Let It Go (14 page)

Savannah’s body stiffens, not yet finished with their conversation as her hand, subliminal in its action, dotes tenderly on
Thor.
“But…” she begins her rebuttal, intent on getting it figured out.

“Let it go,”
Brody replies, his voice as warm and soothing as fine whiskey, covering her with his glorious frame. Savannah accommodates his advance, eagerly and equally matching his desire.
Number five—gives as good as she gets,
Brody rehearses to himself, another check mark mindfully employed on his list of ‘must-haves.’

Chapter Ten

The next morning at the
Savannah Sun Times,
Tami Lynn races to her cubicle, her hands juggling two piping hot lattes among other office accoutrement. The clock striking eight, she lets out a heavy sigh, lobbing herself into her chair.

“Made it. By the hair of my chinny chin chin,” Tami Lynn sings, scooting a latte in Savannah’s direction.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Savannah says, her fingers flying away on her keyboard mid-thought.

“Let me guess, you’ve been here since sunup,” Tami Lynn chimes, suspecting another energizing
sleepover
with gym boy.

“Yep.” Savannah smiles, solidifying Tami Lynn’s suspicions. “I’m working on a proposal for Willow. For a nonfiction book.”

“You should pitch it to other publishers, too,” Tami Lynn encourages, knowing Willodean has turned down every other proposal Savannah has bid to her. “Willodean Abernathy is not the be-all end-all. Even though she takes great pleasure in thinking such,” Tami Lynn adds snarkily.

“‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, again.’” Savannah partakes of her latte, quite happy with its sugary zing on her palate.

“Did you know
The Courier
pays their typographers three grand more per year than
The Times?”
Tami Lynn readies her work station. “I submitted my application yesterday.”

Savannah spins her office chair around. “No. You can’t leave. We’ve been cubicle mates for five years. I really like you, Tami Lynn.”

“Come with me. Bet they pay their writers more, too,” she entices. “It’s either that or get stuck with Scary Larry.” Tami Lynn grimaces, peeking up over their cubicle at the far-off square, housing a lone
Scary Larry.

Savannah joins in Tami Lynn’s Peeping Tom detective work. Scary Larry mumbles to himself, his pencil drawn and displayed as a sword in his grip, taking turns pummeling
Dungeons & Dragons
trolls that line his desktop. The two women look to one another, their faces drawn and perplexed, slowly retreating to the solace of their cubicle.

“We all have our vices,” Savannah excuses.

“So what are you proposing this time?” Tami Lynn leans in toward her computer, reading from the screen,
“Jungle Love: Embrace Biology. Logic Be Damned.”

“Just a working title,” Savannah says. “I’ve been interviewing psychologists. And other medical professionals. On love. You know, how we perceive love, affection, all of those gushy feelings. It’s fascinating, really, how much attraction is not about love or logic at all. If we’d get out of biology’s way, we’d be better for it.” Savannah continues typing along.

“Oh boy,” Tami Lynn sighs. “Gym boy’s really flipped your lid, hasn’t he?”

“No.” Savannah smiles. “I was looking into this long before I spent the night with
gym boy,”
her voice purrs at his moniker, flashbacks of last night effectively rousing her biology. “When Jack and I started having problems, it got me to thinking,” she prefaces. “I mean, I followed all the rules. I allowed him to chase me. Waited until we were strictly monogamous to have sex with him. Didn’t talk about past relationships. Didn’t talk about a future until it was time to have the big
relationship
talk. I made all the right moves, theoretically, in landing my ideal man.”

“And where did that get you? Divorced,” Tami Lynn finishes Savannah’s thought, a tradition the two of them engage in often. Having worked together for some time, the women likely share the same menstrual cycle.

“Exactly,” Savannah confirms, disappointed. “If finding a mate is all about waist-to-hip ratio, facial symmetry and scent, subconsciously, as reported by scientists, then why are we wasting our time with reason and logic and pre-marriage questionnaires?” Savannah’s voice rises with the revelation.

Tami Lynn shrugs, appreciating the hypothesis, hopeful that finding a mate could be that simple.

“Did you know that primates, female monkeys…their
bums
turn red…signifying to males that they’re ready for action,” Savannah whispers, her eyes as big as flying saucers at such a direct, non-wooing required approach.

