“Are you kidding me?” I finish the rest of the beer and push it away. “It can hurt everything, Laz. You’re one of my best friends. I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want to lose you, this, what we have. I appreciate your concern for me and yourself, and obviously I don’t want to keep failing at this love game but…it’s not worth risking our friendship for. Is it?”
He nods, exhaling through his nose as he looks away. His shoulders slump slightly. “Yeah. You’re right, Bumble.” He brings his gaze back to me, looks me dead in the eye. “Forget I said anything.”
But I can’t forget it. Now that he’s brought it up, it’s like it’s already altered the dynamic between us. After the burger we go to the bookstore across the street, and though we lapse back into our usual ways on the surface—Laz spending his time flipping through biographies and sifting through poetry books, me in both the historical romance and horticulture sections—I know that something has changed.
It’s the idea of dating Laz.
Just that little seed of something, tossed into the dirt of my brain.
I know he said it would be fake.
I know that we wouldn’t be dating each other for any other reason than to maybe learn something about ourselves and how we are in relationships.
I know all that.
But even so, I can’t help but look at him differently. Not with new eyes, just with a new filter.
I’m terrified I might change my mind.
Chapter Three
Laz
“Soothe My Soul”
You’re a bloody wanker.
Not exactly the pep talk I should be having right now as I literally stare at the wall, dealing with writer’s block. But hey, there you have it.
I am a bloody wanker.
I don’t know what I was thinking when I propositioned Marina with that whole dating each other scenario. I guess the girl just has me curious. That’s at least partially the reason I brought it up. There’s something going on if she can’t seem to get past the third date and I’m really curious to know what it is.
The other reason, the better reason, is that I want to help her. She’s my friend. And even though I’m not a huge fan of seeing her date around, and I get inexplicably jealous from time to time, I don’t like seeing her sad or unhappy. I want to fix her problems for her.
It’s only fair. Of all my friends, she’s the one who is going out of her way to make sure everyone is okay. She’s nurturing and loyal to a fault, even to those who may not deserve it. Like her father.
I sigh and sit back in my chair, tapping my pen against my leg. The notebook is wide open, the page blank. I never write on my laptop—it’s either one of a million tattered notebooks I carry around or it’s on my iPhone’s note section when I’m in a pinch.
But today, nothing is flowing. Contrary to what I told Simone the other day, I won’t be writing about her because I feel…nothing. Not remorse, not sadness, not happiness. I don’t feel lost or found. I’m just…that bloody blank sheet.
Blank.
Empty.
Empty as a shotgun shell, spent and discarded, a vessel for destruction.
No, I tell myself, shaking my head. That’s total crap. Don’t write that down. You can do better.
I can do better. I know this. And that’s why it makes it even more difficult to write. There are tons of poets out there who are absolutely brilliant, whether it’s Charles Bukowski or Rumi. I don’t bother comparing myself to them—there’s no point. They’re them, I’m me. I just compare myself to the work I’ve done before.
And right now, everything that’s coming out of me is stilted and forced. I’m trying to force a feeling when there’s no feeling at all.
My phone flashes with a notification and I pick it up, eager for a distraction.
It’s a message on Instagram.
I open it up and see that same blogger, Courtney, who messaged me last week about doing a collaboration together. She might be totally sincere but her message had definitely been on the flirty side.
Hey Lazarus, I hate to bother you again. I know you probably get a ton of messages and probably don’t check these (especially with your book coming out, congrats on that), but I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for drinks at some point. I really think our accounts could help each other out and reach different followers. I don’t have one million of them like you, but I do have half that and it’s quickly growing. I’m in the LA area too. Let me know. I hope to hear from you soon.
Xoxo Courtney.
I’ve collaborated with bloggers before, but usually it’s another poet or writer. This would be the first time I’ve had a fashion blogger reach out, but she might have a point when it comes to reaching a new audience. I know I have a million followers, but the truth is, that million isn’t going to buy my book. I know from the publishers what my pre-order stats are. They’re happy with them, but if you think every person that follows you and gets your work for free is going to pay up, you’re sadly mistaken.
The more followers you have, though, the more chances that people will pay. It’s a numbers game and one I should probably start taking seriously. There is no point in this business where you can sit back and rest on your laurels—I don’t care if you have a million followers or book deals. You have to keep improving, you have to keep growing.
