Heart Conditions (The Breakup Doctor Series Book 3) (14 page)

The worry in his eyes lightened ever so slightly. “Really?”

“You two are going to laugh about this someday—you’ll tell your grandkids about it when they come to you for love advice.”

Obviously my pep talk was working, because Stu started digging into his greasy sandwich with the lumberjack-like delicacy I was used to from him.

“But I need you to stop treating her like she’s made of china.”

He paused and glanced up. “What? I’m not—I’m just taking care of her. That’s the man’s job, taking care of his family.” As he thumped his chest with his left hand, a chunk of grouper tumbled from the sandwich in his right to the picnic table. Stu didn’t miss a beat, scooping it back up and shoveling it into his mouth, as I worked not to gag thinking about the pelican poop encrusted into the wood over the years.

“That is a really lovely sentiment,” I said dryly. “From a caveman. But you’re freaking her out—she doesn’t feel like
her
anymore. Suddenly she thinks everything has changed between you guys.”

Stu’s dark eyebrows knotted together. “Everything
has
changed.”

I dropped my bag of Doritos back to the table before I’d even slitted the cellophane, and pointed a stern finger at him. “No! That’s what you have to stop showing her. Change is terrifying her—especially one this big. You can’t go from zero to a hundred that fast—let things happen gradually. Organically. Quit pushing her to say yes to your proposal. Don’t talk about becoming parents all the time. Don’t baby her—she knows what she can handle.”

“I’m trying to be supportive. Let her know I’m totally on board. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do!”

“Well, in this case it’s the wrong response. Treat her like the same old Sasha. Be irresponsible and childish. Keep her out all night on a work night. Manhandle her like a sex puppet.”

Stu shook his head. “And you wonder why men don’t understand women.”

“Right now Sasha needs to feel like she’s still the same person and that you two are still the same couple. That nothing significant has changed.” I reached for the chips and tore the cellophane, pulling out a single triangle and licking off the nacho cheese. “This change has to come gradually for Sasha or she’s going to panic.”

Understanding was dawning slowly over Stu’s face. “Okay…I see what you’re saying now.”

Over the crunch of the chip in my mouth I almost missed his next words:

“It’s like boiling a frog—you just increase the heat so gradually he doesn’t even know he’s being cooked.”

fourteen

After I dropped Jake off that evening, a different passenger rode shotgun on the way home: Confusion filled the car as thoroughly on my way from Ben’s as Jake’s fluffy white butt had on the drive there.

I’d still been chewing uneasily over Stu’s words—
it’s like boiling a frog
—as I pulled into Ben’s driveway, but my worries lifted as soon as I saw the front porch lights blazing. He was home, and the prospect of spending some time with him instantly cheered me.

After grabbing us a couple of beers from the fridge, Ben filled Jake’s bowl and we stood chatting easily as we watched the dog Hoover up his kibble. Afterward he asked whether I’d like to join him and Jake for a quick walk. Which of course I did.

I wasn’t imagining things: The connection between us as we strolled along the quiet residential street he lived on was so strong, so effortless and comfortable and good, how could it not be inevitable that we’d end up back together, once the speed bump of Perfect Pamela had been (kindly and gently, of course) disposed of?

When we got back twenty minutes later and I finally announced that I had an appointment to get to, I didn’t imagine the disappointment I read on Ben’s face—he didn’t want me to go.

If I’d been meeting anyone but a client I’d have canceled. But Rae Ann was counting on me, and you didn’t let a brokenhearted person down. After one last swishing of Jake’s fur on his neck and shoulders, I said good night to Ben and let myself out.

My mind was a jumble as I drove. As cozy as things were getting with me and Ben lately, why hadn’t he said anything yet about what was going on between us?

Was he still not sure?

Was he waiting for me to say something?

What I needed was to hash things out with Sasha, the way we always did together to analyze opaque male behavior. But we wouldn’t have a chance to talk privately, at least until later. First we had a mission to accomplish.

Since I’d started my new practice, Sasha had been my resident expert in certain areas whenever I needed help with a client I wasn’t fully qualified to offer. These topics included fashion advice, hair and makeup consultations, and the exact legal statutes on stalking, vandalism, and breaking and entering. (We all play to our strengths.) She also happened to be fantastic at the social graces. Rae Ann needed a specific type of intervention—and I knew exactly who could offer it. Sasha was an absolute wizard at talking to men.

I’d invited her tonight not just for her social-coaching skills, though, but because I well knew the Rule of Three: No man would approach a pair of women for fear of leaving the wingwoman hanging, and a gaggle of them was too intimidating. Walking up to a trio, though, wasn’t as daunting as walking into a pack, and separating one from the herd didn’t leave anyone out in the cold. This also seemed like a fortuitous opportunity to get things with Sasha on an easier, more normal footing, and not focus so exclusively on the pregnancy. Stu’s “boiled frog” comment was still bothering me.

