Playing It Safe(3)

“You use a vibrator?” he asks with an obvious smirk in his tone, like he didn’t hear anything else I just said to him.

“Good night, Dick.”

“Wait! I just meant—”

I don’t even wait to hear the rest of what he just meant. Opening the car door as he’s still bumbling to form a coherent string of words that would closely resemble a sentence, I make my way to my front door. Once inside, I slam it behind me and turn the dead bolt for good measure. I heave a sigh of relief that that’s all over and done with, and this new phase of my life can immediately begin.

One thing to know about me, I’m pretty big on lists. And this occasion lends itself to a list for the ages. Feeling resolved in my newfound singledom, I kick off my heels and toss my purse and keys onto the floor before making my way to the kitchen, because this list calls for a big-ass glass of wine.

“Ha! I can’t believe he actually thought he was going to get some,” I say out loud to absolutely no one. Ever since my old roommate and best friend, Sabrina, moved away about a year ago, sometimes I forget that there is nobody here to listen to me rant. We keep in touch often and Skype frequently. So much so that her boyfriend, Tyler, thinks we’re completely and utterly nuts. I miss her like crazy, but I’m so happy for her because she’s found the love of her life, and more than anyone I know she deserves it.

But back to my current dilemma. The list. Yes, the almighty list that will help me focus on the important goals and any other bullshit I can think of while the wine seeps into my bloodstream.

1. Focus on career.

2. No more dating losers because of number one.

3. Try to take a pottery class. Yeah, probably not something I want to do … ever.

I sit back and stare at the list while taking a sip of wine. Not my finest, most detailed list in my whole twenty-nine years of list making, but I like it. It’s short, to the point, and serves its purpose in reminding me of my goals. To drive the point home, I go one step further. I sprint for my laptop that’s on the coffee table and log on to my Match.com account to disable it before I chicken out.

There, I feel sooooo much better. Like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I’m sure the alcohol has something to do with it, but who cares? I kick my feet up, feeling empowered by my new sense of self, and turn on the TV to unwind before going to bed. Glancing at the clock, I do a little fist pump when I realize I’m not too late to catch another rerun of my favorite comedy. I hurry and change the channel before relaxing back into the couch, ready to laugh for a little while before calling it a night.

“Make me laugh, Jerry.”

Yeah, I might need to work on this talking out loud stuff … I’ll add it to the list tomorrow.





CHAPTER TWO


Niña, estas de madre,” my assistant calls out to me while walking into my office.

That’s Lisette, my Girl Friday, telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I’m a hot mess. I don’t speak fluent Spanish, but I’ve lived in Miami my entire life. I know the basics, and of course over the years I’ve learned a variety of curse words and phrases, so I get by … and she’s right.

I am a hot mess.

I have been for the past three and a half weeks since my date with Dick when I swore off men. So yeah, Lisette pretty much just hit the nail on the head. It’s not like I’m some crazed sexual deviant, but come on! Three weeks! That’s one hell of a dry spell, and it might also explain why I’ve been lusting over the UPS guy every time he drops by my office.

From my vantage point, I have a clear shot of the receptionist’s desk. Without fail, at one fifteen p.m. every day, give or take a few minutes, he appears before my eyes like a mirage in the desert. Then circa 1970s cheesy porn music starts playing in my head, and what do I have? A recipe for disaster, that’s what. Because what I’ve left out is that Mr. UPS Guy is probably in his mid to late fifties, with a beer belly and bald. I’m not knocking bald men. Nope, not at all. Some men can really rock that look, like The Rock and Bruce Willis. But this guy isn’t even close to that caliber of hotness.

Did I mention that he has really nice calves? They’re like perfectly formed muscles shifting ever so slightly and sexily as he prances in front of me.

You don’t believe me?

Well, trust me, he does.

“Ugh, Lisette, I know I’ve been in a piss-poor mood lately. Sorry.”

Lisette eyes me carefully while getting her pad and pen ready for our daily afternoon meeting. As I’ve come to expect, her ensemble is perfect, with a smart charcoal-gray pantsuit that is complemented by a black chiffon blouse. If I didn’t know her so well, I would never be able to tell she’s not a natural blonde. Then again, I know she goes far out of her way to ensure that nobody ever knows that about her. She’s a Miami native, just like me, and she married her high school sweetheart. They have twin boys who are about to go off to college. She doesn’t look a day over thirty, and that’s only my best guess since she keeps that kind of intel on lockdown. But whenever I get an opportunity, I ply her with drinks to see how much I can get out of her. It never works; she just ends up sloppy and drunk off her ass. Lisette is also the only woman I know who can pull off blood-red lipstick year-round. She can work the shit out of that look better than any runway model could. And it doesn’t matter if you bump into her at a grocery store on a Sunday afternoon; undoubtedly she’ll be sporting the red even if the rest of her looks like crap. I’ve known her for … I can’t say for sure how long I’ve known her, since she started off working here as my dad’s assistant. Needless to say, we go way back—waaaay back. We usually get together at least once a day to go over any loose ends on upcoming events my company is planning or hosting. These afternoon “meetings” usually consist of about a half hour of actual business, immediately followed by another half hour of shooting the shit and gossiping.