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And so is “honey,” and “sweetie.” They’re icky.
If there are rules for good girls, then there should be rules for singles, and the number one rule would be no endearments outside serious, monogamous relationships. Casual endearments make the user look (a) weak, (b) desperate, and (c) cheap.
Valet pulls up with Tom’s BMW, and the uniformed kid climbs out from behind the wheel. “Nice car, isn’t it?” Tom says about his own car to the kid from valet.
The kid nods but doesn’t look as impressed as Tom probably thinks he should be.
We get in the car, and before we pull away, Tom leans over and kisses me. This is not a tentative kiss; this is big and wet and hard, right on the lips. His mouth feels funny against mine, and the hair on my nape tingles.
I try to dislodge myself, but Tom’s plunging ahead, pushing his tongue into my mouth, and my nails bite into the palms of my hands.
I don’t want the kiss, can’t imagine how he could feel one thing and I feel absolutely nothing, but I can’t say this, just as I’ve never been able to say what I really need. My eyes burn hot, a salty stinging, before I finally wrench away.
His thumb strokes my cheek. “You’re so sweet.”
I’m so not.
And then he guns the engine a little and pulls away from the curb. I’m disgusted, not with him but with me.
Tom turns the music up, cranking it all the way, and after he opens the sunroof again, he accelerates like mad.
Michael Andretti on his way home.
For a few minutes Norah or Sade or whoever she is fills the BMW with longing sound. I don’t buy CDs like this. I don’t find that this husky, throaty singing does anything for me.
Tom’s another story. His head is back against the seat; he’s driving as if all the blood in his body were rushing to his pants. I can feel the tension build. Something’s going to happen, and it’s not good.
Please just get me close to home before he makes a move. Please, God, just get me within walking distance. Please…
Tom’s hand settles on my thigh, a good six inches above my knee.
Obviously God’s not listening to me right now.
This is my fault. I married to avoid all this—married to sidestep the stuff I didn’t know how to do—and yet suddenly I’m alone again and even more vulnerable than before. How am I supposed to handle men if I don’t know how to handle myself? Or worse, if I don’t even know who the hell I am?
I’m screaming inside my head now. I don’t want to be divorced. I want to be married. I want to have kids and make pot roasts and string popcorn and cranberries for the most wonderful old-fashioned Christmas tree ever.
“I enjoyed tonight,” Tom says.
I try to make myself go numb, because hysterics are pretty much overrated and the screaming in my head doesn’t help my sense of calm or control.
And while I try to be numb, I try not to obsess about his hand, but his fingers are resting on the inside of my thigh, and they’re gently kneading the muscle—if there were muscle.
“Yes,” I say, and it’s strangled.
“You’re a lot of fun, Holly.” His hand is sliding up, his fingertips stretching.
What do I do? What do I do? Itry to calm myself; I force myself to think.
Cross the legs, Holly.
Good idea. I shift, cross my legs, trapping his hand between my thighs. He doesn’t seem to have noticed. I wiggle, trying to dislodge his hand. He uses the shift of my hips to try to go in for the kill, and this time I forcibly remove his hand. There’s no point in subtlety. “I’m flattered, Tom, and as great as you are, I’m not ready for anything more than friendship.”
“But I can take care of you.” His hand lands on my thigh again, this time the other one. “You need someone like me. Someone strong, sure of himself, someone—”
“Confident,” I conclude, knowing where this is going, thinking he’s got persistence on his side, that’s for certain. I remove his hand again. “As you know, I’ve just gotten out of a serious relationship, and I’m not ready to start anything new.”
Tom takes the corner fast, and I suddenly recognize my neighborhood. We’re not far from my apartment now. Just a couple of blocks.
