Can I See You Again? (14 page)

Sean and Candace sit beside each other across from my desk the next morning. Thankfully, they arrived at the same time, so I didn't have to fill the awkward air space between Sean and me with silly chitchat. I've done an excellent job avoiding his eyes.

“So, Mr. Sean,” Candace says, “looks like you found someone who captured your attention? A dental hygienist, right?”

“Yes, I had a fun conversation with her.”

“Gorgeous girl. Do you plan to see her again?”

“Well, she offered me a free cleaning.” Sean folds his arms over his head and leans against the chair's backrest. “Said she'd show me her instruments, if you know what I mean.”

Oh, give me a break. Nobody says stuff like that. He's just trying to get at me.

“She seems like a great girl,” he says, “but I'm not going to ask her out.”

“You're not?” I say, feeling calmer hearing this.

“Last night I found someone even more captivating.” He moves forward, meeting my eyes.

No, Sean. Please don't bring me into this.

“Really? One of Bree's contacts?”

“She had a hand in it, yes. Bree knows what I like.”

Don't say any more. Not one more word about me. You'll ruin everything.

“So, tell us, what's her name?”

No, don't say it. Please. Don't—

“Sara,” he says.

“Candace, I can explain, I . . . Sara?” I stare at Sean.

“Yes,” he says, “the gallery owner.”

Yes, I
know
who Sara is, thank you very much. But Sara?
Nixon's Sara?

Candace jots a note. “Oh, she's lovely. Tell me what you like about her.”

“She's intelligent and confident, knows how to carry herself in a room. We both love the Bay Area, and she's got a spunky sense of humor.”

Other than a few minutes early in the evening, when did he talk with her? “Sara? Are you sure?”

“Bree, you sound surprised,” Candace says.

“I . . . I . . . just thought he showed more interest in Betty during the evening.” I didn't know he took his eyes off her boobs long enough to engage with anyone else. Actually, that's not true. Sean's not the type to ogle women. I wouldn't have dated him if he were.

“Don't get me wrong,” he says, “Betty is likely one hell of a good time, but, I don't know, Sara's got something. Something interesting.”

What about Nixon? My heart breaks a little for him.

“Do you want to see her again?” Candace asks.

“Absolutely.”

My heart breaks a little for me.

“Sara it is,” Candace says. “Bree, what happens now?”

Knowing there's potential in this match, I force myself to answer with an unemotional, nonquivering voice. “I'll call Sara and see if she's interested. She's seeing someone else, so I can't guarantee she'll be receptive.” Truth is, I have no idea how she'll react. But I toss the barb out because it makes me feel better. “If she says it's okay, I'll pass on her number to um . . . Sean.”

And then I'll throw up.

“Excellent. I can't imagine anyone not interested in you, Sean. Now, Bree, any advice for our man of the hour?”

Wear your green polo that makes you look like a leprechaun. Bore her with one of your drawn-out narratives about 1031 tax implications. And try not to be so damn handsome.

I squash my thoughts and say, “Well, Sean, a few first-date ground rules. No bathing suits. No—”

“Why's that?” Candace asks.

“No woman wants to be seen in a swimming suit on the first date.” Or the hundredth, for that matter. “They shouldn't show off the merchandise too early.”

“Makes sense.”

“Stay away from religion, politics, abortion, or death penalty discussions. And lastly . . . no sex.” I can hardly get the words out, for the image of him naked, tangled between the sheets, skin-to-skin with another woman shoots a rush of heat to my forehead.

“Well, it sounds like love is in the air. On all counts.” Candace winks at me.

“Yes, how is Nick?” Sean asks.

“Great. Really great. So great. Never had anyone better,” I sneer.

“Take care, all; it's going to be a busy week.” Candace gathers her things. “From here on out, I'll meet with Sean privately, keeping tabs on the dates with Sara.”

“I'll walk you out, Candace,” he says. “Can't wait for my date.” And with a wink he's gone.

Andrew tosses me a piece of Ghirardelli salted caramel candy. We save a stash of the treat for moments like this. Or whenever.

