The Kissing Coach (16 page)

I reached up and played with the pendant on my necklace, the feather and the heart Steph gave me earlier.

Steph said, “I'm glad you came out tonight.”

“We should do this again,” I said.

Everyone knew it was a lie, but they smiled, all the same.

As I walked away and got into my car, I wondered if I wasn't making a mistake.

I drove home, going through a list of Matthew's positive attributes.

Once home, I played on the computer for a bit, and went to bed late. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I remembered something Caleb had said when we first met.

If you're not afraid of kissing someone, they're not worth kissing.

When Matthew had turned to me under the streetlamp, I hadn't been nervous at all.

I lost track of the number of days since I'd last seen Devin, but I didn't stop thinking about him daily.

When I heard a romantic song, I'd think of him, and how his lips had felt on my skin.

When I saw two people hug or kiss in public, I'd wonder if he was kissing anyone.

Dinosaurs made me think of him.

And cookbooks.

I'd taken to hanging out in bookstores, looking at cookbooks to get ideas for layout and formatting. I wondered if Devin and the chef at his hotel's restaurant had moved ahead with their plans.

Mostly, though, I obsessively logged on to my online banking and wondered when he was going to cash the check I'd sent. If he wasn't going to cash it, the least he could do was send a response. Instead, I was left wondering if he'd even received the damn thing.

I considered writing another one and sending it by registered mail, but that seemed too crazy, even for me.

The last Saturday in August, I bumped into someone unexpected at one of those big warehouse office supplies stores. I was taking advantage of the back-to-school sales, experiencing the mixed feelings of being glad I was out of school, yet pining for new pencils and binders, and meeting up with everyone you haven't seen all summer.

I stood staring at the colored file folders. Why were they so much more pricey than the plain ones? Was I reading the price tags incorrectly? How could file folders cost five times more, just because they were red?

A male voice startled me, saying, “I have to admit something. I followed you in here.”

I froze, going through a quick run-down of who might be stalking me. Was it Caleb's friend? I'd forgotten his name, but had been thinking about him that morning, wondering if I hadn't been too hasty to write him off.

I turned around and was shocked to see Devin Nelson, wearing a sleeveless running shirt, shorts, and running shoes.

I said, “Are you jogging?”

He pumped his arms and started running on the spot. “Yup. That's what I do. I come here and jog up and down the aisles. The scent of printer toner invigorates me.”

“Smartass.”

He stopped jogging. “How about you?”

“Yoga,” I said, pointing to my black stretchy pants. “I'm heading to class after this.”

“That's too bad. You could have gone jogging with me.”

“Up and down the aisles?”

“Just to warm up. Then outside for a bit, just to be different.”

“Jogging outdoors? I think I just read a New York Times trend article about that. It's the next big thing after growing your own coffee beans.”

“I grew mushrooms once. Got a kit from mail order, and …” He shook his head. “Sorry. Boring you, and you're not getting paid to be bored by me.”

“You're not boring.”

He grinned at me, then turned to examine some things on the shelves, picking up a box of folder labels. The wails of a kid pitching a tantrum a few aisles over pierced the silence.

“I know that tune,” Devin said. “That's the you-never-let-me-do-anything song.”

I laughed, because that was the gist of what the kid was howling about.

“This song has a dark ending,” I said. “Sort of an I-hate-you thing.”

“Followed by bargaining. 'If I can't have this, maybe I can have this other thing?'”

We both listened as strains of
pleeeeeeease
mixed with the easy-listening music coming from the store's speakers.

“How's your cookbook?” I asked, my eyes roaming over his bare arms and muscular chest. Damn, he looked good in a jogging shirt. Was it any wonder I'd been unable to keep my hands off him? I wanted to bite those biceps. Right there in the office supply store, under the fluorescent lights, as kids screamed all around us.

He seemed to be distracted as well, and I followed his eyes to my chest. I was wearing a tight yoga top with no bra, and my nipples were poking out like traffic cones.

I said, “I've been looking at cookbooks and wondering how your project was going.”

I'd also been wondering about his therapy, and if he ever thought about me, but you don't ask those things in the filing supplies aisle.

“We took a few good photos.” He pulled out his phone and came closer to me, to show me the pictures.

I breathed in his scent, his close proximity sending a confusing but enjoyable feeling through my body. He explained the images, his deep voice vibrating softly near my ear. He was so close, that if I turned my head, our lips would touch.

