“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft. Then, after a pause: “As your coach, I have to tell you that that was excellent. Taking responsibility and apologizing when you’ve done something to upset your partner is a really healthy way to communicate.”
I’m so mind fucked by the quiet appreciation in her voice that I don’t know how to respond. So, unfortunately, I revert to baseline—asshole mode.
“I haven’t agreed to this coaching thing. And you’re not my partner.”
The minute it’s out, I know it’s all wrong. Too loud, too mean, too insulting. Her silence is frosty. But I can’t take it back, and it’s probably for the best anyway.
She should know who she’s dealing with.
But she surprises me again. In an untroubled tone, she says, “No, you haven’t agreed, but you will. And then I will be your partner, though strictly in a business sense. So I’ll tell you up front what my expectations are. First and foremost, you must always be honest with me. Good or bad, just let me have it. I can’t help you if I don’t know how you really feel.”
“Let me stop you right there. I don’t do feelings, okay? As far as I’m concerned, that’s a four-letter word.”
She totally ignores me. “Secondly, I expect you to listen to my suggestions. You don’t have to agree with them, but I want you to at least give them serious consideration.”
“Like what?” I challenge.
“Like if I suggest you think about how the outdated and ridiculous myth that men don’t have feelings is harming you.”
I close my eyes, drag in a few breaths, and debate whether or not to hang up. But my thumb refuses to hit End, so I just stand there and breathe heavily at her for a while.
When I’ve collected all my broken pieces off the floor, I say sourly, “You sound just like my therapist.”
“She’s obviously a brilliant woman,” comes the crisp response. “My third expectation for this business arrangement going forward is that after every date you go on, you call me and we can discuss it together. The good, the bad, and the ugly.”
“Yeah, that’s a hard no, Pink.”
“It’s the only way you can gain insight into what behaviors—”
“I’m not calling you to give you a blow-by-blow of every time I get laid, all right?”
She sounds confused. “No, I’m not talking about your sex life. What I mean is, after every date you go on. Like to the movies, out to dinner, like that.”
When I just stand there smirking at the phone, she groans. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s insisting on total honesty.”
“Every time?”
I shrug, pulling a pair of briefs out of one of the drawers in the dresser in the middle of the closet. “I guess your definition of a date and mine are a little different.”
“Mason, that’s just sad.”
I laugh at that, long and loudly. “Uh, no, Pink. I can assure you, it’s totally not.”
She switches into librarian mode, saying prissily, “Well, I certainly hope you use protection.”
“Would you like to know the brand of rubbers I use?”
She mutters, “Lord, have mercy.”
“Hold on, I’m gonna put you on speaker so we can keep talking while I get dressed.”
I hit the speaker button then set my cell on the dresser. Pulling out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from another drawer, I realize she’s not talking. “Did I lose you?”
“I’m still here.”
“Why do you sound funny?”
“I don’t.”
Yeah, I’m calling bullshit on that. “Oh, okay. So we’re not doing the honesty thing anymore? Cool.”
After a delicate throat clearing, she says, “Well, if you must know, it’s just that I didn’t realize you were, um…”
“Naked? Yeah, that happens a lot around here. It shouldn’t bother you, it’s not like you can see me or anything.”
“I didn’t say it bothered me.”
I stop short at the tone of her voice. It’s high and tight, almost as if she’s embarrassed. Like she got caught doing something wrong.
Holy shit. Is she thinking about me naked?
Is thinking about me naked turning her on?
I say slowly, “You sure?”
She laughs, but I can’t tell if it’s a real laugh or not. I don’t know her well enough.
“Yes, I’m sure, Egozilla.”
“Egozilla? That’s a terrible nickname.”
“I’m not a professional nickname maker.”
I smile at that. “No, you’re a professional matchmaker. By the way, how the fu—” I stop myself just in time. “How the heck did that happen?”
She replies airily, “Oh, it’s a long story. Anyway, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you’ve got all sorts of important things to do today. Conquests to be made, bedposts to be notched. Let’s touch base on Monday and we can go over the coaching in more detail—”
“Tomorrow,” I interrupt, so loudly I even startle myself.
When I don’t get a response, I try to play it cool. Like I’m not eager to see her. Like I could care less about those big brown eyes. Like I don’t already know a girl like her could blow up my whole world and this is a total fucking nuclear disaster in the making.
Like I’m unfamiliar with the fact that anything good I touch I turn to shit.
She says tentatively, “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Yep.”
After a moment in which I can hear my heartbeat roaring in my ears, she says, “Okay, you’re on. I’ll text you my address. Pick me up at eight-thirty sharp.”
My brows knit. “Eight-thirty? In the morning?”
“Yeah, superstar. I don’t want to be late.”
“Late for what?”
There’s a hint of laughter in her voice. “I want to introduce you to my relationship coach. You’re going to love him.”
Him?
She hangs up on me before I can ask any more questions.
8
Maddie
When Mason picks me up in the morning, he’s not alone. Dick sits in the driver’s seat of a big black car parked in my driveway, looking at me through the windshield with a satisfied smirk.
Mason, meanwhile, stands on my porch wearing a glower that would strike a lesser woman dead from sheer fright.
But he doesn’t scare me. I’m familiar with his thunderclouds and have already girded my mental loins. Plus, I’m probably getting points from the Man upstairs for this, so it’s a win-win.
Standing in my doorway, I smile at Mason and say brightly, “Good morning!”
“Hey.” He glares at my dress, looking as if his breakfast is about to come back up.
I say, “If I’d known the color pink makes you want to vomit, I would’ve worn something black instead.”
His gaze snaps up to my face and settles there, burning. “I’ll bet you a million bucks you don’t own anything black.”