I tear open the wrapped square. “Why is he doing this to me?”

“Because he's hurt.”

“So am I.”

“Because he's scum.”

I drop my head into my hands.

“I know things seem bad.”

“Because they
are
bad.”

“Maybe, but you no longer are doing this for just yourself. Grab the bull by the horns and find a lover for your ex-boyfriend.”

I look at him. “That's such a stupid expression. Why would I ever grab a bull by the horns?”

“Call Sara and get it over with. Your popularity has created a hell storm of work. We've got a lot to do.”

“This isn't easy for me, you know.”

“Think it's easy to watch my best friend suffer? I'm furious with Sean for what he did, but wallowing in it just gives him the upper hand.”

“You're right.”

“Another piece of chocolate?”

“Make it two. Okay, three, but no more than four.”

Mr. Chambers's e-mail pops into my inbox, interrupting my pity party. I click it open and skim through the list of requested documents, six total. He includes a recorded acknowledgment from the IRS regarding the hearing date and reminds me the case is set for nine a.m. sharp, the nineteenth.

Sometimes it sucks to be a grown-up.

For Jo, for the book, for the house.

I release a long exhale and dial Sara.

She answers after several rings. “Hello?”

“Hi, Sara. It's Bree.”

“Bree. How are you?”

I'm fine except for the fact that you're dating my fake boyfriend and about to date my real boyfriend . . . er . . . ex-boyfriend.
“Great. How are you?”

“Exhausted from last night. So exhilarated from the evening, I barely slept, recounting the evening over and over in my mind. One of your clients, Sean, bought two pieces for his office.”

“Did he?”

“Not to mention, he's fascinating and funny. Cute, too. Did you know he won a skateboarding competition in eighth grade?”

Did you know he's allergic to strawberries, has a hardened speck of cartilage in his right ear from a closed piercing that I used to fiddle with on long drives, and he gets turned on when I do the splits? “Actually, Sara, Sean's the reason I'm calling.”

“It is?”

“You'll likely think this is crazy, and you don't have to say yes, but Sean's wondering if you'd go out with him.”
Gag.
“I explained that you've just met Nixon and won't be interested, but—”

“Why wouldn't I be interested?”

Because four days ago you were ready to freeze your eggs until Nixon's ready.
“Last time we spoke you seemed excited about Nixon, and—”

“I
am
excited about him. Have you seen Nixon's swagger and my God, that sexy little crevice between his brows when he frowns?”

Yes, actually I have.

“But we've gone on one date and talked only a handful of times. Gosh, would I be a terrible person if I went on a date with Sean?”

Yes.

“Dating two men at once, does that make me a floozy?”

Yes.

“Nixon and I aren't exclusive or anything. Not like you and Nick. I'm loving the article thing, by the way; can't wait for the next one.”

“That reminds me. You may be featured in the paper if you date Sean.”

“Ooh . . . that's even more tempting. My fifteen minutes of fame.” She giggles. “I have to admit, it's kinda fun. I've never had two men interested in me at once.”

“You hardly know Sean. He might be a serial killer.”

“I hardly know Nixon, either. And I don't think you'd sail me down that river twice.”

Ouch.
How could I have forgotten her stint in the police station? “No, of course not, I'm just looking out for my clients. I need to make sure everyone is up front and honest.”

“I understand. I'll have a chat with Nixon, but you said yourself to calm down and take it slow. So that's what I'll do. I'll take it slow . . . with two men.” She laughs.

“Well, I think you should know that Sean hates to play board games. He has no patience.”

And he steals the covers.

“You are thorough. I guess that's why you're so good at what you do. You're truly an expert in love. Thanks, Bree. I really mean that. Just a few weeks ago I came down with a fit of the ‘poor-me's', pretty down for not having someone in my life, worrying that I might never find a man to share my days and nights. And then, out of the blue, you send two charming princes my way and promote my new gallery. Honestly, I
couldn't have asked for a better turn of events.” She laughs. “What a dilemma I'm in now, huh? Having to spend time with two gorgeous men. Listen to me, rattling on like a little girl. I'm just anxious to find the love that you have with Nick.” She gasps. “Hey, I just had a great idea. Maybe someday we can double-date. I'd love to meet your boyfriend.”

