Thank You For Holding: On Hold Series Book #2, Page 2

  CARRIE

  "Oh. My. God. Oh my God!" Jamey is beside himself with ecstasy. "Carrie, look at this!"

  He is holding up a disembodied hand made of white china.

  "What is it?" I ask, laughing.

  "A vintage glove form," he answers. "This is perfect for your bedroom, to hold your jewelry. So graphic and cool. I'm buying it for you."

  We are in an antiques shop in a town filled with them, Essex, north of Boston. The perfect Saturday outing on a crisp September day. I'm flipping through a bin of hundred-year-old post cards, hoping to find a familiar scene. One of our hometowns, maybe, or someplace we've been together. I love to look at the messages written on the back in spidery script:

  Dear Maudie the baby is much better. Amos went to Bangor. Your Sister Edith

  And the impossibly brief addresses:

  M Chapin Rural Delivery Bucksport Maine

  “Very cool,” I say, half distracted. “It is perfect for my bedroom.”

  I like to imagine life without email or messages or even phones, when important news arrived by postcard and the postman already knew where you lived.

  Now the people answering the phone aren't even people. My new project at work is helping design the automated phone tree. You know, press 1 for hours, press 2 for directions, to book an appointment press 3 or stay on the line…

  I'm going to suggest another option: to describe your wildest sexual fantasy, press 4. Begin speaking at the tone; when you have finished, press O.

  My wildest fantasy? I make eye contact with Jamey, who grins at me.

  And then an image of Ryan at work in that g-string invades my brain, unbidden and unwelcome. Where did that come from? I shake my head like a wet dog and move on, stroking a tea tray covered in hand-painted roses, ignoring the flushed tingles that climb up the back of my body from Achilles heel to neck.

  How my name came up for this phone tree assignment at work is a mystery to me, unless someone noticed how often I have my cell phone glued to my ear and figured I was the world's expert. But I don't have to think about that until Monday.

  Jamey buys the porcelain hand and a silver cocktail shaker. I buy a German glass Christmas ornament in the shape of a clementine, the glass so thin, I can't imagine how it has survived for one hundred and twenty years or so. I can't wait to hang it on my tree. Someday — maybe soon — our tree.

  My girlfriends would kill to have a boyfriend who loves spending the day poking through dusty antique shops.

  I am so lucky.

  “We scored!” Jamey crows as I reach for his hand. He holds it with his fingers together, like a parent and child or brother and sister. We’re that close.

  Leaving the shop, we wander down the street toward the next one. Jamey has brought a wicker shopping cart on wheels to carry our purchases, and he pulls it along behind him. A few hundred yards down, he stops and pulls out his phone. From the wicker cart he extracts a selfie stick.

  I'm used to this routine. I touch up my lipstick quickly, then press my cheek to his, flashing my widest smile. Jamey likes to document our fun; our Facebook friends don't miss a single thing. They call us the Happy Couple.

  Sometimes I think I detect a certain sarcasm in their comments, but that's probably just me. Who could blame them if they were jealous?

  The next shop specializes in old maps, not really our thing. We keep walking, but suddenly Jamey stops short.

  "Remember we went in there once and the owner was a really nice guy? Really interesting? I wonder if he's working today." He peers through the display window. "Let's go in and see." When he looks at me, I get his eyes for a split second before he looks back at the shop. Excitement dilates his pupils.

  "It's just maps," I answer, reluctant. Why do guys love maps? They all look basically the same to me. "Tell you what, you go see and come meet me at the next place."

  He's already running up the steps to the door. Huh. The place must sell some really amazing antiquities.

  I can get really absorbed in browsing through bins and shelves, hunting for some unexpected uber-cool object, but after forty-five minutes I realize that Jamey hasn't appeared. Odd. I head back to the map shop, and there he is, just coming down the walk.

  "Hey, where've you been? It's no fun without you." I slip my hand through his arm, but he pulls away quickly and grabs his cart handle instead. He glances back at the store window.

  "Old maps are actually fascinating," Jamey tells me. "I think I might start collecting them. Kevin says he'll take me on his next buying trip!"

