For the First Time: Twenty-One Brand New Stories of First Love (34 page)

“None of the people we hang out with though, right?”

Do we count
the prissy Donna who, at the last Super Bowl party Wyatt and I co-hosted, said I should lay off the chip dip if I wanted to ever snag a man? I informed her that I love jalapeño, bacon, and red pepper dip, and it’s impossible to lay off that stuff unless you don’t believe in food.

She told me to believe in food a little less. I’m not a fan of Donna.

“Lisle?” he prompts impatiently.

“No. No one we hang out with.” I mean, honestly, I see Donna three times a year at the most. She hooked Keith good and he’s not allowed to see his friends because he has too much fun with us. Literally, that’s what she said during the Fourth of July party. But it’s nearing Christmas so she’ll have to let poor Keith out of his cage for our annual pre-Christmas bash.

“You going to tell me if you are being hassled?” He levels a glare at me.

“Are you going to go around punching people?”

“If they’re being assholes, yes.”

“Then no. I’ll keep that info to myself.” I place the glass on the counter and move past Wyatt, making sure there’s enough space between us so we don’t accidentally rub up against each other or I might jump him.

I learned that lesson about four months ago. We’d both tried to go into the construction trailer at work at the same time, and I swear my hand brushed his jeans in an area where only his girlfriend should be touching. It felt big and hard and I had the very best self-help sessions for a week afterward imagining that monster working its way between my legs and in my mouth.

“Why would you keep it to yourself?” His tone is one of frustration.

“Because I’m a big girl, and you don’t have to go around hitting everyone who is so miserable that they feel the need to build themselves up by tearing me down. It doesn’t bother me,” I insist. I drop into the single chair and lift my feet up on the coffee table.

I used to sit on the sofa next to Wyatt, but a few months ago, about the time I started fantasizing about him during my
me-times
, I gave that up. It was too painful. So I sit in this solo chair and Wyatt gets the sofa all to himself.

He sits in his usual spot—right in the middle and throws his feet onto the coffee table. We are almost touching. His sock-covered toes and my sock-covered toes. It’s as much intimacy as I can handle.

“It bothers me,” he grumbles, but lets it go. He flicks on the television again.

I pick up my notepad. We’re planning the pre-Christmas bash—the one that Keith gets to attend. It’s something we’ve held, jointly since freshman year when all the students went home but the poor football team. Wyatt played and so did many of our friends. Only one of them went pro—Ty Masters. The team was supposed to be good, but injuries and illnesses and scandals wore that team down until we counted it a success when they eneded up with the same number of wins as losses.

But the bonds they’d formed on the team were lasting, and many of us stuck around, got jobs, and started growing up. We refused to allow those friendships die off. We’d go out on Friday and Saturday nights. Watch games on Sundays. Meet for Monday Night Football.

As the years wore on, though, the number of participants at these social gatherings dwindled, and often it was just Wyatt and me. Mostly because we live across the hall from one another.

“Why do you still live here?” I ask suddenly. Wyatt can easily afford someplace else. I should know. I write out his check.

“Why do you?” he counters. He knows my financial status as well. We both work at Cunningham and Associates, formerly known as Cunningham and Sons until I convinced my dad a year ago that since I didn’t have a penis, the
son
word was misleading.

“Good question.” My answer is because Wyatt lives across the hall, but if I’m making changes in my life, if I’m truly going to move on from this horrible unrequited love that burns me up inside, then moving makes a lot of sense.

That should be top of my list, even above getting a haircut, going to the make-up counter, and buying new clothes. I nod firmly. Getting a new place is priority number one.

“I’m going to move,” I announce.

“
What?!
” Wyatt shouts, rocketing off the sofa like it has a spring trap beneath his butt. “Since when?”

“Since right now. You’re right. There’s no reason for me to be living in this place anymore.”

“What’s wrong with this place?” He places his hands on his lean hips, the movement, pulling his already low-riding jeans down so I can see the black strip of his Under Armour underwear.

I inhale deeply and breathe out through my nose, thankful that my female body is made in such a way that he can’t tell how hot I find him. Or how hot he makes me.

“It’s too small.” The apartment has one bedroom, one bathroom, a living space, and a tiny galley kitchen. It was fine when I was first out of college, but I want to outgrow it. I want a big house with lots of people in it.

