Trophy Husband (20 page)

“Good. Because I’m not sharing you, and I’m
not competing with anyone, and I definitely don’t want you dating
anyone besides me.”

I part my lips and am about to say “I’m
yours.” But I can’t quite go there yet. Instead, I nod, and say
“The next Fashion Hound will be the announcement that I don’t need
or want a Trophy Husband anymore.”

“Can I be your trophy boyfriend?”

Boyfriend. There’s that sweet, magical word
again. There’s the word that has mattered, the word that I wanted,
but I let another word get in the way. Because the truth is I know
what I want. I’ve known since way back when I first went trolling
for a Trophy Husband on Craigslist. I knew then I wanted a
boyfriend, not a husband. Now, I just know who I want that
boyfriend to be.

I am all grins, and I’m sure that this is
what happy looks like as I say yes.

I ignore the comments on my Web site asking
where’s the footage of my Friday night date with Chris. My viewers
all know the date was last night. They were expecting to see how it
went. I want to jump for joy in my next video and tell them it went
fabulously.

But there will be time for
that. For now, I am working on my concession speech. I’m lounging
on a deck chair, sunglasses on and Ms. Pac-Man at my feet panting
from our tennis ball in the waves session a few minutes ago. I’m
trying to find the right mix of humor and contrition. Do I tell my
viewers “
Sorry, Contest
over?
” Or do I give a lengthy explanation
about my change of heart?

I stare at a blank page on my laptop. I’m
not usually at a loss for words. I’m pretty damn fast at whipping
out my blogs and assessing outfits with the 1-2-3 snappiness of a
sassy cable show host. But when it comes to penning my own truths
about the heart? Well, the keyboard might as well be written in a
foreign language.

When my phone rings, I am thrilled for the
distraction.

Then I see Todd’s name flash across the
screen. I would like to ignore him. I really would. But I don’t
trust him, and that’s the problem. Untrustworthy people, by their
nature, demand attention because they are loose cannons.

“What’s up?” I say in a resigned voice.

Ms. Pac-Man tilts her ears as if she’s
listening. I like to think she’s protecting me from him. But then,
I don’t think anyone, even if my dog, could have protected me from
the damage Todd inflicted with one shot.

“How are you, McKenna?”

“Fine. But you’re not calling to chat, so
what is it?”

“I was just thinking,” he begins, and then
inserts that pregnant pause that marks all his conversations.

I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me.
“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about how I helped you start
The Fashion Hound. Remember?”

When I first came up with the idea for my
show, I shared it with Todd and he encouraged me to go for it. He
also set up my Web site, bought the domain, and installed my first
blog template. He worked in tech PR and he knew his way around the
tools of the Internet. I could have done that all myself, but he
wanted to help, so I could focus on the writing, and the fashions
and finding a talented videographer.

My chest tightens with worry. “Yes. What are
you getting at?”

Then I hear a baby cry.

“The baby just woke up from her nap. I’ll
call you later.”

He doesn’t call back, and I hate the way I
carry my phone around the rest of the afternoon, even as I get
ready for another date with Chris. But there was something in
Todd’s voice that made me uneasy, and now I have a knot of worry
pooling low in my gut. I wish he could leave me alone, so I do a
few yoga moves, stretch my neck from side to side, and tell myself
everything will be all right.

Then I head to the karaoke bar.

Because tonight, I am with Chris, and I want
to only be with Chris. I don’t even want the ghost of my ex
infecting this night.

I listen to him adorably
bungling his way through Foreigner’s
Jukebox Hero
in a fetchingly off-key
singing voice. He’s wearing jeans and a brown tee-shirt. The design
on his shirt is of two ultra-stylized dinosaurs in orange
silhouette sparring with each other. I love his taste in
clothes.

He sings from the low stage at Gomez Hawks
Karaoke Bar, deep in the heart of Japan Town, tucked in a dark
corner of the second floor of a mall that’s stuffed with Japanese
bookstores, crepe dealers, sushi bars and other assorted
Tokyo-flavored shops. Chris finishes his number, does a quick
little bow, and bounds off stage to join me at the bar.