“I think we come equipped with the same shading factor. It simply displays itself on our face rather than our ass.” Tami Lynn laughs. “Think about it. First time gym boy ever talked to you, did you blush?”

Savannah smirks. “Probably.”

“See. There you go!”

“Stifle your cackling, hens,” Sam McDonald warns, turning the corner to their cubicle. “Willodean is in a mood today.” He flits his eyebrows, his hand making a cat scratching motion.

“Funny you should mention
hens.”
Savannah giggles, pointing to her proposal.

Sam reads, derisively, from her computer screen, “‘Research suggests women are highly attracted to men with masculine characteristics―a squared jaw and well-defined brow.’” Sam comments approvingly, “Sounds like we’re all on the same page.” Continuing on with her proposal, he deciphers speedily, “‘Although women may find them fun and arousing, most suitable for flings and adventuresome sex, they do not mate with these types for the long-term. Akin to the
banty rooster,
this type of man is thought to service multiple
hens.’”
Sam cackles, his willful induction into the femininely fowl category. “‘Instead, the nesting woman opts for men with gentler features―rounder faces and fuller lips. Akin to the
guinea rooster,
this type of man mates with one
hen
for life. These men appear safe, loyal, in it for the long haul. These are the men that women mate and start families with.’” Sam pauses, his biological sniffer detecting a most pressing peacock—or peahen, rather—one Willodean Abernathy. “I’ll be back. I have sooo much to say about this.” Sam scurries from the vicinity.

Savannah and Tami Lynn giggle quietly as they watch him flee, happy to have enticed him for a later return. Busying themselves in front of their computers, they continue talking in a low voice, backs to one another, easily multitasking work and play.

“You know what, I’d read that book, Savannah,” Tami Lynn encourages, knowing her cubicle mate’s true desire as a writer, the true desire of any writer, is to sign her first book deal.

“Cool!” Savannah remarks. “I’ve got a lot more work to do in putting it together. I wanted to talk to you about fonts and stuff, too.”

“I’m in,” Tami Lynn quickly confirms. “We could use Jungle font.” Savannah laughs. “There really is such a thing.” Tami Lynn expeditiously opens up her font application, scanning the styles.

“It’s pretty cool, really, all of the subliminal messages we send and receive in selecting mates,” Savannah comments. “You think maybe if we become more aware of or in tune with those things, we’d make better choices in the relationship department?”

“We come equipped with that. I believe they call it gut reaction.” Tami Lynn navigates through electronic documents with ease and precision, habitual operation making it second nature to her. “Although its distribution is highly inconsistent. Must be why we’re the
pickers…
women’s intuition,” she crows proudly.

“Yeah. Science has an explanation for that, too,” Savannah begins her explanation. “In the jungle, males prance around exhibiting their
goods.
While females sit back, coyly observing before offering themselves up to the most fitting male. Usually the alpha. The best hunter-gatherer. Guess she figures he offers good DNA, security and survival for her offspring.” Savannah indulges in her latte, contemplating. “I never really thought about children with Jack. You know, that thing women talk about, the want and need to have their partner’s babies. You think that’s why it didn’t work?”

“Maybe you just weren’t there yet.” Tami Lynn shrugs. “We want different things in our twenties than we do in our thirties.”

“So then, what you’re saying is, maybe we shouldn’t look at mating over the lifetime, but in seasons…decades? The tides shifting, gauged by our needs and desires as we evolve?”

“Maybe.” Tami Lynn’s fingers pause on her keyboard, momentarily. “If that’s the case, then that blows happily ever after right out of the water.” Returning to her typing, she continues, “Or, maybe it’s happily ever after, for right now. That certainly explains divorce rates.”

“If it’s evolution we’re talking about, that works in our favor,” Savannah speaks of women. “We’re usually the curious ones, intent on listening to our inner selves, shifting and changing to meet goals and ideals. Right?” Her mind wandering to Jack, her empathy kicks in. “Where does that leave men? The
lesser of the
evolved
species.” She thinks about Jack’s complacency, his routine and contentment with life as it was, even if he wasn’t particularly happy with it, still resistant to change, evolution. “Out in the cold?”

“Well. I guess you can feel sorry for them. Or,” Tami Lynn emphasizes, “require them to evolve with you. Funny how men love the challenge. The thrill of the hunt. Yet, once they conquer, that warrior spirit dwindles, huh?”