“Isn't it illegal to be up this early?”

Nixon and I are stopped behind a long line of brake lights, waiting our turn to enter the dirt parking lot of an expansive rock quarry.

“Are you always cranky in the mornings?”

“Just the ones where I get up before five a.m. and am forced to crawl around on a muddy playground.”

“I think you'll find Tough Mudder is more challenging than recess.”

“Yes, well, don't forget, you're sitting beside the hopscotch champion, second
and
third grade.”

He laughs and waves on two oncoming cars, allowing them to cut in.

Sean never does that. He ignores signals and pleas from other drivers, saying, “It's not my fault they picked the slow lane.”

Nixon pulls into a parking spot, cuts the engine, and pops open the glove box. He scrolls through his phone's messages before hiding it underneath his car manual. “Want to put anything in here?”

“You're not bringing your phone?”

“Nope.”

“Sure you'll survive?” I tuck mine beside his.

“I'm not the one we should be worried about.”

What does that mean?

“C'mon, let's go.”

Shielding the sun with my hand, I step from the car, trying to gain a sense of the craggy dirt course. Several water trucks spray the steep roads carved into the surrounding mountains. Among the mud-bogged terrain lie several sets of barbed-wire-topped trenches to crawl under, five-foot-wide pits to leap over, hay bales stacked ten high to climb over, and floating barrels to swim under. Orange flags flank the windy sharp trail until they are tiny specks and I can't tell if I really see them or not. “How far did you say this course is?”

“Twelve miles.”

Daunting, but doable. I've run half marathons before. There are a few more hills than I'm used to, but it's okay. I'm pumped for the challenge. Plus, all this exercise will justify the cheeseburger, beer, and French fries dipped in ranch dressing that I'm totally eating after the race.

But my confidence dips as we join the swarm of contenders with their scored stomachs, bulging biceps, and larger-than-my-head chiseled thighs.

“Geez. Haven't any of these people ever heard of Easy Cheese and a La-Z-Boy recliner?”

Nixon laughs, handing me my registration packet and paper bib with four safety pins.

We pass underneath the entrance, marked with a fifteen-foot black blow-up arch that screams in bold letters I
O
VE
RCOME
A
LL
F
EARS
.

That's somewhat ominous.

We stash Nixon's keys and our packets in the provided
lockers. I'm fastening the last safety pin to my long-sleeved top when a young woman dressed in an orange Mudder sweatshirt and ball cap asks me my number. I refer to my bib. “26042.”

Before I can say, ‘Hey, what the hell are you doing?' she whips out a king-size Sharpie and scribbles on my forehead.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?”

“It's your number in case your bib falls off,” she says.

13149
is inked on Nixon's arm.

“Next.”

“You look ridiculous,” he says.

I snarl at him.

Nixon and I enter the horseshoe-shaped waiting area encircled with tents, including a first-aid station, a beer garden with “Eye of the Tiger” blaring from the speakers, and a dozen or so T-shirt and souvenir vendors. At the open end is the starting line, designated by another fifteen-foot blow-up arch.

Once again, I
O
VERCOME
A
LL
F
EARS
is splashed across the top.

Boy, they really send that message home. But how hard can the course be?

I follow Nixon toward a tent labeled M
UDDER
A
ID
. He grabs a roll of duct tape.

“So I take it we loop around the mountains, tackle a few obstacles, and end over there?” I point toward the finish line, marked with a third blow-up arch. Must've been a sale.

“Yep.” He props my shoe onto his knee.

“Hey, look monkey bars.” I nod toward a framed structure, one hundred yards out. “And you said this wouldn't be like grade school.”

“Those monkey bars are slimed with grease and spaced about a foot and a half apart. They're built at an incline the first two thirds and if you fall, you splash into a muddy pond below.” Nixon tears off a strip of duct tape with his teeth.