“Very nice, Mr. McCormick,” I say, nodding
approvingly.

He shrugs. “I have a horrible singing
voice.”

“I thought it was cute.”

“Cute blushing, cute singing, pretty
lips.”

“Hey! I told you this is all new to me. I’m
working on my lines for you.”

“Don’t use lines on me,” he teases.

“So isn’t your sister a Broadway singer or
something?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us
have her talent. Besides, she has no mechanical aptitude and
there’s where I have all my skills.” He cracks his knuckles in a
playful way as if to demonstrate his skill with his hands. He does
have skill with his hands.

“So when does her show
open?
Crash the Moon
, right?”

“Two more months, I think. I’m going to see
it opening night.”

“Well, of course. You have to.”

“I am going to be the one cheering the
loudest and longest. Well, all of us will be.” Then he leans his
shoulder against mine. “You should come with me.”

“To New York?”

“No. To Istanbul. Yes, New York. That’s
where the show is.”

My heart skips a few beats. He’s making
plans with me two months from now. “I would love to.”

“Now why don’t you do some cute singing
yourself then.” He gestures to the stage.

“I will,” I say, as I toss the list of
karaoke songs aside.

Gomez Hawks is a tiny bar, the whole place
no bigger than my living room. But it’s low-lit and serves terrific
mixed drinks and boasts the biggest and best selection of songs in
the city, a list about the size of two New York City phone books
put together. That’s why Gomez Hawks is popular and that’s why
Chris made a reservation tonight. All the tables are full, all the
stools are taken. I begin with a few astronomically off-key “whoa,
whoa, whoas” of my own before I launch into the opening lines about
Tommy’s work on the docks in Bon Jovi’s anthemic song and karaoke
standard.

Immediately, everyone in
the bar is singing along, some by memory, others by following the
TV screen with the flashing lyrics from the song. Three minutes
later, we’re as loud as loud can be finishing the final words
of
Livin’ on a Prayer
in unison. The crowd cheers their approval, despite my lack of
harmony, melody and anything in between. But it’s karaoke. You’re
not supposed to sing well.

I rejoin Chris at the bar. “How do you think
this place got its name?”

“I have a hunch the proprietor was racking
his brains for a catchy name, drove past a street named Gomez and
then a high school with a football team called the Hawks and mashed
them together.”

I laugh. “Is that for real? Do you know
that?”

“No, but it sounded plausible, didn’t
it?”

“Totally. You know what would be even more
fun? If karaoke was a game and you could earn points for songs and
hitting the notes or something. Even though I’d suck, I’d still
play.”

“Of course you would. You’re even more of a
gamer than I am.”

“Not anymore. I’m all ready to call the
whole thing off on Monday.”

“Good. Because I can’t stand the thought of
anyone else thinking they have a shot for you. I want you all to
myself.” He loops his hand around my waist and pulls me in for a
kiss. It’s a protective kiss, and it feels a bit like ownership.
Like he’s claiming me. I don’t mind being his. I don’t mind at
all.

“Did you kiss any of the other guys when you
were dating the candidates?”

“No. Only you. I told you. I wanted to jump
you the second I saw you. Oh wait. That’s what you told me,” I say
and I grin.

“I did. I still do.”

“I want that too,” I say in a low voice.

“Yeah?”

“I do. Soon.”

“Like I told you, I’ll wait for whenever
you’re ready.”

“But we can do other things…”

He raises an eyebrow. “There are plenty of
other things I want to do to you.”

“Like what?”

He’s about to answer when I hear a strain of
familiar notes playing from the karaoke machine. I turn to the
stage. There’s an older man on stage, graying, and with a paunch.
He wears glasses and high-waisted pants, but he has a huge smile on
his face. He’s looking at a woman, seated at a table near the
front. She has curly gray hair and lines around her eyes. I glance
at their hands. Rings on their fingers.

