Mai Tai'd Up
Page 7

I winced.
“You don’t have to marry him, but you do need to explain your actions yesterday. You owe them both that much.”
And with a rustle of paper, the voice of reason disappeared once more behind the financial section. Call Charles. Hmm. I could do this. I could do this. I picked up the phone, then put it down. Yikes. What was I going to say? What could I say? How could I tell him why, when I wasn’t 100 percent sure myself? I picked up the phone again, then put it down again.
The third time I reached for it, the voice behind the paper said, “For goodness’ sake, Chloe, I think you can have breakfast before you explain yourself. Go get a bagel and stop fidgeting.”
Reprieved. I exhaled gratefully and headed for the toaster oven. I knew couldn’t dodge those two much longer. But did you know that if you pick off every single sesame seed and every single garlic crispy thingie from an everything bagel before you eat it, it can take over an hour? Especially if you count the poppy seeds too . . .
By noon, I’d listened to all the messages that had poured in yesterday. Starting with the first, “Chloe, you turn right around and come back here, young lady,” to “Now you listen to me, and listen good. I didn’t spend the last two months killing myself on designing the perfect wedding for you, only to have you and your cold feet ruin everything,” to, “Where in the world are you? Oh, I just can’t believe you would do this to me, Chloe! Think of what everyone’s going to say when they find out! We can still make it to the church on time; just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you. We can still make this happen and no one will ever know,” to finally, “I’ve called Charles. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”
Doubtful. I stalled for some more time by heading into my dad’s office and jumping onto his home computer. I’d just check my email, clear it out before making those phone calls. One poppy seed, two poppy seeds . . .
Emails from two of my bridesmaids, wondering what in the world was going on in my head. I’m sure they were wondering—who ever walked away from the brass ring? I wonder if they’d be so interested in his brass if they knew how small his . . . Don’t go there.
No. Actually, do go there.
Confession time. I’d only ever “been with” Charles, in the biblical sense. So technically, I had no basis for comparison on actual length and girth. But while I was technically a virgin, it’s not like I hadn’t been privy to a man’s private bits before. I’d rounded a few bases (read handies in a dark backseat) with guys I’d dated in college (read two guys dated, so two peens seen). I had a computer. I had the Internet. I had girl talk. And it would seem to me, as peni went, that Charles was . . . less than average. But I was in love (read pretty sure I was in love) and ready to throw away my V card (read sooooo ready), and so BAM we had the sex a few weeks into dating. And BAM I saw the penis. And bam it was all up in there. And by all up in there, I mean . . . I thought this was supposed to hurt the first time?
Truth be told, our sex life was satisfactory. I had orgasms. He certainly had orgasms. Little tiny peashooter orgasms. Jesus, what an asshole I am. I was going to marry this guy yesterday, and now all I can do is disparage his manhood.
I thought, okay, this is how it is. And if I was on top, I could eke out something pretty good there. But there was no screaming, there was no shrieking, there was no “Holy Mary mother of God!” But that was okay, right?
Except twenty-four hours had given me the gift of clarity. What I could see now was that nothing about our relationship was “Holy Mary mother of God.” It was smooth and beautiful and covered in swirls of yummy on the outside, but the inside was fat free and full of air and nothing. And if I was going to have a life of air and nothing, I’d at least like a big fat dick to bounce on.
Chloe! my crass meter chided, sounding frighteningly like my mother.
I blushed at my naughty thoughts and finally picked up the phone to call Charles, when an email from Lou Fiorello caught my eye. Buried by wedding nonsense, it’d been sitting in my in-box for several days.
Part of being named Miss Golden State—just one step behind Miss California, a title I’d literally worked my entire pageant career for—was being heavily involved in my charity of choice. Since I’d always loved animals, my charitable platform was an organization that worked with therapy dogs, Paws for the Cause. Taking those dogs into nursing homes, working with special-needs children, and sitting with patients suffering from Alzheimer’s, was wonderful. There was nothing I wanted to do more; it was a program I’d love to work with long after I put my crowns on a shelf and retired my butt glue.
SO THAT MY BATHING SUIT NEVER RODE UP.
But then one day I met Lou Fiorello, who pointed me in a different direction. A potential option. Working at a nursing home one day with a gorgeous golden retriever named Sparkle, I saw a man and a dog come out of a patient’s room. The man was in his midfifties with long gray hair and a longer gray beard, wearing a tie dyed T-shirt and beat-up camouflage pants. Tattered sneakers completed the aging hippie vibe, and when I looked at the dog next to him, he had a similar tattered look: a black pit bull wearing a red bandana and missing an ear. The two approached, and I held Sparkle’s leash a bit tighter.
I’d seen the news reports; I’d heard the terrible stories. Even working with animals as long as I had, and knowing that it’s usually the owner’s behavior that dictates the dog’s, I was still myself wary as the two walked toward us.
He stopped, taking notice of the tiara, the sash, the heels. During official appearances as Miss Golden State, the crown and the sash were required. He looked down at Sparkle, who was sniffing the other dog unconcernedly. The pit’s tail wagged happily, the red bandana giving him a jaunty look.
“Therapy dog?” the man asked, nodding at Sparkle.
“Yes, we’re here to spend some time with the patients; they really love it. You should see their eyes—”
“Light up? Yep, I know. Joe here’s a therapy dog too, aren’t you, boy?” he said, looking down at the pit bull. Joe looked up at Lou and his mouth split into a wide grin, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
“He’s a therapy dog?” I asked, surprise evident in my voice. Flushing a little, I bit back the obvious “but he’s a pit bull” comment, although it was implied.
Lou let out a huff. “You know much about pit bulls, princess?”