  “Who?”

  “Kevin. The map shop owner.” He lets out a little sigh, and then his face goes blank.

  Really?" I say doubtfully. "That's nice. While we're here, we should look for a wedding present for Jenny and Aiden. The wedding's in a month."

  Silence.

  "I am so excited their wedding is at the Chatham Beach Inn," I continue. "Our room has a king-sized bed and an incredible view — it's going to be so romantic! And you are going to look so hot as best man. A whole long weekend together, oceanside," I sigh, imagining our nude bodies twisted in the sheets, so much sex we can’t remember our own names.

  More silence.

  "Jamey?" He's studying a business card, which appears to be from the map shop. It has writing all over it. "Jamey?"

  "Yeah," he says quietly. "Romantic."

  He is uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the day, actually. We have an early dinner at a restaurant on the water and head back to Boston. The top is down on his BMW convertible and the stars overhead are beautiful. We talk a little bit, comfortably, about my college roommate’s job problems and Jamey’s new department chair.

  "Want to stay over at my place tonight?" I ask him in the car. "Seems like a really long time since we’ve… you know... we've both been so busy." I rub his neck and give him a hopeful smile. It’s been thirty-two days since we did more than kiss and cuddle, but who’s counting?

  "I don't think tonight's a good time." He doesn't take his eyes from the road. "But thanks."

  "Okay. Maybe tomorrow." A piece of concrete the size of my libido sinks into the bottom of my stomach.

  "I'm going to Chicago on Monday morning for that conference, so I think I need to spend tomorrow preparing. But thanks."

  I have to ask. I have to. "Jamey, is everything okay? With us, I mean?" My fingers worry a thread on the edge of the upholstered seat.

  "Of course it is," he snaps. "Why would you ask that? You are so needy sometimes. I told you I have to get ready for a meeting!" The growl in his voice fills me with shame. I’m not sure why.

  I am taken aback. "I'm sorry," I stammer. "You're right. I apologize."

  But he continues to stare straight ahead all the way home. When we get to my apartment in Southie, he helps me carry my purchases, plus the ceramic hand, up to the porch.

  "Sorry I wasn't very good company," he says, giving me a quick peck on the lips. "I guess I'm just stressed. I have a lot going on right now. I'll call you tomorrow."

  But he doesn't.

  RYAN

  After work most nights, Zeke and I head to this dive down the street from O, Tooney’s Bar. It reeks of old cigarette smoke and unwashed men, the soured beers of decades past all absorbed into the cheap paneling. Dart boards are everywhere, and the two stained pool tables in the bar are constantly busy.

  An antidote to a shift at O. No environment could be more different.

  Carrie normally works regular hours, so she’s not typically around for the night shift, which is what I pull four days a week. We pass each other mid-afternoon, like today, and then she leaves at 5:30 p.m. like all the other office drones, while the clients come pouring in.

  Zeke and I spend the post-corporate hours massaging women, listening to them talk about their worries, flattering them, and trying to bring a little spark of fun and light into the lives of overstressed, overshamed, overwhelmed women.

  Is our work frivolous? Should I go back to electrical enginee
ring like my sisters all say I should? Robots don’t sigh with relief when you unwind a nasty knot in their shoulder. They don’t tear up when you tell them they’re beautiful without the tummy tuck their new rich boyfriend insists they get.

  Then again, robots don’t pinch your ass, either.

  “Made a move on Carrie yet?” Zeke asks as we grab a couple of bar stools and lean. My first shot of tequila goes down like that moment you get home and kick off your shoes.

  “Shut up.”

  “Just asking. She was combing over you with those sweet brown eyes.”

  “Don’t talk about her eyes.”

  His nose twitches. “Got it. Eyes are off limits. I’ll talk about her tits instead.”

  I didn’t know I could growl. Was pretty realistic, too.

  “She’s not yours, Ryan. She’s Ja-mey’s.” His voice goes sickly sweet as he says Carrie’s boyfriend’s name.

  “It won’t last.”

  “No shit.” He barks out a laugh that is half belch, half snicker. “Does she realize he’s gay?”

