Page 53 of The Fake Husband Play
But I also want her to be proud ofme.
Someday, when she’s facing her own scary, adult problems, I want her to look back on the choices she saw her mama make and let them inspire her to be brave. I would never want my daughter to choose caution over authenticity, to live small instead of reaching for her big, beautiful dreams. I would never want her to turn her back on a chance at love because a cold world had convinced her that people “like her” have no choice but to play it safe.
I may have had a baby at seventeen and struggled like hell to survive ever since, but that doesn’t make me one iota less valuable than any other woman on earth. Or less worthy of love, happiness, or of making my dreams come true.
And one of those dreams is finding a good man I can love with all my heart.
And my vagina.
“God wouldn’t have made sex so fun if he didn’t want us to enjoy it,” I remind my reflection as I smooth on my lip gloss.
I step away from the mirror, rolling my shoulders back as I survey my first “date night” outfit in ages. In a devastating little black dress that swoops down to show half my back, high heels, hair in a messy up-do, and a smoky eye, I look like the kind of girl who knows what to do in the dark.
Hopefully, it’ll come back to me in the moment, should I get the chance to put my money where my little black dress is.
Surely, making out is like riding a bike.
Right?
Outside in the living room, Nancy is deep into therom-com of the night, barely fluttering her fingers as I say goodbye and head for the door, which I appreciate. If she’d gotten a closer look at what I’m wearing, the “just going to catch some music at a club with my new roommate” story would have been out the window.
Nancy’s no fool. She knows a woman doesn’t put on a dress like this to meet a “friend.”
I slip out of the penthouse and down to the street, where the doorman gives me an appreciative nod as he hails a cab.
The way his eyes linger on my legs makes me both pleased—still got it—and nervous. If the doorman is looking at me like that, what’s Grammercy going to think?
Probably that I’m tryingwaytoo hard, and it’s weird.
Stop it. He called you “beautiful” and clearly likes the way you look. And you want him to notice that you’re open to changing the vibes between you. That’s the whole point of the dress.
I exhale with a little nod.
Right.
The inner voice is right.
I just have to keep breathing and remember that no one ever died from shooting their shot and getting shot down.
The inside of the cab smells like pine air freshener, old leather, and a hint of cigarette smoke, and the driver has zydeco playing low on the radio. I give him the address and settle back, trying to explore Zen.
But every block closer to the French Quarter makes my pulse kick up another notch. I had a whole monologue planned out, but now I can’t remember a word ofit. It’s like my anxiety has given my brain a Jedi mind wipe.
Shit! What the hell am I going to say?“Hey, I know we’re fake married and everything’s been perfect and platonic, but I would like to lick you. All over. Would you be open to some licking?”
No. Gross. Too aggressive and weird.
“Grammercy, I think I might be developing some roommate-inappropriate feelings.”
Blah. Too clinical. I’d sound like a robot.
“Hey, roomie, so…here’s the thing. I think about you. A lot. Like, a lot a lot, and I was wondering if maybe you thought about me, too?”
Nope. Too stalkerish, especially given the whole secret podcast situation.
Fuck, the podcast…
I can’t think about that now. If I think about that and what Grammercy might think about it, I’ll completely lose my nerve. I have to take this one hurdle at a time. First, I’ll find out if Grammercy’s even open to being more than friends.Then, I’ll figure out a way to tell him that I was a borderline creepy fangirl before we met in person.
