dunno,” Andy says with a shrug, his hair
flopping down in his eyes as he leans in to put his camera into its
sturdy Port-a-Brace bag. “I guess I just don’t think this is such a
good idea.” He zips his camera bag, averting my gaze.
“The bateau top? You really hate it that
much?”
“You know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“You looking for this, this…” His voice
trails off. He can’t say the words.
“Oh c’mon. You probably want a Trophy
Husband as much as I do.”
“Ha. But not funny.”
“Fine. Sorry. But I’m twenty-seven, you’re
twenty-nine. Don’t you like a hot young guy?”
“Who I like is not what I’m worried
about.”
“Andy, what are you worried about?”
“Anyway.” He hoists the bag on his shoulder
and heads to the stairs.
“Hey.” I follow him. “This is not how we
have conversations. This is not how we talk. Don’t walk away. Talk
to me.”
“McKenna.” He sighs.
“What, Andy? What is it?”
“I don’t think you should look for a guy on
TV.”
“One, I am not looking for a boyfriend. I’m
looking for a husband,” I say, correcting his word choice. But, to
be honest, the two words are kind of interchangeable for me: A
Trophy Husband feels a hell of a lot more like a boyfriend right
now, especially since husband is a term I’m not terribly fond of,
given how the almost husband I had dumped me. But Trophy Boyfriend
just doesn’t have the same ring to it. “Two, it’s not TV. It’s the
Web. Three, it’s not even about the guy. It’s about making a
point.”
“Look, I’m just worried. You don’t know what
sort of problems this is going to create. I gotta go.”
Then he shuts the front door behind him.
Later, after the video posts, Erin calls
from work. “You are so totally wearing that bateau top. It’s you.
No question about it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I loved it and Julia loved it. I
couldn’t reach Hayden because she was meeting with a client, but I
say two out of three ain’t bad.”
I laugh as I step away from the computer.
“You’re crazy. I can’t believe you called the Brain Trust to survey
them on my wardrobe choices.”
“We’re your inner circle. We are part of
this project. We watched the video together. Well, on the phone,
but together. And if viewers get to have a say, we get to have a
say as well in every single aspect of the Trophy Husband quest,
including how you dress.”
“So it is written, so it shall be.”
“And details, McKenna. We all wants details
on the date.”
As I say goodbye to Erin, I keep thinking
how my girlfriends are always the ones who know what’s best for
me.
* * *
I told you so.
When I see those four words in my text
messages, I tense. Was Andy right? Are there some weird problems
already?
Then I see the name. Chris. The Video Game
Guy with the green eyes and the smile that both melted me and made
me want to climb up on his body and wrap myself around him.
I tap the message, opening it fully. There’s
a close-up picture of my camera, zoomed in on the the green
on-button. He pulled it off.
I write back. Wow, you are Mr. Fix-It.
Minutes later he
replies: I’m having tee-shirts made up
with that saying. In any case, your camera works again, so let me
know how to return it to you.
I stare at the message. For a minute. Then
another. I don’t know what to say. Should I say “by mail” is fine?
Or “Should we meet for coffee?” But that would be so weird. He
didn’t ask to meet for coffee, just to give me back my camera. Am I
supposed to suggest a meeting place? A means to return it? Carrier
pigeon? Dog sled? I am entirely baffled, and so I stand at my
kitchen table, the phone in my hand.
There’s a scratching sound. I turn. Ms.
Pac-Man is looking out the bay window at a squirrel racing across a
tree branch. Then another buzz. It’s the phone. Chris is calling.
His name on the screen startles me, and I’ve lost all capacity to
react normally. So for some inexplicable
flopping down in his eyes as he leans in to put his camera into its
sturdy Port-a-Brace bag. “I guess I just don’t think this is such a
good idea.” He zips his camera bag, averting my gaze.
“The bateau top? You really hate it that
much?”
“You know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“You looking for this, this…” His voice
trails off. He can’t say the words.
“Oh c’mon. You probably want a Trophy
Husband as much as I do.”
“Ha. But not funny.”
“Fine. Sorry. But I’m twenty-seven, you’re
twenty-nine. Don’t you like a hot young guy?”
“Who I like is not what I’m worried
about.”
“Andy, what are you worried about?”
“Anyway.” He hoists the bag on his shoulder
and heads to the stairs.
“Hey.” I follow him. “This is not how we
have conversations. This is not how we talk. Don’t walk away. Talk
to me.”
“McKenna.” He sighs.
“What, Andy? What is it?”
“I don’t think you should look for a guy on
TV.”
“One, I am not looking for a boyfriend. I’m
looking for a husband,” I say, correcting his word choice. But, to
be honest, the two words are kind of interchangeable for me: A
Trophy Husband feels a hell of a lot more like a boyfriend right
now, especially since husband is a term I’m not terribly fond of,
given how the almost husband I had dumped me. But Trophy Boyfriend
just doesn’t have the same ring to it. “Two, it’s not TV. It’s the
Web. Three, it’s not even about the guy. It’s about making a
point.”
“Look, I’m just worried. You don’t know what
sort of problems this is going to create. I gotta go.”
Then he shuts the front door behind him.
Later, after the video posts, Erin calls
from work. “You are so totally wearing that bateau top. It’s you.
No question about it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I loved it and Julia loved it. I
couldn’t reach Hayden because she was meeting with a client, but I
say two out of three ain’t bad.”
I laugh as I step away from the computer.
“You’re crazy. I can’t believe you called the Brain Trust to survey
them on my wardrobe choices.”
“We’re your inner circle. We are part of
this project. We watched the video together. Well, on the phone,
but together. And if viewers get to have a say, we get to have a
say as well in every single aspect of the Trophy Husband quest,
including how you dress.”
“So it is written, so it shall be.”
“And details, McKenna. We all wants details
on the date.”
As I say goodbye to Erin, I keep thinking
how my girlfriends are always the ones who know what’s best for
me.
* * *
I told you so.
When I see those four words in my text
messages, I tense. Was Andy right? Are there some weird problems
already?
Then I see the name. Chris. The Video Game
Guy with the green eyes and the smile that both melted me and made
me want to climb up on his body and wrap myself around him.
I tap the message, opening it fully. There’s
a close-up picture of my camera, zoomed in on the the green
on-button. He pulled it off.
I write back. Wow, you are Mr. Fix-It.
Minutes later he
replies: I’m having tee-shirts made up
with that saying. In any case, your camera works again, so let me
know how to return it to you.
I stare at the message. For a minute. Then
another. I don’t know what to say. Should I say “by mail” is fine?
Or “Should we meet for coffee?” But that would be so weird. He
didn’t ask to meet for coffee, just to give me back my camera. Am I
supposed to suggest a meeting place? A means to return it? Carrier
pigeon? Dog sled? I am entirely baffled, and so I stand at my
kitchen table, the phone in my hand.
There’s a scratching sound. I turn. Ms.
Pac-Man is looking out the bay window at a squirrel racing across a
tree branch. Then another buzz. It’s the phone. Chris is calling.
His name on the screen startles me, and I’ve lost all capacity to
react normally. So for some inexplicable
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