Well, that doesn't sound like the recess I remember.

“Whatever you do, when you get to the Arctic Enema, don't overthink it. Jump right in. Plow right out. You'll get disoriented if you linger too long in the water.”

“What's the Arctic Enema?”

“Let's call it an ice bath.”

“Big deal. Athletes use ice baths all the time.”

“Yeah, but athletes' baths aren't canopied with barbed wire and filled with a dump truck's worth of ice.” Nixon wraps the duct tape around my shoe.

“What are you doing?”

“The mud is thick, some of it waist high. It'll suck your shoe clean off.”

“I know what you're doing.” I prop my other shoe on his knee.

“You should, because I just told you.”

“You're trying to scare me. You're still mad at me for this whole interview thing and you're hoping to rattle me. What are you going to say next, huh? That we run through fire or get electrocuted?”

He lifts his eyebrows and bites off another strip of tape.

“You're not serious?”

“See those wood beams over there, with the dangling yellow wires, what, maybe a few hundred or more?”

“The spaghetti-looking things?”

“Yep. Those wires are live. And they sure as hell don't tickle.” He sets my foot on the ground. “They'll rattle you more than I ever could.”

“Electrocution. You never mentioned that.”

“Didn't I?”

“No. You said heights and water and cramped spaces. I would remember if you mentioned electrocution!” Suddenly
I overcome all fears
makes perfect sense.

“They give you a beer at the end.”

“How can I drink a beer if I'm dead?”

“Are you scared?” he asks.

“Yes. Any sane person would be scared.”

“Relax, it'll be fine.”

It will
not
be fine. Andrew once left a shocking pen on my desk as a joke. I clicked it and got such a jolt, I bit my tongue. Not funny.
Oh, God.

Andrew's right about karma. Good things happen to good people. And shitty things happen to shitty people. One tiny white lie about Nixon being my boyfriend and now I'm going to be electrocuted.

Sweat forms at the nape of my neck. “I can't do this. You win. You don't have to pose as my boyfriend anymore.”

“You're out?”

“I am.”

“What are you going to tell Randi and Candace?”

“I'll figure something out.”

“No time like the present. They're right behind you.”

I spin around and see Candace dressed in trousers and a loose-fitting button-down cream blouse.

Randi prances behind her in skintight jeans, a long black tunic, and knee-high boots.

“Oh, I'm so glad I found you,” Candace says. “This place is a zoo. There must be ten thousand people here.”

“And Mary mother of Joseph, ninety percent of the men are hard-bodied and half naked. Thank the sweet Lord above.” Randi slides off her sunglasses, scoping out a guy dressed in nothing but Superman underwear. His bib is pinned across his ass.

“Ladies.” Nixon dips his head.

“Hi, sugar.” Randi traces the numbers on Nixon's bicep with the arm of her sunglasses.

He steps closer to me.

“Golly, I'm nervous,” Candace says, “I don't know why, I'm not even running. But can you feel the energy here? Now, what am I saying? You two do this sort of thing all the time, surely
you
aren't nervous.”

Terrified. Did you hear? I will get shocked.

A chilly breeze drifts through the air, sending goose bumps along my skin. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering with both nerves and regret from wearing just a thin shirt, sports bra, and black capris, and for agreeing to this whole thing in the first place. Why am I doing this again?
For Jo, for the book, for the house.

“Excuse me, are you Bree Caxton?” A young woman in a black T-shirt and pink short-shorts asks. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail and her race number is inked on her cheek.

“Yes, that's me.”

“God, I can't believe I'm talking to you. I loved that article in the
National Tribune
and I'm following your blog.” She claps her fingertips. “I can't wait to buy your book.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“It's totally cool you're here. This makes me like you even more. Good luck on the course.”

“How nice,” I say, with a smile.

“People love love,” Candace says. “You said so yourself. And people love you. I wonder where Scotty is?” She checks her watch.

“Time to go,” Nixon says.