Chez Claude, downtown on Second, was a place Sasha and I had once spent a lot of time. The closest thing Fort Myers had to a singles bar, it was run by an aging expatriate Frenchman—the place was pronounced with a long O sound, “Clode’s,” and woe to any ugly Americans who pronounced it any other way (though Sasha and I had often sat at the bar, snickeringly referring to it—very, very quietly—as “Chezz Clawed”). The décor was a mix of classic European elegance and modern French pretension, with warm-toned faux-stuccoed walls artfully textured and revealing in places the “brick wall” behind it (which was actually artfully painted drywall). Red tablecloths dotted the dining area, each table sporting a vase (a “vahz,” as Claude called it) with a single perfect yellow rose, and accordion-heavy music played softly in the background. The menu, on a chalkboard on the wall, was of course in French. The bar area was vast—it took up more than half the space—and on any given weekend it would be packed wall-to-wall with singles on the prowl, as patrons in the adjacent dining area shouted to be heard over the din of their mating calls.

But on weeknights it was usually a quiet little oasis in the middle of downtown, hopping for happy hour with the denizens of the many law offices in the area, but quickly settling down later in the evening. It was perfect for what I had in mind tonight—giving Rae Ann enough opportunity to talk to men without overwhelming her.

After introductions, and my explanation to Rae Ann for Sasha’s presence, we settled in at the bar and ordered—sparkling water for Sasha, a glass of wine for me (with an apologetic glance to Sash, but I didn’t want Rae Ann to feel funny about drinking alone), and a bottle of Coors Lite—no mug—for Rae Ann.

“No,” Sasha said as soon as my client had ordered.

Rae Ann looked at her, bewildered. “What?”

“Belay that a moment,” Sasha said to the bartender, who went to help another customer while she turned back to Rae Ann. “Men snap-judge a woman who drinks beer in one of three ways: She’s easy, she’s a ballbuster, or she’s a lesbian.”

I might have taken some offense to that, but Rae Ann beat me to the punch.

“That’s crazy!” she protested as the bartender—an exceptionally attractive dark-haired thirty-something with gray-blue bedroom eyes and perfect straight, white teeth—returned with a stem glass and a bottle and began to pour for me.

“Excuse me,” Sasha said to him. “What’s your name?”

He gave her a slow grin that would have quickened the pulse of a dead woman. “When Claude’s here it’s Étienne. But otherwise it’s Eddie.”

“Of course it is,” she said, with her own electric smile. Flirting was as instinctive to Sasha as breathing. “Eddie, what are the women who get the most attention from men drinking at your bar?”

He didn’t even hesitate: “Cosmos.”

Sasha turned back to Rae Ann. “Cosmos say feminine but fun—they’re pink, but they’re strong. Men
love
a cosmo girl.” She turned back to Eddie, who was practically leaning across the bar toward her now; Sasha truly had a gift with men—and I knew she wasn’t even trying. “And what about the girls who drink beer, Eddie? What happens to them?”

“They sit here alone most of the evening, or with their girlfriends, usually trash-talking guys—until now and then one of them goes home at the end of the night with one of the left-behind remnants who couldn’t find anyone to hook up with before closing time.”

I rolled my eyes out of Rae Ann’s sightline. I suspected Eddie was exaggerating a fair amount to play into Sasha’s obvious script, but it didn’t matter—Rae Ann was staring at Sasha with something like idolatry.

“I’ll have a cosmo, please,” Rae Ann murmured, and Sasha patted her leg.

“Good girl. That’s step one. Step two—smile. You have to look approachable before anyone’s going to try to approach you, and a smile says, ‘I’m pleasant. I’m happy. I’m not scary.’”

“You make it sound like men are the ones who are nervous about this kind of thing,” Rae Ann said.

“Oh, honey! They are! Don’t you know that women have all the power at this stage?”

“They do?”

“
We
do,” Sasha said, winking. “Now let’s show you how to wield yours.”

Rae Ann was rapt, so I just stayed quiet and let Sasha lead the effort. I knew who was the master here. She reviewed the basics—the smile, eye contact, staying aware of the room and not getting too intent on our conversation, etc.

“So I get that you have to be open enough that they’ll come talk to you,” Rae Ann said finally. “But then what? I panic. I have nothing to talk about. I’m boring.”

I frowned. “Why do you think you’re boring, Rae Ann?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really follow current events. I’m not sparkly. I have a cat.”

“Do
not
talk about your cat,” Sasha jumped in.

“Yeah, I learned that one the hard way,” Rae Ann said dejectedly.

“Honey, again you’re underestimating your power here,” Sasha said. “It’s not up to you to entertain a man. It’s on him to impress
you
. This is what they’re hardwired for—to impress, to conquer, to
win
. All you have to do is give them the opportunity.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

I’d bowed out of their exchange again, but not intentionally: I was just fascinated to see Sasha in action. For all the issues she used to have with relationships, she was always a savant out of the starting gate.