“What do you need more space for?” He looks genuinely confounded.

“I want…more.” I don’t feel comfortable telling him that I want to get married. I suppose because I don’t want him to remind me of my own oft-stated proclamations about the tired state of marriage, nor do I want him to look at me with shock because he doesn’t think I’m marriageable material.

“More what?” His confusion has morphed into suspicion, and he turns those golden eyes toward me. I look away. I can’t be caught in his tractor beam of a gaze which compels me to spill silly secrets such as the one time I confessed to stealing a beef jerky stick at the gas station on a road trip to see our friend Ty because I’d forgotten my wallet. I mailed the owner a five dollar bill hoping he’d forgive me. Wyatt called me the beef thief for far too long after that which was more than enough punishment for my wrongdoing.

“More space. More room. More. Just more,” I answer. I stand up and smooth down my leggings. Since it was just Wyatt and me, I pulled on my stretchy yoga pants and tossed an old t-shirt over it. I think it was Wyatt’s at one time. It has ‘Southern Texas University Football’ on it.

Wyatt’s eyes fall to my legs and stay there too long. Does he think my thighs are too big for leggings?

“You don’t need more space,” Wyatt argues. “This place is perfect for you.” He waves a hand around. “You decorated it just the way you’ve wanted—with lots of color and stuff.”

My apartment is colorful, from my mustard yellow sofa to the retro, blue velvet side chairs. The curtains are a white and yellow stripe with wide blue bands around the bottom. It’s comfy and pretty and yet not overly feminine. I realize that I decorated it with Wyatt in mind.

I decide that my next home will be decorated in all white, minimalistic with only splotches of gold—no, silver. Gold and yellow and any shades stemming from that parent color shall be prohibited. I don’t want any reminders of Wyatt and my old life in my new one.

“Yup, and this will give me a new opportunity. Time to go.” I start pushing Wyatt toward the door. It’s not easy. He outweighs me by at least seventy pounds. The man is solid. He doesn’t work out because his entire day consists of lifting, carrying, pushing and pulling lumber, concrete, rebar, and anything else involved in the commercial construction business otherwise known as Cunningham and Associates.

Wyatt digs in his heels, and I only manage to move him about two feet.

“Is something wrong, Lisle?” he asks at the door.

He walks out and seeing him across the threshold, outside of my apartment, sends a pang of heartache deep into my heart. “No,” I reply and shut the door gently in his face.

Yes, my life
, but I’m going to fix that. I’m going to fix everything.

“W
hat did you
do to your hair?” Wyatt frowns at me.

I pat the side of it so I don’t mess up the style. “I got it cut.” And colored and styled. The whole process took over two hours. I had a long lunch. “Is it bad?”

The stylist cut my long hair into layers so that I could wash, blow dry, and go. I was informed I’d have to come in every three weeks, but I enjoyed getting my head and shoulders rubbed. I didn’t think that would be too big of a sacrifice.

The biggest difference were the bangs. There’s a fringe across the top of my forehead that now frames my face and highlights my so-called “killer” cheekbones. The stylist and the make-up lady made a big deal out of those. The bangs didn’t make me look childish as I’d feared when the cut had first been proposed.

I thought it looked amazing, but Wyatt’s unhappy face has me second guessing it.

He grunts. “It’s different.”
Different? In what way?
I want to ask, but I bite down on my tongue. Wyatt’s approval is unnecessary and unwelcome, I remind myself. It’s hard to hear over the galloping of my heart whenever Wyatt appears.

“Is that where you’ve been this whole time?” he asks. He slaps down a roll of plans. “I was here an hour ago because I needed you to sign off on these invoices so we could get moving on stage two.”

“I’m sorry.” I sit down and pull out my pen. “You’re allowed to sign them now, you know. You don’t need me.”

“Since when?” he scoffs.

“Since your dad retired and moved to Florida,” I remind him, signing the last of the invoices and passing the stack back to him. His hand, lightly dusted with golden hair, rests like a glorious paperweight on the edge of my desk. I’d love to make a cast of it, and then I could hold it—God, is that creepy or what? I shake my head in dismay. Excising Wyatt from my heart isn’t as easy as snipping off two inches from the bottom of my hair.

Wyatt sighs, an aggrieved and unhappy sound. “I know my dad retired. I still need you.”