“Already? Can't we wait another hour or two or forever?”

“Good luck. We'll find you at the finish line,” Randi says.

I'll be the one on the stretcher.

“C'mon.” Nixon grabs my hand, churning a tickle in my stomach with his strong grip.

We join the wave of spandex and tennis shoes funneling
into the starting corral. We're behind six or seven men, all wearing bumblebee-yellow T-shirts with
Mud, Sweat, and Beers
printed on the back. Another group's shirts say,
Does this shirt make my butt look fast?

A tall man with a similar orange Mudder sweatshirt as the Sharpie girl hops onto a center platform and draws our attention. He clicks on his microphone and says, “Are we ready to get started?”

The group responds with cheers and claps.

The announcer says, “All right, y'all. This course is muddy. This course is tough. This course will hurt you.”

Hurt me?

“Can I get a
hoorah
?” he shouts.

“Hoorah!” The crowd cheers.

“This course is not about competition.”

“Hoorah.”

“This course is not about your finish time.”

“Hoorah.”

The crowd bounces in unison. Slight at first, but then it grows into a sea of bobbing heads.

My scar tingles. Mom and Dad would've loved this. I picture Mom stretching her hamstrings, prepping to run, and Dad snapping photos of her and the course.

Candace is right, there's a dynamism floating among the contenders. You can feel the vigor, the excitement.

I find myself joining the dance.

“This course is twelve miles of utter hell designed by British special forces.”

I stop bouncing.
Utter hell? Special forces?

“Hoorah.”

“Tough Mudder is not a race but a challenge. And we run this race in honor of our military.”

“Hoorah.”

“We dig deep for the sacrifices they've made for you and me and our country.”

“Hoorah.”

“When you're facedown in the mud, certain you can't scale another wall or run another mile, I want you to think about what our military men and women are fighting for. They find the will, so you find the will. They find the grit, so you find the grit. They find the strength, so you find the strength.”

“Hoorah.”

Okay, now I'm excited.

“All right, y'all, take a look at the person on your left, on your right, and pat them on the back.”

Nixon pats my back. “Ready, Breester?”

You know, I am. My body is twitching with energy. I'm pumped. This will be fun. An adventure, to say the least. Plus, this might be good for book sales. Lots of people become famous after they're dead.

I can do this.
For Jo, for the book, for the house.
I will do this.
For Jo, for the book, for the house.
With a smack across Nixon's back, I say, “Don't cry when I beat you across the finish line.”

“You think so, huh?”

“Ten-nine-eight-seven . . .” The announcer counts down.

The flare gun fires and we're off, running up the first hill.

Though I'm certain Nixon's pace is faster than mine, he strides close. Side by side we run up and down miles of hills, belly-crawl through rocky, muddy trenches, scale . . .
and tremble . . .
over crazy-tall A-framed ladders, trudge . . .
and tremble . . .
through the freezing-ass-cold ice bath, inch hand-over-hand along wiggly suspended ropes, and plod through ponds and ponds of waist-high mud.

“You good?” Nixon asks.

“I'm good.”

Two hours later, after we've trekked, climbed, and swum,
I'm tired and grateful for each passing mile and completed hurdle, knowing the end is near. All along the course, I'm inspired by the difficulty and the camaraderie, people pushing themselves, cheering one another on. But my nerves snarl into a knot when the electrified spaghetti noodles dangle in front of me.

“I can't do this.”

“Sure you can,” Nixon says, pointing through the cables to the end. “It's the last obstacle.”

The finish line arch reads I
O
VERCAME
A
LL
F
EARS
.

Another runner bellows like Tarzan and charges into the wires. Ten feet in, he drops to the ground, clutches his thigh, and groans.

“I'm gonna throw up.”

“No, you're not,” says Nixon. “That guy's a wuss. Besides, not all wires are live.”

“They aren't? How can you tell?”

“You can't, but look, they're spaced twelve inches apart. Snake your way through.” Nixon waves me into certain death.

“If I die, I'm going to be super pissed at you.”