“Because I listened to you and went to see her again.” He snorted. “I only had four more sessions covered by insurance.”
“Oh. Can't you ask for more?”
Mike gave him a flat look, the stare going on and on until finally, Dylan rolled his eyes and groaned, “Oh, geez.”
“Right. A hundred and ninety dollar an hour psychologist is nothing now. Hell, I could see her eight hours a day, five days a week and it would be a drop in the bucket.”
Dylan started adding that up in his head and realized Mike was right.
“We've got HUGE buckets now,” Dylan muttered, the zeros making his head spin.
“All thanks to Jill.”
“Maybe that's the part we're missing.”
“What?”
“The thanking. The gratitude. What Jill did was enormous. Life altering.”
“That's right. Life altering. And we never asked for any of this.”
“You could always give it all away.”
“Don't think I haven't considered it.” Mike ran a frustrated hand through his thick blonde hair, jaw grinding with tension. “I bought the ski place. I'm donating to charity. I'm doing plenty with it. I can't think beyond that. And I can't give it back to Jill.”
“Her dad wouldn't mind.”
They laughed, the sound bitter. Her family had tried legal maneuvers, but everything was locked up tight.
It's not as if she ever told them about Mike and Dylan, either.
“We can only live in the present and the future,” Dylan said. “Get your mind out of the past.”
“Don't tell me how to mourn.”
“I'm not telling you how to feel, Mike. I'm trying to get you to see that there is a great woman somewhere out there. We found one. We'll find another. And she'll be different, yes, but she'll be wonderful. And maybe we'll have kids and – ”
“Enough.” The word was soft, practically begging. “I – this is too much. Can we stop here and let me process it all.”
That was better than having him fume.
Or explode.
“Of course. How about I beat the hell out of you in Mario Cart?”
“Hah! In your dreams!”
At least Mike could joke about dreams.
Chapter 17
“So what if a geekazoid wasn’t hot for your bod, Laura,” Josie declared as they sat at her kitchen table. Laura’s head was pounding; they’d gone to a nightclub last night at Josie’s urging. After watching Debbie and Rick at work, she needed to do something that made her feel like a normal twenty-something in the city. Like she had a life beyond Netflix and ice cream.
“I know. I do, really. It’s just...it’s like he went from being a friend to being an asshole with one makeover. Why would he do that?” Laura muttered. Josie had managed to drink the entire pot of coffee before Laura got any. She impatiently waited for the new pot to brew so she could wake up.
“He’s a guy,” Josie said with a wave of her hand.
“Guys sure do get a pass for just being guys,” Laura grumbled.
“And yet we want them in our beds.”
“And hearts!” Laura protested.
“Oh, yeah. That. Hearts and shit,” Josie said absentmindedly, staring at the computer screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Typing up your online dating profile.”
“My what?” Laura was wide awake now. “Why on earth would I want to do that? Online dating is like getting Lasik surgery with a two-for-one coupon. Sounds great at first, but when you think about it...”
“You need to get out there. Find someone. Anyone.”
“Anyone?” Laura shivered. “If I take anyone I’ll find myself chained to a basement wall being used as a tester for new kitchen knives and chastity belts.”
Josie shrugged. “If that’s your fetish...” and started typing.
Laura smacked her in the shoulder. “Don’t you dare write that down!”
“Then you write it!”
And that’s how she found herself composing a personals ad with her best friend cheering her on. Normal? What’s normal?
“Hot, luscious piece of ass who can suck a golf ball through forty feet of garden hose seeks rippling-ab’d firefighter who has a tongue that thrums like a hummingbird and enjoys painting my toenails and eating Ben & Jerry’s out of the carton while watching Mad Men.”
Laura stared at the online dating site’s registration screen and frowned. That’s what she really wanted to write. Here was the truth:
“Needy, insecure, overweight twenty-six year old financial analyst with three cats, a corporate job with pension and no debt seeks Mr. Impossible for way more than friendship and lots of ice cream. I’m desperate for some physical affection and oral sex with a guy who doesn’t view it as some sort of favor he’s granting me, and then expects to be praised like he cleaned my toilet. One night stands are better than nothing as long as you brush your teeth. Call me!”
“The guys are going to bang down your door with that one,” Josie cracked. “One cat is normal. Two and you’re on dangerous territory. Three? You’re practically running a no-kill shelter out of your home. Don’t talk about your cats in an online personals ad. That’s like the guys who talk about their mom in their profiles. Cuh-reep-eee.”
Josie started typing, biting her lower lip and deep in concentration.
“Voila!” she shouted, her hands spread wide in a grandiose gesture. “There’s your ad.”
She announced:
“Luscious, curvy financial analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self-assured, I’m a fit woman who wants a man (or, more than one! YOLO!) for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me (or massage me!).”
“I can’t write that!” Laura groaned. “It makes me look like I want an orgy!” She squinted at the screen. “And what the hell is ‘YOLO’?”
“Who doesn’t want an orgy?” Josie wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously and stuck out her tongue, waggling it in a very bad imitation of oral sex. “And YOLO stands for ‘you only live once.’”
“Cut it out. You’re turning me on. It’s been that long since I got some ass, and the last guy used his tongue like he was a Roto Rooter man. Like that.” She pointed at Josie’s tongue and bent over, laughing.
“Maybe we're too picky, Laura,” Josie mused as they calmed down. She wasn't the type to get somber like this, so Laura found herself suddenly concerned.
“Too picky? Wanting a nice guy who is good in bed and doesn't treat us like we're an object to push down so they can feel bigger is 'too picky'?” Her cat, Frumpy, walked by just then, nuzzling her ankle. “If that makes me too picky, I'll just be a cat lady.”
“You're right. I guess – maybe we need to imagine the perfect guy and manifest him.”
“Who are you, Josie? Manifest? You always say that's a bunch of bullshit.”
“Eh. Maybe lack of orgasms with anything not plastic is destroying my brain.”