First Chapter: Unmanageable
Scott
I’m like a cat burglar … but the only thing I’m gonna steal is his heart.
Yeah, yeah, okay. That’s a cheesy line. But I revel in groan-worthy lines, and I’m not kidding about the cat burglar thing. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins as fast as the Winooski River spilling over a dam, and I’m feeling like a felon.
Probably because I’m, like, breaking and entering—or entering, anyhow. Edsel hasn’t given me a key, but he hides one under a fake rock by the porch. Easy peasy.
With my heart in my throat, I slip through the front entrance of his one-story house in the Old North End and shut the heavy door behind me.
While my current activities resemble a cat burglar’s, the similarities end quickly. I’m giving, not taking. Also, judging by Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, cat burglars wear black from head to toe.
I’m about to get naked.
Setting down my reusable grocery bag of supplies, I survey the scene. My boyfriend’s living room is nicer than mine—most are—although it’s in a plain brick house not far from downtown. Nothing really special about it except the fact that he resides here.
But special is what you make of it. I just want to make him happy.
I flove surprising my boyfriend, and my tummy’s all aflutter thinking about the word boyfriend.
This is the longest relationship I’ve had in … ever. Sure, he’s spent most of it out of town on business trips and a volunteer search-and-rescue mission, but he’s coming back tonight and I’m going to show him exactly how much I missed him.
First things first. I get out the package of rose petals I bought at the Burlington florist. They were pricier than I expected, but he’s worth it.
Walking backward, I sprinkle a trail of petals down the short hallway to Edsel’s bedroom, like Hansel and Gretel on a mission from Cupid. After flinging handfuls on the bed as artistically as I can, I look around the room. It’s a tad messy, so I pick up his clothes from the floor. I examine a patterned shirt. Not sure I’ve seen him in this one before.
I shrug and throw it into the hamper.
Once the room is tidy, I survey the scene and clap my hands once. I’m amped and giddy and tempted to fling myself onto the bed and make rose petal snow angels.
Focus, Scott.
Carefully avoiding the flowers on the floor, I tiptoe back to the entrance, lock the front door, and grab the rest of my supplies.
A few moments later, champagne is chilling in an ice bucket, next to two flutes and these great chocolates imported from Napa.
Is it imported if it’s from the same country?
They’re a luxury, yes, but how else do I celebrate someone so special? That’s what credit cards are for.
Tapping my lip, I wonder if I should have gotten one of those chocolate fountains that you dip marshmallows in and then feed them to each other. And strawberries? But they’re out of season …
Candles! I pull them out of the bag, along with matches, and light them, then turn the bedroom lights off.
I check my phone. He’s supposed to be home any minute now.
One final thing.
Quickly, I strip down, folding my clothes and stacking them on the floor by the bed. Won’t be needing those any time soon, wink-wink. I may not be particularly buff, but I look good in it.
Then I fasten a silver glitter bow tie around my neck and arrange myself on the bed in the classic Burt Reynolds centerfold position: on my side with my head in my hand, showing off the tattoo on my hip. He said he likes my tattoo … he being Edsel, not Burt Reynolds.
I exhale and try not to fidget. Must not make rose petal snow angels, because strewn about, they’re so decorative.
Like me.
Music! I grab my phone and put on the romance playlist. “The Girl from Ipanema” starts up, and I hum, thinking about Brazil and warmth. But a chill comes over me. Vermont’s fall is nippy.
Well, if a boy is going to be nude, he may as well be comfortable. Trying not to disturb the floral display too much, I head to the thermostat in the hallway and adjust it.
Oh, Edsel’s going to be so surprised! I’m so excited!
Returning to the bed, I get back into position.
As the minutes tick by, I quiver with anticipation, and I start panicking that I got the date wrong. Or the time wrong.
But when he sent me his itinerary a few weeks ago, Google automatically uploaded it to my calendar. I checked his flights. He should be getting home at any moment.
Finally, the key sounds in the lock, the front door creaks open, and my heart rate increases tenfold.
He’s here!
I’m about to call out to him when I hear him say, “I can’t wait to get you naked.”
I’m going to respond that I’m already naked, when a deep male voice responds, “I want to fuck you so hard you feel me for days.”
Wait.
What?
Chills erupt all over my body, even though the heater’s on full blast. Did he bring someone home for a threesome? Because I guess I’d be into that, although I’d prefer to have just one love for the rest of my life.
Then it hits me. That cheating bastard.
I grab wildly for my clothes, scattering flower petals everywhere.
Edsel’s voice echoes down the hallway. “What the fuck is this?” Then, “Oh, shit.”
“What?” says his companion.
“Hang on a second. Let me deal with this.”
I have my boxers on and one leg into my corduroys when my now ex-boyfriend turns on the light and walks in, eyes hard, auburn hair mussed.
“What are you doing here, Scott?”
I pull up my pants and fasten them hastily. I don’t understand why Edsel looks so angry. We’ve been together three whole months. I wanted to do something nice for him.
But I guess I got it all wrong.
I want to sob, but instead I hold up a shaking hand as I reach for my argyle socks. “We’re done.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “What the actual fuck, dude? I told you I needed a break.”
