Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
Let’s just say I was both turned on and amused. Would we call that a cousin of schadenfreude? Meaning . . . turned on while secretly laughing at your expense.
* * *
Yours in we need a new word for that,
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
I believe that’s called arousement.
* * *
Yours in made-up words,
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
A state best enjoyed with a couple more orgasms and a glass of Merlot. Also, you’re welcome for the additional Os.
* * *
Yours in multiples,
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
I thanked you last night for them, you greedy man.
But if you want more gratitude, here goes. I thoroughly enjoyed my Friday afternoon and evening with you. I indulged in cock, a rich red wine, a decadent slice of chocolate cake, terrific company, and that incredible spinach and mushroom risotto. Well done.
* * *
Yours in I really did enjoy myself,
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
I see you mentioned everything in order of enjoyment.
* * *
Yours,
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
Yes. In ascending order. The risotto was really good.
* * *
Yours in last words,
Bellamy
30
Bellamy Hart’s Planning Notes for A Million Frogs . . .
Time to start over.
To rip out the pages from the prior notebooks and begin again. But how the hell do I start with someone like Easton? I know how to make a dating profile for me. Been there, done that. Have the scars and the smiles to show for it. I can make one for any of my girlfriends too.
But for a guy who makes risotto that makes my taste buds sing? Who works with his badass grandma? Who’s familiar with Mrs. Whatsit? And who knew, too, just what to say to me when I felt terribly stuck, and then again when I felt free?
On the other hand, he’s also a guy who doesn’t want to date.
He’s a conundrum, and I don’t want to lead anyone on when I make his profile.
Least of all, myself.
So, I sit down to write him another letter, a little scared that these have become the best parts of my day.
Scared, and a little thrilled too.
31
All of the Above
During my run on Sunday morning, I mull over ideas for my meeting with Victoire’s PR department later this week.
The Twitter chatter has died down. Because that’s how social media cycles work—they reset whenever there’s a new outrage over whether pumpkin spice lattes have a right to exist or a celebrity should have an emotion. Still, Angeline made her wishes clear, and my job is to deliver for the client.
I’m solo on the trail today—I do my best thinking when I’m not smack-talking with my friends or laying down bets—so I peel off a few miles as the cogs turn.
I pass a man and a woman running together pushing a jogging stroller, then a pair of women who slow their pace to snap a selfie of a chaste kiss, then more solo runners.
The inkling of a publicity idea takes shape, but it needs more work, so I file it away, then head home to shower before I meet Spencer and Coco.
Grandma might not like spa getaways, but she loves her mani-pedis.
My cousin doesn’t think he heard me right.
Nor does my grandma.
So, I repeat myself.
“Bellamy and I have an understanding,” I explain as I dip my feet into the foot tub, wiggling my toes in the bubbly water. An attentive woman sets up to begin a This Little Piggy Pedi at Daisy’s Nails on Madison Avenue.
I’ve been accompanying Grandma to her weekly pedicures for years now. This shit is awesome and any dude who tells you otherwise can fuck off.
Spencer cracks up as he leans back in the cushy chair. “An understanding is a euphemism I haven’t heard before.”
“A euphemism for what?” I ask him.
“Sex, darling,” Coco says matter-of-factly.
I jerk my gaze toward her. “Really?”
“Hot, up-against-the-wall sex? All-night-long sex? Is that better?”
“That’s not what I meant by really,” I say.
“Then what did you mean?” she asks. “Did I get it wrong? Is your understanding with Bellamy for cooking lessons? A fantasy baseball league? A book club?”
“That one sounds like your speed, E,” Spencer says, turning the rollers even higher.
“I’m not opposed to sex and book clubs,” I say.
“Why don’t you let Bellamy know that, then?” Spencer asks. “Ladies love to hear when you reduce them to sex plus a favorite hobby.”
“Gee, thanks for the tip,” I say drily.
“He has a point, though, munchkin,” Coco chimes in. “Understandings for no-strings-attached nookie can get a little complicated.”
“But isn’t that your thing, Coco? Isn’t that what your whole life is about? No strings?” I counter.
“And I’m nearly eighty years old.”
Spencer scoffs. “You said fifty the other day.”
She flashes him a bright smile. “My favorite grandchild.”
“Forty,” I put in.
“My most favorite now,” she says to me, then takes a sip and sets her flute on the tray. “The point is this—I know how to have no-strings-attached sex. But understandings are very different when you’re approaching eighty. At my age, you show your cards. You leave the games at the poker table.”