That Man 3 (17 page)

Just as the clip of the porn flick ended, my cell phone rang. I glanced down at the
caller ID screen. It was Jaime Zander. Fuck. I hadn’t even called or e-mailed him
to thank him for letting me use his beach house. I had to admit it. I was a prick
of epic proportions.

“Yo, Blakeman, how did it go?”

“I fucked up.”

“What do you mean?”

I told him about the video. Then, I told him what had happened.

“Jesus. You really did fuck up.”

“Jay-Z, why don’t you meet me for lunch at Factor’s? I could use some cheering up.”

“Man, I can’t. I’m still in Hawaii. I won’t be back till the end of week. I’m flying
to Asia tomorrow for business.”

Fuck.
In the background, I could hear one of the babies crying.

“What should I do?”

“Don’t give up on her.”

I digested his words. Jaime had deceived Gloria for her own good, too, and had almost
lost her. And then he came to her rescue. But this was different.

The crying in the background grew louder. I could hear Gloria telling my best bud
to get off the phone.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go. Call me if you need to talk, pal. Good luck.”

We ended the call. I was going to need all the luck in the world to win back my wounded
tiger.

Jennifer

T
he Kiss.
That was the first thing I saw when I’d hobbled into my office—the magnificent painting
Blake had given me for Christmas. Before leaving for Boise, I’d had someone from maintenance
hang it on the wall.

Debilitated as I was, I wasn’t prepared for my reaction. My aching heart almost went
into cardiac arrest and my good leg went weak. All at once, every memory associated
with that painting bombarded my brain. Each one more beautiful and gut-wrenching than
the one before. Unwanted tears—hadn’t I cried enough?—spilled from my eyes. God fucking
damn it. Blake was back in my bloodstream and knocking at my heart. Places he no longer
belonged. I steadied myself on my crutches and tried impossibly hard to will him away.
He was toxic. I was stricken by his poison. When I finally managed to settle at my
desk, I composed an e-mail to maintenance, asking someone to come by and take the
painting down. What was I was going to do with it? Tears flew onto my keyboard as
I cluelessly typed. About to hit “send,” I deleted it instead. Sobs shook my body.
Thank goodness, the door to my office was closed. I was a confused, tormented, blubbering
mess.

I seriously don’t know how I made it through the next couple of days. I woke up, went
to work, came home, did more work, and then cried myself to sleep. My parents, of
course, called me right away, eager to hear how things were going with Blake. Just
the mention of his name had my eyes welling with tears. Fighting back the waterworks,
I lied and told them that New Year’s was fun and everything was going “just great.”
I knew if I told them what had happened, they’d freak and be on the first plane to
LA. As much as I craved a hug from my mom and another from my dad, I needed time to
sort through my emotions and gain some form of composure.

“Honey, you don’t sound like yourself,” commented my perceptive, overprotective mother.

“I’m just tired, Mom,” I replied. “I’m working very hard on a presentation. If you
don’t hear from me this week, that’s why.” With an exchange of “I love you,” we ended
the call. The tears that were threatening trickled down my face. Blake had promised
my father he wouldn’t hurt me, but he had.

I couldn’t snap out of my depression. I had restless nights and barely ate a thing.
By Wednesday, I noticed my skirts were getting loose on me. I was losing weight, something
I didn’t need to do. Libby was concerned about my well-being and offered to take me
out for dinner with Chaz night after night. I declined, telling her that I had too
much work. That was partly the truth, but there was more. I just couldn’t. I wasn’t
in the mood and I would be terrible company. What a shit way to start the New Year.
I was fucking miserable.

Being on crutches didn’t help either. Everything was a challenge—even the smallest
things. The only good thing about them was everyone was so nice to me. At the office,
co-workers opened doors for me as well as offered to bring me lunch and even take
me back and forth from work. Fortunately, Libby was able to do the latter. She was
a total saint.

I immersed myself in my work, avoiding Blake as much as possible. I spent as much
time as possible in my office, behind a closed door, developing my erotic daytime
block and working on my PowerPoint presentation for my upcoming meeting with Gloria
Zander. I really wanted to woo her and get Gloria’s Secret on board. I couldn’t blow
it.

Whenever I could, I e-mailed Blake so I didn’t have to see him. When I was summoned
to his office, I sat on the couch far away from him. Both of us refrained from eye
contact as well as from calling each other by our first names. I was Ms. McCoy; he,
Mr. Burns. I said as little as possible, responding to his questions about my projects
with a few monotone words. Whenever I stepped into his office or passed by him in
the hall, the temperature in the air dropped and my stomach twisted into a painful
knot. He avoided me as much as I avoided him.

On Wednesday afternoon, I managed to get out of the office at lunchtime. Libby gave
me a lift to Century City where I was going to Bloomingdale’s while she met with a
research supplier. No matter what had happened at her house, I still wanted to get
Gloria Zander a gift to thank her for her generosity before our meeting.

Suddenly ravenous from not having eaten much all week, I headed first to the food
court for a quick bite. I longed for something comforting like chicken soup, but ended
up with a bowl of hot and sour soup from Panda Express. One of the workers was kind
enough to bring my tray to a table. It never ceased to amaze me how much goodwill
I’d discovered disabled on crutches.

The piping hot soup was tasty though zingy. Both my stomach and heart were grateful
for a little nourishment. As I lifted another spoonful to my mouth, a familiar voice
sounded in my ear.

“
Bubala!”

I looked up. It was Blake’s silver-haired grandma. She sprightly headed my way. She
was wearing a soft blue jogging outfit and was in amazing shape for a woman her age.
She plunked herself down on the empty chair across from me. Her eyes stayed riveted
on my crutches, which were leaning against the table.

