Page 24 of The Yes Factor

I can just picture it…

“Sunday Kind of Love” comes on the radio right as I walk into the sunlit garage. Devon is leaning onto a sideboard, moving his arms back and forth in a strong, steady motion as he sands down its surface. Sweat drips from his forehead and he’s so intent on his work that he hasn’t noticed me in the doorway. But he must feel my presence because he looks up and our eyes meet. He lets the piece of sandpaper he’s been working with fall to the ground and never breaking my gaze, peels off his T-shirt. He approaches me with a slow, confident stride, a lion stalking his prey, his abs rippling with every breath he takes. A goofy smile spreads across my face because he’s so damn sexy, but as he gets closer to me, I turn serious in heated anticipation. We breathe in unison, deep and heavy, and I can feel the fire between us before we even touch. Finally, his hands are on me. He lifts my yellow sundress up to run his fingers along my thighs and up to my hips, then caressing me over my panties, gently at first, then with an increasing pressure. He lifts me and sets me down on a nearby workbench, leaning in to kiss me as I stare into his beautiful brown eyes. His lips lightly brush against mine as he slides my panties down my legs. Our kiss gets deeper, our tongues meet as I reach for his zipper…

“Okay, let’s go. You ready?” Liv opens the car door and throws her purse onto the passenger seat floor as she climbs into the car.

Like a needle scratched from a record, my Devon fantasy screeches to a halt. Dammit, Liv. Again!

Chapter Eight

Break Up, Make Up

LIV

I hadn’t really needed to use the bathroom. I wanted to go back and find Devon to get his number, to somehow patch things up from the awkward goodbye. I shouldn’t have interrupted Bex and Devon the way I did. So far, my track record as a wingwoman would only count as a success for a nun.

When I went back into the fray of the market, I got lost in the slow shuffle of the post-lunch crowd. I understand now why Bex had wanted to get there so early. Time was ticking and I couldn’t navigate back to Devon’s stall because I had no idea where it was. The market seemed to have acquired a life of its own with new tables and tents that I hadn’t noticed beforehand. Finally, I gave up in frustration and fought my way back out of the maze, like a salmon swimming upstream against bargain hungry tourists, so I could run across the hot parking lot to Bex’s car. And now, after running, I really could use the bathroom as the churros are starting to churn.

“Okay, let’s go. You ready?” I open the car door and hop in. “You’re the one who’s been complaining about traffic. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Bex looks slightly drugged, like she’s woken from a deep sleep.

“Hello? Earth to Bex?” I pull the car door shut then strap on my seatbelt.

“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me! Why do you have to slam the door so hard?” Startled, Bex turns the key and cranks up the car.

“Sorry, jeez. I didn’t slam it.”

We leave the parking lot behind only to hit the freeway, which by now is a parking lot itself.

“Dammit.” Bex slaps the wheel. “I told you traffic was going to be crazy. We should have left earlier. And then you had to go and use the bathroom.”

“Relax. You have a kid, you should be used to unscheduled bathroom breaks. At least I’m not asking ‘Are we there yet?’” I hope Bex will smile, or at least blink. “Bex, what’s going on, why are you acting like this?”

She doesn’t say anything. The suffocating exhaust fumes from the traffic seem to have poured into the car. We’re drowning in a toxic mess of passive aggressiveness.

My phone rings but I ignore it. Finally, the annoying xylophone sound stops as voicemail picks up the call. But then it starts to ring again. Whoever is calling doesn’t sound like they’re going to give up.

“Will you answer your phone or put it on silent? It’s driving me crazy,” Bex says.

I scrounge around in my purse to get out my phone while the ringing continues. Bex looks over and can clearly see Ethan on the screen as the caller ID. I hold it in my hand and let it ring.

“Go ahead, pick it up,” Bex challenges me. “I wouldn’t mind saying bonjour to him. How is he anyway? You haven’t said much about him since you got here.”

Bex sure knows how to cut deep. Bonjour. That one stings. I know she’s judging me about Francois. No way I’m dealing with this now. I don’t think Bex would say anything crazy while I’m on the phone with Ethan, or would she? Our fighting is making me paranoid. I turn the phone to silent and angrily throw my purse down.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I spit out. I feel like rolling down the window to let out a big scream.

“What the hell is wrong with you? What’s the matter, you can’t ‘just say yes’ when your own husband calls?” Bex throws it back to me.

“Why are you acting like such a bitch?” I yell out in frustration.

I hate this. Why are we doing this to each other? It seems neither of us can stop. We’ve only ever had a few knock-down, drag-out fights before. And they were all back in our twenties. Our lives are too separate now to have these kinds of fights over the phone, or in texts. We only share snippets of a hello, I miss you. A blow up doesn’t play into that. We’ve lost the rhythm of each other’s moods, having hardly spent time together in person for so many years.

One time at our apartment in Atlanta, Bex actually threw my mattress out of the window. It hit the ground with a thud, shattering a bunch of terracotta potted plants in the yard of our downstairs neighbor. She looked at me, frozen in disbelief at herself, and at the boiling tension that’d arisen between us. Realizing how ridiculous our fight had been, we quickly snuck downstairs into the neighbor’s yard to retrieve the mattress. We were laughing so hard we could barely get it back up the stairs. Life was simpler then. Now, both of us have emotional baggage that weighs more than a thousand mattresses. It’s harder to let things go. Harder to say I’m sorry.

I curl up and stare out the passenger side window, making as much of an effort as I can to turn my back on Bex. She has both hands on the wheel, sitting upright, tense and ready to pounce.

“Car fights are the worst,” I say quietly as a half-ass apology but Bex doesn’t say anything.

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