked.

I grinned stupidly, too dumbstruck to
speak.

“Here,” she said, thrusting a note into my
hand. “Some guy named Ben asked me to give this to you.”

“Thanks,” I replied, blatantly ogling her.
This experience was akin to a close encounter with the third
kind.

In a blink on an eye, Granola Gal spun around
and floated away, in her gray knit socks and
Keen
hiking
sandals. Ah, the footwear has changed with the times.

Slightly dazed, I glanced down and read the
note.

Meet me at the College Library,
You’ll find me here:
823.914
B848p
Love, Ben

OK. Ben wanted me to do the Dewey. I was
game.

Immediately, I went about dissecting the
numbers:

8 = Literature

2 = English literature

3 = English fiction

9 = 1900

1 = 20th century

4 = after 1945

B = my guess was “Beauvoir,” for the simple
fact that Simone de Beauvoir was my favorite author, philosopher
and social theorist. I mean, how could I not love Simone when she
was the one who coined the phrase, “One is not born, but rather
becomes, a woman.”

• • •

I was right. I found Ben on the second floor,
in the back row, leaning heavily against the shelf stacked with
books written by Simone de Beauvoir. As Ben watched me advance on
him, the lazy sweep of his brown eyes made my skin prickle. Even
after years of dating, he still brought butterflies to my
stomach.

With long and quick strides, I was soon
beside him. “Hey.” I smiled.

“Hey.” He smiled back. “You found me.”

“I found you.”

Ben straightened himself, shifted his weight
and cleared his throat. “I’ve got something for you.”

I nibbled my bottom lip. “You do?”

“I do.” He raked his fingers through his dark
hair and paused, as if struggling to find the right words. “When
you realize that you want to spend the rest of your life with
someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as
possible.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Isn’t that
from
When Harry Met Sally
?”

“Nope.” He gave a lopsided grin. “It’s from
When Ben Met Liv
. And I’ve been wanting to do this for a
while …” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a rubber
stamp. Taking my left hand, his voice caught in a husky rasp as he
whispered, “Marry me.” Then he pressed the rubber stamp across my
wrists.

My gaze shifted down to my hands and I
examined those three words:

NOT FOR CIRCULATION

On impulse, I flung my arms around him, and I
didn’t ever want to let go. The sweetness of his gesture nearly
undid me. “You know I’ve been ‘checked out’ of the library since
the day I’d met you.”

Buried in his strong forearms, he murmured in
my hair, “That was long overdue.”

After we reluctantly peeled apart, I
whispered in his ear, “I’ve got a surprise for you at home.”

“Well, I look forward to it.” He pressed a
kiss on top of my forehead. “I’ve got to go back to work now, but
I’ll be home by six.”

• • •

It was pitch-black in my apartment. I’d
turned off all the lights and draped myself seductively across the
damask duvet. Sexy music played softly in the background and I’d
scattered rose petals everywhere. Taking a deep breath, I fluffed
my hair and waited, jittery with anticipation. Then I heard the key
turn in the lock and immediately I panicked. On impulse, I jumped
out of bed and sprinted to the bathroom. As I rounded a corner, I
ran smack dab into a wall, knocking myself out in the process.

When I’d regained consciousness, Ben was in
my face. “Are you OK, Liv?” he asked, and I could hear the concern
in his voice.

“Nurrrggggh,” I grunted.

“Shhhhhh.” Ben pressed a finger to his lips.
“Don’t talk babe. You’ve lost your front tooth.”

“I have?” I asked, licking my bloody lip.

He nodded gravely. “I’m afraid you might have
sustained a concussion too. You were out cold for several
minutes.”

I groaned and rubbed my temples. “My head
feels like it’s about to explode.”

Ben helped me to my feet. “I think it’s best
you get it checked out. I’ll pull the car around while you put on
some clothes.” He dragged his eyes upward toward my face and gave a
playful wink. “Your body looks absolutely sinful in that
contraption.”

I could feel a blush rising in my cheeks, in
my ears and in my throat. I wanted to crawl into the Tora Bora cave
and DIE. Ben handed me a towel, which I gratefully accepted.

After Ben had left the room, I quickly threw
on a pair of jeans and a plain white tee. Then I grabbed my bag,
hoisted it over my shoulder and hurried out the front door.

• • •

The ride to the ER was awkward to say the
least. Eventually, Ben broke the silence. “Um, so where did you get
those unmentionables?”

I giggled. “Unmentionables?”

Ben’s lips curled at one corner. “That’s what
my grandma calls them.”

I sank into the leather seat. “I bought the
lingerie today, at Victoria’s Secret.” I quickly added, “It was
Jenny’s idea. She thought I needed to spice things up for
Valentine’s Day and be sexy and all
that
.”

Ben reached over and squeezed my knee. “Liv,
you don’t need lingerie to make you sexy.” At the stop light, he
cast me a sidelong glance, increasing the pressure on my knee. “I
find you sexy because you have no idea how sexually appealing you
are. You seduce me when you’re wearing my boxer shorts, reading a
book in bed. You seduce me when you’re looking intently at your
laptop, indulging yourself in celebrity gossip. You seduce me in
the morning, when you tumble out of bed, your hair mussed from
sleep.”

The light turned green and Ben eased the gear
shift, keeping his eyes on the road.

I smiled inwardly.

Valentines. Schamalentines.
That
was
better than chocolates and roses.

• • •

We arrived at the ER shortly after. The
doctor introduced himself as Dr. Moshifari andhe asked me how I’d
sustained my head injury.

I clammed up like a Razor clam.

Ben stepped in and explained, “Liz ran into a
wall and passed out.”

Dr. Moshifari stroked his chin. “If you’d
lost consciousness, that would mean you’ve sustained a grade three
concussion, which is pretty severe. Now, I’m going to ask you some
simple questions. Are you ready?”

I folded my hands across my lap. “I’m
ready.”

“Where do you live?”

“I live in America.”

“I need something more specific, Miss Munn,
like your address.”

“Oh.” I concentrated hard. “I-I live in
Madison, Wisconsin.”

Dr. Moshifari fired the next question, “Who
is the president?”

“Herman Cain.” I snorted loudly and added,
“Nine. Nine. Nine.”

Dr. Moshifari turned to Ben and asked, “Has
she been drinking?”

Ben gave a slight shrug. “Not that I’m aware
of.”

After asking me a slew of questions, Dr.
Moshifari recommended a MRI to rule out internal bleeding and other
serious brain injuries.