“
Oy! Vhat
happened?”

“Just little accident,” I said hesitantly.

A sly smile, that reminded me so much of Blake’s, splayed across her crinkly face.

“Skiing with my Blakela?” She winked. “Or a little rough
shtumping?”

Speechless, I cringed. She knew about Blake and me.

“Blakela is
meshuganah
about you.”

I plastered a fake smile on my face. I wasn’t quite sure what
meshuganah
meant. “I feel the same way,” I said tentatively.

She blew an air kiss. “Finally, my gorgeous grandson has found a beautiful
hamishah
girl to marry.”

As much as I adored Blake’s theatrical grandma, I was falling apart at the seams.
I needed to get away from her. But she wouldn’t let me. She pressed her bony, veined
hand on mine, holding me prisoner. I couldn’t break away and hurt the sweet woman’s
feelings. She continued to rave about Blake.

“Such a good boy! And
vhat
a
shmekel!”

Every nerve in my body buzzed. Desperate for words, I asked what she was doing here.

“I meet here every
veek
with my erotica book club.
Alvays
, they’re late. Too much Botox
shmotox!”

Despite my anxiety, I had to stifle a little laugh. Blake’s grandma loved to read
erotic romances and was one of the first to support my idea of creating a SIN-TV block
of programming targeted at women—turning top-selling, hot novels into compelling
telenovelas.

“So,
bubala,
ve’r
e running out of books. Can you recommend something?”

I thought for a moment. “
Blind Obsesssion
by Ella Frank. It’s beautifully written and highly erotic.”

Her gray-blue eyes lit up. “So it’s got a lot of sexy
shmexy?”

“Yes.” I nodded. I just didn’t tell her it was very sad. Not every story ended with
happily ever after.

I felt my eyes watering. “Nice to see you. I have to run an errand.”

She stood up and came around the table to give me a warm hug.

“So,
boobie,
I’ll see you Friday night at Shabbat?”

“Y-yes.”
No. Not then. Not ever.
Every vivid moment of that first night with Blake danced in my head. How he’d held
me in his arms as I anxiously lit the candles. How I’d accidentally found him jerking
himself off. How I’d almost peed in my pants when I saw his cock for the very first
time. How I’d imagined wrapping my lips around his succulent balls when I put that
matzo ball to my mouth. How I’d felt his heat seated next to him. And my own rise
between my legs. There was no denying it. I was already in love with him.

Grabbing my crutches, I bid Grandma good-bye and hobbled away before tears betrayed
me.

*

The Bloomingdale’s housewares department, located on the store’s upper level, was
moderately busy. I noticed a number of young women wandering around, with their iPhones
or iPads, taking photos of china, crystal, and other home basics. Definitely brides-to-be
sorting out their registries. A pang of sadness stabbed at my heart. Perhaps, if Blake
hadn’t taken that vapid video, I would have been among them.
The Almost
Bride.
That was me. What a perfect name for a movie.

I hopped around the display tables in search of the perfect gift for Gloria. Nothing
stood out.

“Can I help you?” came a throaty voice from behind me as I admired a silver picture
frame that was way out of my price range. A prim, fifty-something saleswoman, who
looked like she used every penny of her sales commissions on hair dye and fillers,
strode up to me. I flashed her a small smile as she eyed my bandaged foot. I hoped
she wasn’t going to ask me what happened. Fortunately, she didn’t.

“Yes, I’m looking for a thank-you gift. Preferably something with a nautical or marine
feeling to it.”

“How much do wish to spend?”

I told her my price range was between thirty and fifty dollars.

She winked and raised a knowing forefinger. “I know the perfect item.” Glancing down
at my foot again, she told me to stay put. She skirted away, and in a few short minutes,
she returned with small box in her hand. She lifted off the lid. Inside was a lovely
silver-plated picture frame that was engraved with seashells and starfish. The stock
photo beneath the glass sent a wave of sadness through me. It looked just like the
beach where Blake and I had made passionate love.

“They’re very popular and on sale. Half price. Twenty-five dollars, marked down from
fifty.”

“It’s perfect,” I murmured.

“Wonderful.” The saleswoman beamed triumphantly.

“I need to have it gift wrapped and sent.”

“No problem. Follow me and we’ll get it all taken care of.”

I followed the slender woman to a nearby cash register. I paid for the frame with
my credit card and then filled out a form with the address of Gloria’s Secret’s cor­por­ate
head­quart­ers in Culver City. I couldn’t remember her home address, and there was
no way I was going to ask Blake for it.

“Would you like to include a gift card?” asked the saleswoman, handing me back my
credit card.

“Yes, definitely.”

The woman handed me a small card, with the signature “B” for Bloomingdale’s on the
outside, and a pen. I flipped it open and neatly wrote:

Dear Gloria~

Thank you for sharing your magnificent beach house. And for all the beautiful lingerie
and clothes. I had a beautiful weekend.

With my deepest appreciation~Jennifer McCoy

As I signed my name, my eyes grew watery. A tear dripped onto the black ink, smearing
it. Some beautiful weekend. It ended up the ugliest, suckiest weekend of my life.
Wiping away my tears, I asked for another gift card and rewrote my words quickly before
another round erupted. I handed the card to the woman.

She quirked a smile. Again, I was grateful she wasn’t too nosy.

“She’ll have it before the end of the week.”

I shot back a faint smile. “That’s great. Thank you.”

While she marched off with the frame and the card to help another customer, I put
my credit card back into my wallet and adjusted my new backpack, which came in very
handy being on crutches. Just as I was about to head out of the store, a familiar
voice sung in my ears.

“Jennifer?”