So there would not be banana pudding, or The Bachelor, or a crossword puzzle with Mama. Nope. I rinsed the razor out under the bathtub’s tap and fully committed, in my mind, to the decision.
“I need your help.” I spoke rapidly into the house phone, my nerves at a level that couldn’t possibly be good for my mental health.
“I knew it!” Ben chirped. “You’re finally taking my advice and taking those waves straight. Please tell me you are spending all that movie star cash and flying me down there to use the straightener myself.”
I paused, my hand on a duffel bag, stuffed in the back of my closet, that I hadn’t used since high school. “No.”
“Shit,” he said glumly. “Needing fashion advice?” His voice took on a more hopeful lilt.
“Sort of…” I yanked at the bag’s handle, and half the items in the closet fell out. “I’m going over to Cole’s house tonight for sex, and I don’t know whether I should pack an overnight bag.”
Total silence. Quite possibly the quietest my adorable little Ben has been all year. “Repeat that?” he finally asked.
“Shut up and help me,” I groaned, pulling a pair of vintage Nikes out of the bag and examining them dubiously.
There was a long pause, then he spoke, “Is this a relationship hookup or just sex? In other words, are there feelings behind this?”
“No. I mean, intense dislike. If you count that as a feeling.”
“Ooh… hate sex.” He sighed dramatically. “I’d give my right nut for hate sex with that man.”
I grimaced. “Focus Ben.”
“Can you leave a bag in the car and grab it if he invited you to stay the night?”
“No.” There was no way on God’s Green Earth that I was driving my truck to Cole’s and leaving it parked out front all evening or—worse—all night long. If I did, every soul in Quincy would hear about our activities by tomorrow morning’s coffee brew.
“Then don’t pack a bag. Stick a toothbrush and change of underwear in your purse. Everything else you can wing until tomorrow.” He paused. “What are you telling Mama Jenkins?”
I laughed. “Mama Jenkins has all but pushed my butt out the door in his direction. She seems to think Cole is her only shot at grandchildren. She found the condoms I bought and threw them in the trash.” I’d been so embarrassed when I’d opened the lid and saw the small gold box. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that condoms did more than stop pregnancy. Instead, I gingerly removed the box, wiped it off, and hid it in my rain boots. Apparently my underwear drawer no longer counted as an acceptable hiding place.
“What happened to virginal vaginas being one of her requisites for marriage?”
I sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off my flip-flops and laughed. “I think she gave up on that scenario when she walked into the house and heard Scott’s hyena orgasm.”
“Who?”
I had forgotten, for a moment, that I hadn’t ever told Ben about Scott. Also forgotten, until right then, about the magazine article. “My ex. Have you been online today?” I hadn’t. Casey had made me swear to stay off all social media and websites. Before I left the Franks’, I read the article. It made me sick, my anticipation of each word giving it extra weight, the worst part being the quotes from local ‘anonymous sources.’ It made me hate every inch of Quincy, their low opinion of me so much harsher when printed in black and white and broadcasted to the entire nation. Don sent me home early, Cole’s head turned my way when I walked out, but I didn’t pause, didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t want to do anything but get into my truck, drive home, and crawl into my bed.
Momma met me at the door, and I didn’t ask why she wasn’t at work. I just dove into her open arms and sobbed. Sobbed like a little girl. She sat with me in bed, handed me tissues, and listened to my incoherent ramblings while rubbing my back. At some point, while her hand smoothed back my hair, I fell asleep. And when I woke up to the smell of chicken and vegetable soup, I wasn’t upset any more. Instead, I was pissed. At Scott, at Bobbie Jo, at Variety Freaking Magazine. I wanted to chop down ten trees, run fifty miles, take my gun to the big oak out back and empty a hundred clips. I wanted to screw and be screwed ten ways from Sunday by Cole Masten, and I wanted it immediately.
I had gone into the kitchen and kissed Momma on the cheek. Had a bite or two of soup, then excused myself into the bathroom. Used two razors and half a can of shaving cream. Stuck my box-o-condoms in my purse and dressed, pulling on the only sexy panties I owned, then a blue Tommy Hilfiger sundress that Ross had had on discount. It was then that I got stuck, my brain catching up with my libido, the simple logistics of the hookup foreign to me. That was when I’d called Ben. Ben, still in Vancouver, hadn’t yet heard my news. Either Canada didn’t give two craps about a no-name actress in Georgia, or he’d been too busy, but either way, I didn’t chase down the subject. Instead, I made excuses and hopped off the call as soon as possible, telling him I’d call him tomorrow.
Ben was right. Me showing up with an overnight bag would be weird. Really weird. As we clearly worked through in the Franks’ dining room—this was not a date. This was for one thing. One thing that I badly needed to work out the funk that was collecting in my system. My earlier thought process had merit. He would be my distraction. An earth-shattering, toe-curling distraction.