And then he would run away.

As he scrolled through the photos, I said, “How are you doing?”

“Great.”

“Really?”

“You sound disappointed,” he said. “Do you miss having me as a client?”

“I don't know how to answer that.”

He took a step back and fixed me with his gaze—the one that made me feel like I was naked in public.

“Be honest,” he said. “I was your worst client. I kept running away.”

“You did keep running away, but that was my fault.”

“I'm cured now, though. I think I could probably kiss anyone.”

“Have you …?”

He tilted his head to the side. “Do you think I'm ready?”

I swallowed. What I wanted to say was,
yes
, he was ready, but only if it was me.

He continued, “Because I have someone in mind, but I can't tell if she likes me.”

Just then, he glanced down at the pictures on his phone and smiled. It was the chef at the hotel restaurant, wasn't it? That was who he wanted to kiss.

The idea of him kissing someone else, and of talking about it with me, filled me with anger.

“Just grow a pair and ask her out,” I said.

He stepped back, blinking in surprise. “Is that your professional advice?”

I grabbed a box of red file folders and dropped them in my basket. As I turned away, I said, “Yes, that's my professional advice.” I started walking away, pausing only to turn back and wave. “Good to see you.”

I rushed to the shortest-looking line and took a spot behind a mother and her kids with school supplies. The boy, about ten, kept turning to stare at me, his eyes wide. I realized that, thanks to the air conditioning, my nipples were still poking out of my yoga top. I turned away from the boy's eyes, and spotted Devin, heading in the direction of the checkout lines.

And then, I did something I'd seen other people do, but had never done myself.

I rage-quit the checkout line. I just left my basket of stuff on the floor, and marched out the door.

As I stomped down the sidewalk, I thought,
Fuck you, office supply place, and fuck your overpriced red file folders, and your sexy joggers who I lust over but can't have. Fuck everything.

After a four-cheese pizza and a root beer float, I had a few regrets. After seeing Devin, I'd felt too hideous to eat alone in public, so I'd bought a three-cheese frozen pizza at the grocery store, brought it home, and added more cheese.

Steph phoned to berate me for not coming to yoga class.

I growled and said, “Steph, I had to rage-quit a checkout line today. I was not in the mood for yoga.”

“That's exactly the mood for yoga.”

“I hate you.”

There was a pause. “Have you called Devin yet and told him how you feel?”

“I'm sorry I said I hated you. I didn't mean it.”

“Just phone him, already.”

“No,
I'm the girl
. He's supposed to phone me.”

“Now you sound like one of your crazy clients. What would you say to a female client if she said that?”

“I'd remind her of the year and tell her girls can make the first move. I'd tell her that some guys are too shy to make the first move, and the worst that can happen is he says no and your heart stops beating and you die of shame and they bury you in the ground and nobody comes to see you.”

“I don't think you'd say that.”

“Maybe not the last part.” I picked up the last slice and took a bite, even though I was full.

“Are you eating pizza without me?”

“No,” I lied. “This is salad.”

“Sure it is.” I heard someone murmuring in the background, then she said, “Caleb says that if you're nervous, you should definitely ask him out.”

“I'm going to rage-quit this phone call.”

“Because you know we're right.”

“Exactly.” I put the slice down, even though a few bites remained. “Oh god, the food coma is kicking in.”

“Enjoy your salad,” she said. “I'll check in with you tomorrow, but you should seriously consider calling Devin.”

“I could ask him why he hasn't cashed that check.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said knowingly, then she started in on a little pep talk about how intelligent and funny and all-around terrific I was. Was that how I sounded when I talked to clients? Man, it was annoying to be lied to.

The next day, I met with my client, Justine, at her house.

As soon as I walked in, I noticed something was different. “Did you get your hair cut?” I asked.

“Better,” she said, grinning.

“Um. Cut and color?”

“I was made love to.”

I laughed, thinking she was joking, but her expression remained earnest.

She said, practically swooning, “Dean made love to me. It was on our fourth date, and we talked about it before, and it was more beautiful than I imagined.”

“Wow.” I took a seat at her kitchen table and admired her glow.

“I'm going to meet his kid next week, and I'm nervous, but I think it'll be okay.” She patted me on the hand. “Thank you for convincing me to see him, even though he had a kid and an ex-wife and all that baggage. Once he held me in his arms, I realized none of that stuff mattered.”