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ONE
ELORA
October
“So, what’s your body count?”
A laugh bubbled up my throat, but when Todd’s blue eyes didn’t crinkle, and his mouth slowly closed, the sound halted. Awkward. I swirled my merlot, still kind of waiting for a punchline. When nothing came, I scoffed, “Excuse me?”
“You know. Your body count,” he repeated with a derisive amount of emphasis, as though I simply hadn’t heard him the first time. My nails dug into my palm beneath the table. “Like, how many dudes?—”
“Hmmm…I don’t know, do the ones in the freezer count?” Tone dripping in disinterest, I set my wine down to refrain from pouring it over his blond waves. If for no other reason than just because it was an exquisite year, and I didn’t particularly want to waste it. Giving him a little wink, I added, “Or just the ones I’ve disposed of?” I shot a pleading glance at our server, who blanched but nodded. It was a shame, really, as this restaurant boasted the best chef in the city. But Todd was, unfortunately, only one in a long line of shitty blind dates, and my asshole tolerance was entirely used up.
The world’s most perfect autumn afternoon came to a bumbling halt as he grappled for a response. Hell, just this morning, I’d sat in the booth recording an episode for my podcast, TrailblazeHer, with one of the most inspiring women I’d ever had the pleasure of befriending, celebrating her seven-figure year, only for her to shock the hell out of me and turn the celebration around with gushed affirmations over my book deal. When the show wrapped, we’d enjoyed a leisurely lunch sipping wine and eating mezé while Mara caught me up on her adorable four and six-year-old children, her husband’s new affinity for fishing, and the book club recommendations she’d gained in the last year.
The two of us had been talking for ages about starting a foundation together, resonating with TrailblazeHer’s mission to empower women everywhere to reach their professional potential, and her daily mantra to raise the damn bar in all categories of life.
Evidently, Todd’s ‘bar’ had somehow become ensconced in Hell itself, as he had the audacity to scoff in my direction. “What? I don’t think it’s too personal of a question to ask someone. You’re beautiful, I’m, well—” he gestured vaguely at his entirely average-leaning-on-lanky body, “and we’re old enough not to beat around the bush. If we’re doing anything, have you been tested? A man’s gotta evaluate the risks of dating a woman over thirty. If you’re this easily offended, it must be terrible,” he laughed as he swiped up his martini. Some people’s children, so help me. Who in their right mind could ever think this was an appropriate conversation starter? What in the hell happened to ‘Hello. How are you? What’s your zodiac sign? Are you looking for a good time or something serious?’
A dull ache brewed behind my eyes, gaze settling on his fingers where they twirled the olive toothpick as he shrugged and added, “I’m probably around forty.”
Of course, you are. I didn’t have to engage in this conversation to guess if I responded with a number anywhere near that–which it wasn’t–he’d tell me it was too many. After all, only men are intended to enjoy their bodies. For fuck’s sake. Deadpanning, I lolled my head sideways, blinking pointedly as our server made her way over. I held up my card with pleading eyes.
“God bless you. Please ring me up.” To Todd, I demanded, “And what, pray tell, is your goal in asking?” Though placid, even I could hear the blade of temper threatening my composed tone.
“Just not big on sloppy seconds. I mean, you’re what, almost forty?” Thirty-two and about to go spend a stupid amount of money on a new eye cream. “So, I know you’ve been around.”
With a suffocated glare, I threw back my drink, wincing as too much liquid funneled down too tight a space and stood. Forcing an expression more grimace than smile onto my face, I turned my attention to the tool across the table, our server scurrying away. “Alright, that’s enough for me. Todd, have the day you deserve.”
His protest fell on deaf ears as I gathered my phone and purse, and followed the waitress’ path to the bar, my heels clicking over the slick concrete floor. Music bombarded my senses with some modern calamity of heavy bass, the mouthwatering scent of steak worth selling a kidney for assaulting me. Dammit, Todd. That smells amazing.
My ride-share pulled up by the time I made it out the front door, and I slunk onto the back seat with a huff, face falling into my hands as I rubbed my temples. Focusing on your career in your twenties was supposed to be the smart thing to do—the path to a happy life, or at least that’s what every academic advisor said in my high school and college careers.
For the most part, it had been. Hell, I’d seen half the damn planet, visited countries we’d never even learned the names of in school to speak to leaders from CEOs to ambitious politicians. My golden touch came with me.