“Maybe we think too much.” Savannah chuckles. “And maybe I need to get a new column. Quit overthinking relationships and crap. Wish I liked politics. I hear they need a new political journalist.”

“Maybe you just need to go see gym boy again. Bet he could take your mind off the frivolous,” Tami Lynn challenges.

“I bet he could.” Savannah smiles. “Although, my research suggests even casual sex can result in the desire to form a long-term relationship. Damn oxytocin,” Savannah mumbles.

“What? How do I spell that?” Tami Lynn’s fingers prep on her keyboard, fully prepared to Google the term.

“Oxytocin. Men and women release it during orgasm. It’s responsible for feelings of attachment. So the theory goes, the more sex ending in mutual orgasms that a man and woman have, the deeper the bond.”

“That’s an easy fix, don’t orgasm,” Tami Lynn deduces.

“So not an option,” Savannah rebukes, considering Brody, the sheer thought of him completely arousing.

“That good, huh?”

“Tami Lynn, he had me saying things last night,” Savannah blushes still with the thought, “I’m going to have to double up on my confessionals for a week!”

“That’s what reading all of this
jungle love
will get you.” Tami Lynn laughs heartily, giving in to song, “‘You and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals, so let’s do it like they do on the
Discovery Channel.’”

A haughty scent taking over their olfactory senses, they quiet their amusement as Willodean approaches. “Willow,” Savannah calls, “when is a good time to turn in my proposal?”

“What proposal?” Willow asks in passing.

“My book idea. The one I talked with you about a few months ago,” Savannah’s voice raises, chasing after the fleeting, svelte silhouette.

“Today is not the day, Ms. Bondurant,” Willow ends that interplay, escaping into her office. Savannah’s spirit wounded yet unyielding, she continues on with her work.

“I’m telling you, Savannah. You need to send that out to other publishers,” Tami Lynn counsels, departing from the cubicle, her hands full of busywork. Savannah shrugs, convinced Willow will eventually make the time to fairly review her proposal.

Wearing a pair of respectable yet form-fitting slacks bearing a bold houndstooth pattern, black boots with a short heel and a dark red, silk v-necked blouse, a buxom, honey brunette-haired Tami Lynn makes her way toward the printing press station, her typography fonts prepared for ads and articles.

A high-strung sales rep rounds the corner of the last cubicle, his cell phone anchored to his ear in usual form. As his mind runs with numbers, his legs attempt to keep up, mowing into Tami Lynn, completely oblivious of his actions.

“Tool!” Tami Lynn spews, gathering herself. “I’d like to replace that phone with my foot…right up your ass, jerk,” she mutters, kneeling to gather her paperwork now lying haphazardly on the floor.

Scary Larry
comes to her rescue at the corner of his cubicle, his hands making quick work of assembling her documents. Tami Lynn is motionless momentarily, having her first up-close and personal encounter with the elusive office mate. His jet-black hair, much the same as her paperwork is in total disarray, matching the color of his t-shirt and skinny jeans. Scary Larry’s tall, thin frame hovers about her, his skin vampirian as though it has never seen the sun. Something very Robert Pattinson about him in his role as
Edward
in the
Twilight
saga. His energy and manner shy, yet refreshingly chivalrous.

“Thank you,” Tami Lynn sighs, internally conflicted at her not-so-favorable assumptions of Larry, who does not appear in the least bit scary.

“No problem,” Larry replies, his kind, deep voice barely audible, hesitant to make eye contact with her. His glance catches an interesting font on the top sheet of typography he has neatly gathered into a pile. “Is this an original?” He points to the font, still unable to engage his eyes with hers.

“Yeah,” she says, surprised at his knowledge and flattered that he would ask.

“That’s a nice spin on Urban Sans-serif,” he compliments.

“Thanks.” She smiles. “I’m Tami Lynn.” She extends her hand, an attempt to get him to look at her.

“I know. Who you are,” he admits, finally connecting with her eyes.

Tami Lynn draws an enticing breath at his piercing hazel peepers, unintentionally seductive in their glance. Taking her hand in his, Larry does not shake it, but lifts it to his lips, placing upon it a meek, yet gallant, kiss. “Raven Queen,” he whispers, releasing her hand.