“I don’t want to be the marrying type!”
“Then you need to change,” he assesses, tilting the full dolly.
“… What?”
He grins—a beautiful, white smile—and quips, “Everything.”
“No!”
A chuckle escapes from his lungs. “Make it believable, and we’ll talk Echo.”
I cross my arms and prop against the edge of his truck. He is as right as Selia. I have reached a desperate point in my dating career. I pull my phone from my bra, click on my ad, and hit disable.
I don’t give it another thought as I pull my hair down and fluff the long blonde curls that cascade onto my blouse. I undo the top two buttons and await José’s return.
He does.
Glistening with sweat and looking good enough to eat, José pulls off his ball cap and wipes his forehead on his sleeve. He cracks open the water bottle, undoubtedly a gift from Morgan, and downs half of it. He smirks at me. “What?”
“Dinner and a blow job?”
He laughs. “Dinner and a blow job?”
“Yes,” I maintain, feeling frustrated, and knowing I need a companion—anyone will do at this point. “You take me to dinner,” I whisper, leaning forward slightly to show off my cleavage. “And I’ll swallow.”
“What do you like to eat? I mean, besides dick.”
“Italian? Japanese? Thai?” I suggest avoiding the obvious cultural twist. “Burgers and Fries?”
“Korean. And you eat Mexican,” he teases with an impeccable grin. “Six o’clock.”
“Done,” I say with a smile as I bounce off the back of the truck with a hop. “See you then.”
“… Hey, Echo?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to look like you just got out of Catechism class.”
“José?” I reply, giving him the bird. “Fuck off.”
With his hand perched on his hip, he laughs. “That’s better!”
I hate to admit how much I like nice guy José.
I spend the better part of the day training with Morgan as we have a staff of ten in the store. She is a nice, middle-aged woman who manages the shop—the job I imagine taking after two more years of school.
I have a good deal of respect for Morgan Pellister.
After I worked a year at the café next door, she got to know me and offered to take me under her wing. I spent the first two years, underage, in the back of the wine store. She hated doing the books, preferring to be out on the floor and working with the customers. I didn’t necessarily enjoy crunching the numbers, but I was good at it.
Midway through the day, we sit in the backroom over salads from the café when I ask, “Do you date?”
Setting down her tea, she laughs. “I do.”
“Haven’t met the one?”
“You’re assuming I want to meet the one. Not every girl grows up dreaming of a white fairytale gown and a prince, and that is okay. Someone should tell all the little girls in the world they can be more than enough without the guy. The guy should be a choice, not a societal necessity.”
Knowing very little of Morgan’s personal life, I politely inquire, “What about kids?”
“I have two.”
I almost drop my fork. “You do?”
“Yes,” she giggles. “A ten-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl.”
“… And no, husband?” I question, almost sounding condescending. I hate to think of myself as the judgemental type, but her evident eschewing of romantic relationships perplexes me.
I am damn envious.
“I have lovers,” she heavily annunciates the plural. “Of both genders.”
Oh. Morgan.
You kinky bitch.
I don’t want to pry, but I long to know how she managed her life without the one. The moment I think it, the stark reality hits—she is the one.
She chose herself before a man…or a woman.
However, she wasn’t a radical feminist, either. She was just a woman—happy and content in her existence. She was the only child of the shop owners with two kids and multiple lovers.
I bravely ask, “What is your goal?”
“Right now?” She peered up with her big greenish-blue eyes. “I’m trying to master hydroponic gardening with my father. I’m planning a vacation in June to New Zealand, speaking of which, I’ll need you to attend to Dower wedding because I will be in Seattle that weekend. I don’t always attend the events, but this one is huge, with dozens of our cases. I need to make sure it runs smoothly.”
I ignore the fact that I have to go to a wedding and blurt out, “Are you going to New Zealand alone?”
“I’m going with Ravi.”
I blink. Both genders. Multi-cultural. Two kids. Life. Happy. Goodness.
I am so fucking jealous.
During lunch, my new idol appeared before me in the form of my boss.
“Ravi is a banker in New York. We meet a couple of times per year. Last fall, when I took a few days off, we went to Tulum. He loves his work and life and doesn’t want any of it to change. I’m the same. We meet up, and sparks fly.”
“But no talk of marriage?”
“Why would we ruin a perfect thing?”
I ponder her choices as they inspire my hope of finding someone to do to my body what I yearn for. And maybe the old saying that there is someone for everyone isn’t that far off.
I lower my voice and ask, “How many do you keep?”
“Currently, I have about a dozen I rotate depending on my mood.”
… A dozen?
… A dozen lovers?
My eyes and mouth open wide. “I can’t even get one.”
“Because you’re a hot mess trying way too hard,” she informs, blotting her lips on a napkin. “You’re never going to bait the kill if it knows you’re hunting. Stop hunting. Go back to the drawing board, listen to some music, have a glass of wine, get lit. Find out who YOU are. And I guarantee they’ll find you.”
Little does she know, I’m hunting for a bear to maul me.
Proverbial bear, not literal, unless he has a great beard.
God, beards…
“Reverse the situation…”
“Exactly! Think of it like making yourself marketable. We have lavish displays in our store windows, not wine, but moments—moments create memories. Make your moments, and the customers—or lovers—will bang down your door to get in.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, finishing my salad. “Really.”
“Years of experience, Echo,” she replies, piling her trash into the plastic container. “But be careful about who you choose. Don’t take them all. The best one will be the next one.”
“How will I know when to stop?”
Standing up, she grins. “Oh, trust me, you will know when to open the door and take aim. Or spread your thighs. Or open your heart. Right now, focus on you.”
She wanders back to the front as I mull over her unexpected lesson in dating, love, and life. I twist my hair up into the clip and refasten one button.
No need to go overboard.
I glance at my phone and the message from Selia. “I’ve met someone. I may be an extra day or three. And likely won’t be capable of walking when I get back. I’ll need ice for the tub. Lots of ice.”