I stick my toes in one sock. “I thought you meant you were going away for work.”
“I did go away for work.” He puts a fist to his forehead and sighs. “We aren’t exclusive. You’re like Walter Mitty—creating these fantasies that just aren’t true. You need to live in the real world.”
“No, I don’t,” I mutter, putting my foot in the other sock.
“Scott, when someone tells you they aren’t interested, you have to listen.”
“You never said you weren’t interested.”
He groans and rubs the back of his neck. “Fine. I’m telling you now. I don’t know what goes on inside your head, but you can’t just break into my house like this. Or anyone else’s.”
“Ed, you might need to get a restraining order,” his companion says, entering the room.
I get a look at my replacement. His lips are kiss-stung, and he’s everything I’m not. My body type is kinda “gets by on ramen.” He likely consumes nothing but steak, because he’s huge, with muscles. I’m sure if he turned around he’d have a perfect, solid ass like that shiny CGI character from Deadpool 2.
Dammit.
With one swoop, I snatch my shirt, coat, phone, keys, and wallet, stick my feet into my unlaced boots, and hiss, “You asshole. I never want to see you again.”
“Then that makes two of us, sweetheart,” Edsel says, his hand on his hip.
Shoving past them both, I run into the bracing air, the wind stinging my tear-filled eyes. I’m still shirtless, wearing the bow tie. And now I don’t remember where I parked my car. I had to drive around, because this neighborhood never has parking.
I groan, which turns into a yelp from the chill, so I keep running, looking for my car.
When I finally find it and put my key in the ignition, it doesn’t start. Because it’s a 2003 Hyundai that hasn’t been serviced in … approximately forever. I should get it looked at—if I had the money for repairs. I know a good mechanic, but I can’t expect him to work for free.
For now, though, there’s a trick. Wiggling the key, I pump the brakes, and with a groan, the engine turns over. I get going and creep back to my house, coasting as often as I can because the fuel light is on. I can fill it up when I get my next paycheck.
Whenever that is.
My not-trusty vehicle sputters out of gas about three blocks from my house, so I pull over to the side. The neighborhood isn’t that great, but it’s not like I have anything valuable in the car.
I take a moment to take off the bow tie, fix the laces on my boots, and put my shirt on, and then I zip up my jacket. I lock my car and jog to my house in the dark night, thankful that all the hiking I do keeps me in shape.
When I get to my cruddy apartment—part of a charming, falling-down 1930s mansion that’s been carved up—I bound up the stairs into the common hallway.
“Is that you, Scott?” My ninety-seven-year-old neighbor opens her door a crack.
“Hi, Mrs. Olson. How are you?” As anxious as I am to get home and lick my wounds, I need to be polite.
“I was hoping you could help me with the Facebook.”
Despite the day, I grin. I adore Mrs. Olson. She doesn’t complain about aches or pains in her body, nor any gossipy issues with her large set of friends. Nope, her issue is Facebook. I hope to someday be ninety-seven with Facebook as my biggest problem. “Show me what’s going on.”
She lets me inside. Her mail is on the floor, having been stuffed through the slot in the door, so I pick it up and set it on her front table. Her warm apartment is in much better shape than mine—but then, her son owns the place.
I follow her into her living room, where there’s a tidy desk with an older desktop computer that her kids set up.
After she shows me how she can’t log on because she’s forgotten her password, we reset it together, and she’s back in business.
As I go to leave, she reaches for her purse, but I hold up my hand. “No, ma’am. This is me being neighborly.”
“I pay the Johnson boy to water my plants. I should pay you for helping me figure out this damn machine.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I want you to enjoy Facebook. Send me any of those recipe videos you find.”
“Then thank you. Have a good evening.”
“You, too.” I close her front door behind me. When I get to my place, I gather up my own mail, and criminently, there are a lot of “Final Notice” envelopes. I toss them on the counter. I can’t deal with them right now. There’s too much month at the end of the money. Every month. Freelance writing doesn’t pay the bills.
Throwing myself on my couch, I let myself process everything I’ve bottled up since Edsel unlocked his door.
I’d thought I had something going with a search-and-rescue hunk who made me feel like I was his entire world.
Apparently not.
I look around at my place—futon that serves as both couch and bed, rickety wooden table and chair I picked up on the side of the road that’s both desk and dining set, laptop that goes to the blue screen of death with the worst timing—and compare it to Edsel’s home, where everything works.
Maybe I’m not good enough for him.
I’m tired of being lonely, but I need to not date anyone for a while. Because that’s how I get tangled up in these crappy situations. I want so badly for someone to love me that I keep thinking this guy is the one. But I’m always wrong.
Getting up off the sofa, I put on a beanie. My apartment is freezing, because when I turn up the thermostat, I can’t afford the bill. I open the cupboard. Looks like Cup O’ Noodles for dinner again.
But I’m going to eat it on china, by candlelight, with a glass of two-dollar wine. And I’ll take a bubble bath afterward.
Pulling out a pan to boil some water, I think, enough is enough. I can’t live like this anymore.
New Scott is going to job search with a vengeance and get out of this shithole apartment.
And more importantly, new Scott isn’t going to fall for the next guy he meets. Because it always ends in disaster.