  I bristle. We’re getting into dangerous territory. “You see it, too?”

  “You’d have to be daft not to.”

  “Carrie isn’t stupid.”

  “Then she’s in denial, or they have some sort of an arrangement.”

  “Arrangement?”

  “You read Dan Savage’s column? Maybe he fucks whoever he wants on the side, and she…. I don’t know. Who cares?”

  “I don’t think Carrie’s the kind of woman to have an arrangement.”

  “You have no idea what kind of woman Carrie is in bed, Ryan. You’re too chickenshit to find out.”

  “I know more than you think.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “You made a move?”

  “No.” Fuck. I just walked right into a trap.

  “She talks with you about her sex life? Jesus, Ryan, why don’t you just braid her hair and paint each other’s nails?” For whatever reason, this sounds way worse in an English accent as Zeke sucks down half of his pint of beer. He orders it straight from the tap in those big Pilsner glasses, wide at the top and more narrow at the bottom.

  I tense.

  “Oh, man… you do braid her hair, don’t you? When you watch those stupid survivalist shows with her? Might as well cut off your cock and hand it to her.” He holds an imaginary knife and cuts off his dick in Pretendland.

  “It’s not like that.” I give the pool tables a look. Long line to grab one. I groan inside. That means Zeke’ll want to play darts. I suck at darts. He’s a king. I am convinced they start teaching kids darts in England before they’re out of diapers.

  Zeke continues pretending, cackling maniacally as he chops off his own dick. I’m damn close to moving him into Realityland.

  “You friend-zoned yourself,” he says, then finishes his beer, slamming it on the scarred wooden bar. The bartender starts pouring him another, the dark lager contrasting with the white foam that forms up on top, like a beer toupée.

  “Shut up.”

  “Just tattoo ‘Friend Zone’ on your cock, man.”

  “Who tattoos their own junk?”

  Zeke just cocks — no pun intended — one eyebrow.

  I hold up my palm. “I don’t wanna know. And besides, I hate that term. Friend Zone.”

  “Because you’re it, dude. You turned yourself into The Nice Guy.”

  “I am a nice guy!”

  “Nice guys don’t get pussy.”

  “I don’t want Carrie’s — ” Okay. Even I can’t finish that sentence, because it’s not true.

  His eyebrow goes up, carrying the piercing along with it, like a ball of mercury in a thermometer, measuring something.

  Measuring my stupidity.

  “You want her bad, Ryan. Everyone in the spa can tell. We have a betting pool on you. There’s a grid and everything.”

  “You — you bet on my feelings for Carrie? Like the Final Four?”

  “Odds are 78 to 1 you’ll never man up and tell her how you feel.”

  “78 to 1!” That’s less than 1.3 percent. Damn.

  “Once I tell everyone you braid her hair while you’re watching Naked and Afraid, those odds will plummet even further.”

  “You’d seriously use what I tell you in private as leverage for a work betting pool?”

  “Do you even know me?” He laughs. “If it ups the size of my payout, shit yeah.”

  “You bet against me?”

  He shrugs. “Turns out I’m right.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Prove me wrong, then.”

  Chapter 3

  CARRIE

  Radio silence from Jamey is like the air being turned off. He said he’d text me “tomorrow,” and here it is. Tomorrow.

  No Jamey.

  On a normal workday, he texts me like fifty times. He can do this because he's an associate professor, so unless he's giving a lecture or in a meeting, his time is pretty much his own.

  Then there are his Snapchat photos. He spends his days in Harvard Square, so there's no lack of visual interest. Tats, burkinis, seven tour buses of Japanese families all taking pictures, virtuoso street musicians, fringe political protests, the limo of a visiting head of state. And that's on a quiet day.

  If no head of state that day, I get photos of his manicure (no polish, of course), a shirt he might buy, a shirt he might buy for me, his sushi lunch, his cat Ina Garten.

  It's a constant stream. And that's not even counting his Facebook posts or his tweets. I wait all morning for something to come in.

  I am not going to call him. He said he would call. He will call.