Prior to the dry spell of the century, I’d slept with whomever I wanted—which, admittedly, wasn’t even half as many people as Todd’s self-righteous body count. In my world, the need for company didn’t overrule keeping my standards high—going wherever I wanted, chasing the clients I wanted… and I loved every. Damn. Minute of it.
My company had evolved from life coaching to holistic business coaching, and until this year, I’d regularly made it home to Mistyvale to see my family. Which was necessary with eleven brothers and sisters. My life was perfect. At least, it was until I opened my phone to the family text thread, where everyone was sharing holiday season photos. My oldest brother, Rhyett, shot over the cutest picture with his wife and daughter—with her perfect button nose painted black, whiskers painted on her sun-kissed Florida skin, those squishable cherub’s cheeks sandwiched in a red lion’s mane on for early trunk-or-treating. Tears pricked at my eyes, and the lump in my throat made me decide to book early tickets to Florida this Christmas to soak up snuggles before I had to compete with ten other siblings. I needed to lock down my spot as favorite auntie before the rest of the yahoos made their attempts to secure her affection.
Elora
Brex, you make a very cute mama lion.
Brexley
Thanks! Papa lion with our lil cub is my favorite though.
The image bounced right into my inbox. Rhyett throwing baby Quinn up in the sky as her eyes vanished with the size of her open-mouthed, buck-toothed giggle. Noel, Jameson’s girlfriend, followed it up with a picture of the two of them ice skating back in Mistyvale, bundled faces rosy-red with cold. By the time my younger brother, Axel, sent his selfie with his new girlfriend on a beach halfway around the world, my chest constricted, and I slid my cell back into my purse with a heavy sigh.
If careers were the most important part of our twenties—figuring ourselves out, establishing financial security—why did my heart ache so severely? And what was it about hitting my thirties that made it all feel so…urgent? I didn’t want to find a man and jump right into child rearing. I wanted the whole fairytale. The love story. A romantic engagement. Planning a dream wedding with my sisters and friends. Time to travel and soak each other up before we were in the trenches of midnight feedings and spit up on my blazers. But, shy of sticking my eggs in a freaking freezer, it seemed like that fantasy was slipping right through my fingers.
Which led me here, in the back of a rideshare after yet another shitty blind date with the sticky heat of an Emerald Bay fall fastening my thighs to the leather as my soft-spoken driver told me his entire life story.
My eyes glazed over, watching the traffic pass us by in a blur of gradually illuminating red light, the sun sinking over the horizon. Okay, so maybe living nomadically had its drawbacks. Drawbacks like no network of trustworthy referrals to men who were actually worth an hour getting ready and a subsequent thirty minutes in the back of some dude’s Kia. Hell, I would rather turn on a good sitcom or curl up with a romcom and some tea than go out with a dud. I wasn’t fucking desperate. At least this time, I wasn’t alone in a random city. I was visiting my sister, just outside of San Diego, which was a personal paradise of mine.
The blue light of dusk filled the air when my driver pulled up to the curb in front of Alice’s apartment complex, and I scraped my thighs off the leather and scooted out with a cordial ‘thank you,’ before heading for the gate. Past the coded entrance, I seriously eyeballed the pool, half a mind to just collapse in sideways like a tree, yelling ‘timber’ as I free fell, just to wash off the sensation of hungry-but-misogynistic blue eyes on my skin. There had to be more than this…right?
That was the question still circulating in my mind when I finally made it to the front door and found not only Alice, but our best friend, Max, planted comfortably on the sofa in front of the glow of the television. Two heaping bowls of popcorn—peanut butter for Alice and cheddar for Max—were surrounded by Milk Duds, Red Vines, and Hershey’s Kisses, all neatly poured into cute teal bowls on the coffee table. We’d found Max some time in elementary school and decided to keep him forever. His neatly coiffed black hair was slicked back and complimented his coordinating cashmere sweater and slacks. The man had always possessed impeccable taste, right down to the shoes neatly lined by the door. He reached over to snatch up the remote, wincing as he took in my face and simultaneously paused the movie. My sister was draped across the couch with her feet in his lap, her long, dark hair flowing over the pillow propping her neck up, as she slowly ceased sipping on the chocolate milkshake I was certain she’d hogged. She lifted her phone and grimaced.