She held up a finger to Rae Ann—“Watch”—then turned her gaze to Eddie, who was at the opposite end of the bar chatting with a customer. As soon as she caught his eye, she smiled and he bustled over.

“Do you need something, gorgeous?”

Sasha winked. “You read my mind. Could you tell me about your white wines?” she asked, pointing to my glass. I felt a flare of alarm, but tamped it down—she was clearly doing something.

“Why don’t you tell me what you like?”

The look she slanted him might have been suggestive or simply inquisitive—it was impossible to pin down. “You know something about wines, then?”

He flashed a dazzling grin. “Well, I know enough to make some suggestions. I’m studying to be a sommelier.”

“No kidding? What drew you to that?”

And they were off, Eddie telling her about everything from his interest in wines sparked from a vacation to Sonoma when he was in his twenties, to his training at a vineyard in Oregon, to his travels through Europe. It was at least another ten minutes in before they even got as far as talking about the house wine list.

“That’s a lot of really great info,” she told Eddie finally. “You know your stuff. Let me think about it for a few minutes.”

“You got it. Let me know when you’re ready. You ladies doing okay?” he asked me and Rae Ann. We nodded and he withdrew back to his other patron at the end of the bar.

“And
that
is how you have a conversation,” Sasha said, as though there’d been no interruption in her lesson.

Rae Ann looked confused. “But you were just ordering wine.”

“No.” She indicated the glass of Perrier in front of her. “Notice I have no wine. But I spent a good fifteen minutes getting to know Eddie.”

Rae Ann kept shredding the napkin she’d been savaging since we got there. “Well, obviously you’re good at talking to people. But I’m not,” she protested. “You can’t just create the gift of gab in someone if they don’t have it.”

“
Au contraire.
I barely spoke at all. All I did was ask a few questions here and there.”

Rae Ann shook her head. “No, you…” She trailed off, her forehead pleating, and I could tell she was replaying the exchange in her mind. “Oh,” she said finally. “You’re right.”

Sasha gave a very Gallic “but of course” shrug. It was easy to get infected by the spirit of Chez Claude. “Talking to a man is like catching a fish. All you have to do is drop the right bait, and then hold on while he plays the line.” It tickled me to see her using a metaphor clearly gleaned from my brother’s passion for fishing. “Men just want to feel fascinating—we all do. Find out what interests them, and then…just ask about it. They’ll take it from there.”

Rae Ann was looking at Sasha as if she were Moses on the mount. “That’s amazing.”

Sasha put a hand on Rae Ann’s to stop her relentless shredding. “And stop doing that. Even if you
are
sexually frustrated, there’s no need to advertise it.”

We wound up leaving Rae Ann at the bar. When Eddie came back Sasha told him she’d changed her mind about ordering wine—but that didn’t stop him from leaning across the bar and striking the conversational flint again. To our surprise this time Rae Ann leaped in, asking Eddie about Italy, one of her dream vacations. By the time Sasha and I said it was time for us to head home, Rae Ann blithely waved us on. I suspected Eddie’s heart (or his hormones) was following Sasha out the door, but he and Rae Ann were in a tête-à-tête about Tuscany when we left.

Sasha barely spoke the whole way to her apartment except to grunt agreement at my praise for her conversational coaching, and the sleeping serpent of dread in my belly, curled up and quiescent all night long, began to lift its head. When I pulled into a visitor’s spot, I stopped the car and turned to face her. “Okay. What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, waving me off as she reached for her purse with one hand and the door handle with the other. Quick as a bunny I hit the automatic lock, and Sasha sagged back in the passenger seat and gusted out a sigh. “Seriously, Brook—aren’t you bored with my drama by this point? I’m kind of fed up with my
self
.”

“I’m never bored with you.
Or
your drama. That’s what friends are for.”

“Okay, Dionne Warwick. Thanks.”

“I’m not kidding. Look,” I went on, “what you’re facing right now isn’t a broken fingernail, or even a bad breakup. This is huge life stuff—the biggest. If you’re struggling with it, that’s normal. You’ve got to go a little easier on yourself, Sash.”

In the reflection from the streetlight overhead I saw her eyes glistening. “Why are you being so nice about this? This ‘struggle’ you’re being so understanding about? Everything about it has the potential to really hurt your brother. To hurt you. And your family—” Her voice broke on the last word and hung in the dim silence.

“Sasha,” I said quietly. “You
are
my family.”

Tears spilled over her eyes and streaked illumination down her cheeks. I said nothing else, just rested a hand over hers on the console, and waited at her side while fear and sorrow had their way with her. My every instinct was screaming for me to say something, help her, fix this—but some things, I was coming to learn, I had to let run their course on their own.

Finally she moved her hand from under mine and reached into her purse for a tissue, wiping her face and dabbing at her eyes.