The Starter Boyfriend

The Starter Boyfriend

by

Tina Ferraro

Kindle Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Tina Ferraro

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.

This e-book is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

Chapter 1

“Hey, handsome,” I murmured to my honey in our first private moment of the day.

He didn’t respond, but that was expected. I moved closer, as if to brush a speck of lint off the shoulder of his black tuxedo, when in reality I was going in for a whiff of his scent. Which I hoped would be all rugged and clean and alpha-masculine and even a little bit complicated—like the guy himself.

My big inhale was a big dud, rendering me a nose full of nothingness, and a faint aroma of mothballs and dust.

Still, no judgment, no worries. There was no place for negativity in this covert romance. It was all about creating excitement, and taking my first steps into the dating world.

For while I knew it was borderline nuthouse-ish to consider myself “in a relationship” with a mannequin (even secretly), I told myself it wasn’t
so
different from, say, when Bobby Hoffman and I announced to our seventh grade class that we were “together,” then barely looked at each other again.

I just happened to be a few years past seventh grade—four, to be exact—and had gotten tired of waiting for the right guy to come along. A few weeks ago, I’d taken matters into my own hands, deciding to run with my silly little crush on the five-foot-ten mannequin in the shop window at work. I’d bestowed upon him the name of Tux, and decided he’d be my starter boyfriend, someone I could make mistakes on and learn from, and who would hopefully ready me for The Real Thing. The beauty of it was, it kept me danger-free of a devastating heartbreak or the confusion that usually plagued me with the male psyche, not to mention giving me a secret from my softball team friends—who I still loved and adored, even though they seemed to have their own secrets from me these days.

For now, Tux was my guy. No one else need apply.

“Courtney,” called out my boss, Phillip Manzino, punching a hole in my boyfriend moment. “Have you seen the tape measure?”

I glanced his way and nodded. Since the gadget was jammed in the rear pocket of my jeans, I had no choice but to give Tux’s shoulders one last caress and hop down from the window display.

I didn’t mind leaving, though, because if I was secure in any relationship in my life, it was this one. Tux would be waiting for me for as long as I wanted him, standing there in that one bent knee forward, one arm angled pose, wearing his thirty-eight inch long, thirty-two inch inseam style 02116 tuxedo, with the notch lapel and “silver moon” vest and tie, which just so happened to make his blue eyes pop.

“Got it!” I shouted, my black flats landing unevenly on the tile flooring, requiring the use of a surfer balance maneuver I’d picked up from a guy in my life (of the real and confusing type). The arm flail did the trick, and soon I was delivering the tape measure into Phillip’s hands.

And not a moment too soon. It was already after three on a Friday, which meant we’d entered peak period in the tuxedo rental biz. From now until closing, and then for several hours tomorrow, we’d be pulling out the pre-ordered tuxes from the back room and doing final fittings, alterations and substitutions in the hopes that every customer left feeling handsome and happy.

Forty-ish Phillip, who owned Tux Everlasting here on the southern California coastline, needed to keep his needle and thread steady during the chaos. I, seventeen year-old Courtney Walsh, his somewhat new—but definitely trusty—assistant, needed to stay attentive so that I could jump in with whatever he needed.

I liked to think of us as a mighty duo.

“Thanks,” he said now, tugging the tape out from its plastic holder to measure a baby blue jacket sleeve. He narrowed the brown eyes that seemed permanently dwarfed by his flat nose, and then aimed them back at me. “I want to get this finished before those groomsmen show up. And I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t see more of your Homecoming boys today, too.”

“My Homecoming boys?” I let out a laugh. “I couldn’t name a single guy on Court if I was strung up on a wooden hanger and tortured with alteration chalk and straight pins.” AP classes and softball—not to mention this job—kept my brain too busy for the stats from the school statusphere.

He smiled in mild amusement. “You know what I mean.”

Actually, I did. With his permission, I’d created a discount flyer and posted it around campus. Mostly I’d expected it to appeal to the five or six guys who were required to wear tuxes on Homecoming Court, but I’d been hoping to grab some of the flashy dressers, too. It must have worked because we’d had close to a dozen orders so far.

Phillip had been rewarding me with bonuses in my paychecks, money that was adding up nicely, and that I knew he thought I was putting away for college. Because that’s what I’d told him when I’d come in to apply for the assistant’s job, that I needed to save for my college education.

It had sounded much better than the truth.

The bell over the door tinkled now, and I followed my boss’s gaze to the doorway.

Two figures marched through, a somewhat pinched-faced woman and a big shouldered guy I assumed was her son, a senior named Randy Schiff. A reasonably talented football player, Randy hung around with other buff jock types and girls who got up early enough each day to straighten their hair. He wasn’t as classically handsome as my boy Tux, or even Adam, the surfer dude who’d shown me his “shoot the curl” moves, but Randy had real presence at Sunset Beach High School.

I figured he’d seen me around, too, since I was on varsity softball this year and our groups had occasional social overlap, but couldn’t pinpoint an actual conversation.

No matter. The only thing I cared about was the flyer in his hand, showing Phillip I’d reeled in another one. I was earning my keep around here.

“Hi,” I said, catching Randy’s eye. They were the color of semi-sweet chocolate, but dwarfed between a wide forehead and broad nose. “Can I help you?”

“Homecoming. I hope I’m not too late?”

“No problem.”

The “Pirates of the Caribbean” dance was eight days away, and although the flyer recommended ordering two weeks beforehand, in truth we could go as close as twenty-four hours if the customer was willing to pay some ridiculous extra charges.