Then he brings the microphone to his mouth
and begins doing his best imitation of The King as he sings about
fools rushing in. The lyrics swoop into me, and even though he
doesn’t sing like Elvis, not even close, the look on his face as he
sings to his wife, only to his wife, about how he can’t help
falling in love, slays me like it does every time.

I remember one of the last times I heard
this song. Driving to The Best Doughnut Shop in the City. The day I
fell apart and hid in a bathroom stall. I think back to this
afternoon, to the phone call, to the way Todd needles me. I can let
him get under my skin, or I can let go of my anger.

Is there really a choice?

I have to choose to let go of my ex. Because
now I’m here, and I’m not just longing for the feelings in this
song.

I’m feeling them.

I lean into Chris, my back against his
chest, and he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close. We
sway slightly, almost imperceptibly, as the man sings. When he
reaches the words “take my hand” the man does just that and his
wife holds her hand out to him. They’re not touching. They’re many
feet apart. Still, it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.

Until Chris takes my hand. Laces his fingers
through mine. Squeezes.

When the music fades, he turns me around so
he’s looking at me. “I know you’re not ready for more, but how
would you feel about coming back to my place so I can do all those
other things I’ve thought about doing?”

“You mean play Qbert?” I tease.

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

* * *

Chris lives in a cream-colored Victorian
building, with muted green trim on the windows and the door. His
home is above an antique shop and right next door to Barney’s
Burger Joint, which received the “Best Burgers in San Francisco in
2007” honor from a local paper.

He unlocks the main door, and we walk up two
flights of stairs. As we round the stairwell, his hands are on my
waist, and he’s telling me all the things he wants to do to me.

“You know it’s not going to take me long
when you talk like that.”

“Good. Then we can go again.”

He opens the door to his place and it’s
spacious. The living room is wide and stretches the whole length of
the building it seems. I spot a few arcade games off in the corner,
including Qbert, and I pretend I’m a zombie, drawn to it. Chris
puts both hands on my shoulders and steers me away. “We’ll get to
those soon enough,” he teases.

I look around the rest of the living room. A
high-definition TV screen is mounted on the off-white wall, flanked
by several gaming consoles. Chris told me once he spends close to
fifteen hours a week playing games. “Sounds glamorous and it is
when the games are good,” he’d said. “But sometimes, it’s
drudgery.”

There’s a huge U-shaped couch against the
opposite wall, in some sort of indistinct gray color. But it looks
cushy and well-worn and is stuffed with brown and burnished gold
pillows in the corners. His kitchen is modern and sleek with
stainless steel appliances, but it doesn’t scream “bachelor cool.”
There’s an antique-y table against the wall, with curvy legs, while
a pale yellow tea kettle sits in the middle of the stove.

Chris then gestures vaguely to the other
room. “The boudoir. But you can’t see that tonight,” he says
playfully. I land on the side of good taste and opt not to peer
into his bedroom, but I notice out of the corner of my eye he has a
king-size bed with a beige cover, white walls, and blond book
shelves beside the headboard.

“So there you go,” he says, leaning against
the wall in his hallway, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops
on his jeans. I can’t help myself. My eyes drift down to the bulge
in his pants. How am I going to refrain from taking his clothes off
and wrapping my legs around him? But I know once we go there, I’ll
be gone for him. I’ll be more over the moon than I already am. Once
he’s inside me, there will be no turning back.

I want to, I’m almost there, but yet the
possibility of being shattered in a million pieces again prevents
me from taking that step. So I turn away and walk to Qbert. I run a
hand across the control panel, feeling the joystick against my
palm. I trace my fingers across the name in its big, balloon-y
print. Then I peek at the side of the machine. The entire side
panel is a bright bold yellow with an illustration of Qbert cursing
as he nears the edge of the pyramid. I return to the screen and lay
my cheek against it.

“You sure you don’t want me to leave you
alone with it?”

“I have other plans,” I say, but then I’m
distracted when I notice the Galaga machine to the right, then a
Donkey Kong.

“My God, you have your own arcade.”