“You don’t,” I say. “Your name is on the Cunningham and Associates partnership agreement. Is it the name? We can change the name, but originally you said you didn’t want to because the brand had been built up. I don’t mind, though. Let me get Grant on the phone and he’ll whip up an amendment to our corporation papers.”

Wyatt’s frown deepens to a scowl. “Is this about Grant Wilkins?”

“Is what about Grant?” I ask with frustration. It seems like Wyatt and I can’t even communicate anymore. We used to be able to finish each other’s sentences and now it’s difficult to even carry on the simplest conversations. He seems to be talking about one thing and me another and neither of us understand each other.

“This.” He gestures toward me. “The hair. The move. Is Wilkins making you do this?” Wyatt asks angrily.

“No. What does Grant have to do with anything? He’s our company lawyer.” I couldn’t be more confused.

“You had lunch with him yesterday and dinner with him last week.” Wyatt punches the dates on my calendar pad with a forceful finger.

“He asked me to go over our minutes. He thinks we need to do a better job of conducting monthly meetings and keeping appropriate business documents. He wanted to show me an example.”

“And that had to be done over dinner at the Bistro?” Wyatt mocks.

“What’s wrong with eating and working at the same time? We used to do that all the time.”

For some reason that’s entirely the wrong thing to say, because Wyatt shoves away from the desk with obvious anger and stomps to the trailer door. “Fuck it. You want to be with Wilkins then be with fucking Wilkins.”

“What?” I jump up and run after him. “What are you even talking about?”

“You and Wilkins!” He leaps from the trailer as if my nearness is an anathema to him.

“There is no me and Grant!” I yell after him, but my words are lost in the noise of the construction site, and Wyatt stalks off toward the job site.

My phone rings. I pull it out of my back pocket with a sigh. The screen reads ‘Rachel.’ Is it bad to ignore your sister? Probably. I press ‘Ignore’ and tuck it back in my pocket. Then the office phone rings. I suspect it’s Rachel again, but it might be a supplier or a sub-contractor so I answer it.

“Lisle!” Aaaaand it’s Rachel.

“Hey, Rachel,” I answer flatly.

“I wish you’d answer your cell phone,” she sighs. “Am I that terrible to talk to?”

“No. It’s just that…” You’re perfect. You have the beautiful husband, the two funny, sweet kids, and the gorgeous house in the suburbs. You have a graduate degree in English literature but spend your days volunteering at a domestic abuse shelter. Basically, you are living the life I want, and every time I talk to you, I’m reminded how very empty and lonely my life is.

“Just what, honey?” she asks softly. I wonder if having a baby gives you special insightful powers.

“I need a makeover,” I blurt out.

“What?” she shrieks. I hold the phone away from my ear. “I’m coming over. Are you at the job site? I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Don’t move.”

Rachel shows up in twenty minutes, her youngest in tow. “Oh good, I thought you might leave.”

She shoves two-year-old Lauren into my arms, a bundle of sweet-smelling, curly-haired girl.

“Auntie Leesee,” she coos, and rubs her soft cheek against mine. My ovaries explode. Yes, I want this. I want this so bad. And I want it with Wyatt, but he’s not for me so I need to find someone who is.

Rachel drops into my desk chair. “Tell me everything and start with your hair. It looks amazing. I love your bangs.”

I run my finger along the fringe. It’s taking some getting used to.

“What’s there to tell you?” I pull a hank of hair out of Lauren’s surprisingly strong grasp and give her a ruler instead, which she promptly uses to bang me on the head. “I’m tired of my look. My hair was blah which I fixed, but my clothes are even more blah.”

“You want a man,” she states with authority.

I scrunch up my nose. “Maybe I just want to feel good about myself.”

“You want a man,” she repeats.

“Fine,” I sigh. “I’m tired of being alone. I want your life.”

She laughs. “No, you don’t. You would be bored to tears living in the suburbs and not working. You love your job, and you’re damned good at it.”

Her sincere compliments warm me from head to toe. “I do love my job,” I admit. Rachel spent a lot of time with Mom, while I was a total daddy’s girl. Still am. I followed him around on the job sites and spent more time wearing overalls and mini work boots than in dresses and at parties. I knew as much about the construction business as anyone, which is why Dad felt comfortable going on a six-month sabbatical with Mom around Europe, leaving Wyatt and me in charge. “But I’m lonely.”