Phillip put a couple pins between his teeth, lifted a jacket by its hanger, and flicked his head toward the back room, letting me know I was on my own. He totally trusted me with Homecoming orders, and I totally loved that. My life’s mantra was to
go big or go home
, which I tried to apply to everything—school, work, softball, even taking care of the house and my dad.

Some days I pulled that off better than others.

I gazed back at Randy to see his mother stepping out front and grabbing hold of the flyer. I took this as an indication she was one of those helicopter moms. I’d had plenty of experience with moms-who-hovered—not my own, but from my various softball teams—and knew to look them straight in the eye while keeping my head high.

“My son, Randolph,” she spoke at me, “is going to need a tuxedo. He’s on Homecoming Court. Is there a required style, or do we pick?”

“The choice is up to you,” I said to her, then did a follow-me wave and started crossing the shop. I led them to a seating area with a short sofa, two wicker end chairs, and a center table covered by an oversized catalogue, featuring all available items.

After they took seats, I pointed to the different options we offered, briefly explaining the differences, and closing with the prom standard, a style I’d come to know as 02117: a black two button, single breast with satin notch lapel.

Very sharp. In fact, it was the upgrade to the oh-so-handsome version that my honey showed off in the window.

“Included in the discount flyer rate,” I said, reaching for my order pad, “is a matching vest and tie. Which is often chosen to match the date’s dress. Do you know that color?”

Horizontal lines appeared in the mom’s forehead as she turned to her son.

“I don’t think she’s decided,” he said, his voice either very deep or very low. “Last I heard, she still had three dresses on hold.”

I opened my mouth to tell him we had neutral options, such as all black or even silver-and-black, but his mom’s voice piped up and filled the room.

“That’s ridiculous. Son, go call her. Tell her to make a decision.”

His tongue jutted out from inside his cheek, suggesting he was biting back what he wanted to say. Then he stood and shuffled toward the door.

When I turned back toward his mother, her mouth was puckered tight.

“Jacy Papadopoulos,” she said, narrowing her eyes to angry slits. “
That girl
is completely inconsiderate.
Only
thinks of herself. The drama, the control issues, the passive-aggressive behavior.” She exhaled. “You wouldn’t
believe
what we go through.”

Like mother, like girlfriend?

“I’m sorry,” I responded, because I figured I needed to say something.

She shook her head so hard I thought I heard something rattle, then she scooted closer to the end of the sofa, tugging on the hem of her skirt. “I’m sure a nice, hard-working girl like you doesn’t put her boyfriend through this kind of rigmarole.”

Not much I could say. Since my boyfriend was made of fiberglass and all.

“I’m sure you picked out your dress a long ago, and helped him order the matching vest and tie.”

“Oh, I’m not going.”

“No? A pretty girl like you?”

I tucked some strands of my shoulder-length brown hair behind my ear, never quite sure how to respond to compliments about my looks. Yes, I’d slimmed down during my two seasons on JV, with the biggest surprise not being a defined waistline, but the fact that I had high cheekbones. (Who knew?) I’d even given up the ghost on hair clips and braids after a stylist convinced me of the benefits of hair layering.

And if you were to listen to my future-stepmom, Jennifer, I was every bit as attractive as the girls on “Glee.”

Still, even if that were true, a fat lot of good it did me. I now had to avoid a couple guys in my homeroom who kept asking me to bizarre outings like comic book conventions and midnight horror movies. There was a gross forty-year-old who swam too close to me in the townhouse pool. I sometimes got embarrassing cat calls and honks when I walked to the supermarket.

And yet Adam Hartnett, a grade ahead of me and the son of my father’s dental practice partner? Still not looking my way. Not that it really mattered. I mean, my crush on that surfer dude had totally exceeded its expiration date.

“What are you, hon? A junior? A senior?”

“Junior.”

“Then next year, for sure. I’m willing to bet you’re on several mothers’ radars already to suggest to their sons.”

I knew that was supposed to be a compliment, but mostly, it felt creepy.

I looked up to see Randy stroll in. Thank God.

“Well?” she demanded of him. “What’s the verdict? Flaming red? Deep purple? Barracuda brown?”

This woman had no limits. Plus, I happened to know from bio that barracudas came in gray, maybe silver, but definitely not brown. Still, no way I was going to join the “fun” in this family’s dysfunction.

“She said she hadn’t decided.” His brows pitched into an inverted V. “And that nobody was going to make her before she was ready—”

“Says who?”

“Mom.” He hesitated, seeming to choose his words carefully. “One thing led to another and now she’s not even going with me. Okay?”

“
What
?”

“It’s off. Everything. Her, me, Homecoming. You name it.” He stared down at his cell phone in his hand as if somehow, someway, the screen could help him understand what had just happened.

Silence pulsated in the room, broken only by the crick in my neck as my gaze zoomed from mother to son and back again.

“Really?” Mrs. Schiff finally chirped, not even bothering to mask the choir of angels in her tone.

I took some tiny steps backwards. This had gotten way too personal.

“Okay, it’s off,” his mother continued. “With
her
. That was long overdue. But you’re on Court. You still need a date.”

“Mom...”

“So you’ll ask someone else.”

He just sighed. “It’s getting really late—”

“Like,” his mother said, then glanced around until she found me doing little backward steps to safety. “This girl here,” she said, pointing a long fingernail. “She doesn’t have a date.”

What? No!

“Look at how pretty she is, Randolph.”

Awk
ward! My gaze took off in Tinkerbell flight, darting all over the room, landing everywhere but on Randy and his mom. I actually didn’t know if he was checking me out or not.