  “Carrie?” Chloe walks into the office, the very image of polished perfection. She’s so smooth. I mean literally smooth. You know how everyone has stray hairs that glow in backlighting? Not Chloe. You know how everyone has that weird skin tag, or a mole in the wrong place, or a slightly asymmetrical smile?

  Not Chloe.

  She’s dressed in this skin-tight gray crepe top paired with a prairie skirt and beaded shoes.

  “Nice look. Retro,” I muse, looking her over. “Retro with a disco flair and a western feel.”

  “Too much?” Her eyebrows go up slowly, face neutral. Chloe only gets nervous for two reasons: her boyfriend, Nick and her toddler daughter, Holly. Otherwise, Chloe is the epitome of cool.

  She’s my mentor. If I can cultivate one tenth of her sophisticated polish, I’ll be lucky.

  “There’s a touch of MOMA in here, too,” she adds, pointing to the beaded shoes.

  I squint. “Is that de Kooning? In beads? On shoes?” I’m breathless now.

  Her right eyebrow goes up even higher, which means I’ve impressed her. “Good call.”

  I shrug. “Twentieth century art history classes.” But I’m secretly pleased. When you’re a relentless people pleaser, praise is like crack.

  She beams. “I know you just graduated last year. All that work paid off.” She plops a folder on my desk. “We have some local beadmakers working with artisanal cobblers to come up with unique shoes we can market to clientele. All profits from these go to charity. This is a prototype. We need to work on rights acquisitions before we proceed.” As she lifts her knee to show off the glittering shoes, Ryan appears in the threshold.

  “Hey,” he grunts, suddenly shy, clearly flummoxed by Chloe’s presence. His eyes skitter to her leg, which is high enough in the air to show off substantial skin. Meanwhile, he’s showing even more skin, dressed in skin-tight black leather shorts, wearing a policeman’s hat and holding a riding crop. The hallway lighting highlights all the oil on his bare pecs.

  Just another day at work.

  “Hi, Ryan,” she says calmly, then turns to me with an expectant look. I still can’t read her, even after working here for two years. She’s either pissed we’ve been interrupted, inviting Ryan to join our conversation, or…

  But my reaction is the same. I get nervous. When I can’t read people, I assume the worst.
I give Ryan a long, slow look to distract myself, but all that does is make heat pool in parts of my body that need to remain cold and dry for my professional life to function properly. The oil makes all the hard lines of his muscles stand out.

  So does the tight leather. He, um, dresses left. Far left.

  So far left, I think parts of his body might cross the international date line.

  “I can come back later,” Ryan says quickly, his eyes on Chloe’s foot. “Nice shoes. They look like earrings for your feet.” He gives me a strange look, then retreats like he’s on fire.

  “Does Ryan have a problem with me?” Chloe asks, puzzled. Then her face morphs into marvel. “Earrings for your feet! Love it! I’m stealing that phrase.” She pulls a phone out of thin air and begins tapping the screen.

  My own phone buzzes with a notification. I let out a long breath, not realizing I’ve been holding it. That has to be Jamey. Has to.

  “What? Ryan? A problem with you?” I’m split in three, thinking about Jamey, Ryan, and Chloe at the same time. A tiny headache, a pinch really, forms at the bridge of my nose. I’m also caffeine deprived. That’s the easiest issue to fix.

  “Yes, Ryan.” She straightens herself — as if she needed to be even more smooth — and gives me a serious look. “He runs away every time I appear.”

  I actually know why Ryan does that, but I can’t tell her. Meanwhile, I need a cool drink to quench this strange burning feeling pulsing through me after looking at Ryan. I really need sex with Jamey. I am just a walking ball of libido lately.

  “He’s busy. Ryan, I mean. Trying to do a good job. You know.” I am a terrible liar.

  Chloe knows I’m a terrible liar.

  We stare at each other in perfect harmony, both silently agreeing that I am really, really bad at lying. There’s a reason why I changed my college major from public relations to design.

  “Okay,” she says in a clipped voice, smiling and frowning at the same time. “I came in here to ask about the phone tree again. Everything’s on track?”

  “Yes, including the new sex toy help desk.”

  She just blinks. “Help desk?”