Which is probably why I’m dealing with the block right now. The pressure is fucking on.
I want to say yes to Courtney, but not right away, so I go to her account and her blog and check her out. She’s pretty in the way all fashion bloggers are. Really skinny legs, tall, long wavy hair with highlights, It bags on their arms, posing by angel-winged murals in downtown LA.
I don’t really have a type, but she fits the bill regardless. I’m not sure I could be with someone who is that obsessed with selfies and the camera but I’m willing to give it a shot. After all, Marina has her own successful account and she’s often taking selfies too and I have no problem with that.
But Marina is inherently pure about it. As I said, she doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, her hair is usually a mess, and most of the time she’s wearing her beekeeping suit anyway. Not exactly the point of high fashion. But her smile is genuine and she honestly does it all because of her love of bees, not because she’s fishing for likes and compliments.
She’s come a long way since we first met. I know that all this “dating” stuff seems out of the blue, but the night I first laid eyes on her, the attraction was instant, more than I thought it would be. Not just because she’s insanely pretty, but she was charming in an odd way. Blurting out what was on her mind, not acting like girls normally act around me. Something drew me to her already and all I could think was, shit, if only I was single. If only she wasn’t my sister’s friend. If only…
Now, though, I’m glad that nothing ever came of it. If I had dated Marina, our relationship would have been over in a few weeks, as usual, and it would have made this bloody awkward for Jane.
Instead, we became friends. A few weeks after that show at The Mint, I saw her again at a show with her friend Naomi. I’m not even sure which girlfriend I had at the time. She wasn’t there, though, so after the show, even after Naomi and Jane left, Marina and I stayed at the bar and talked all the way until closing.
After that, we started hanging out more and more. I watched as she started keeping hives at a small farm in the valley, then moved to Havisham’s (my nickname for her landlord) and started keeping her own hives on the property. That soon turned into her own business as she not only harvested and sold honey, but was teaching classes, doing live hive removals—she even has her own hotline.
I’m proud of her for living her dream and I guess that’s one reason why we’ve bonded so well. While she was working hard and her career was rising, the same was happening for me.
That, and we’ve both had to deal with loss.
“Hey, man,” Scooby says, leaning against the door and munching on a cucumber. Just one long, very phallic-looking
cucumber.
“Hey,” I tell him. “Good snack?”
He shrugs. “Cucumbers are great for rehydrating. Sometimes you have to ask yourself, am I drinking enough water?”
I look Scooby over, brows raised. Short and pale, with bug eyes and big teeth, Scooby gets attention wherever he goes, particularly because he’s fond of wearing top hats as a daily uniform and you can often find him riding a penny farthing up and down Venice Beach.
Despite living with him for the last three years, I still don’t know his real name or why people call him Scooby (it might have something to do with him being a major stoner), but he’s at least clean, pays the rent on time, and is a great source of entertainment.
He also reminds me of Marina in some ways, being this fathomless pit of random information, but less cute and more like the adult version of that kid from Jerry McGuire.
“Did you know,” he goes on, as if to prove my point, “that there can be a twenty-degree difference between the temperature outside and the inside of a cucumber? Hence the expression, cool as a.”
I get to my feet. “Tell me more about cucumbers,” I ask him wryly.
“That’s all I got,” he says. He munches some more. “I’m surprised to see you home. Thought you’d be at Simone’s.”
“We broke up,” I tell him.
He guffaws. Crunch. Crunch. “You mean you broke up with her.”
“Same difference, isn’t it?” I tell him, about to leave the room to get a glass of water, thanks to his talks about hydration, when my phone beeps with an incoming text.
It’s Marina.
I breathe out a sigh of relief. I thought that maybe she was avoiding me after what I proposed yesterday.
I pick up the phone, Scooby losing interest in me and wandering back down the hall, and read it.
Hey, wondered if you had time to talk.
I suck in a breath. Talk. If we were dating, this wouldn’t be a good sign.
What about?
She responds back right away: You know what.
Are you already breaking up with me? I text. A joke, but still.
LOL. No. The opposite.
Oh really…
Want to come over? I ask.
Sure. When?
Anytime. Now.
I’ll be there in an hour. Should I bring anything?
Just that gorgeous arse of yours, I write, then quickly erase it. Instead, I send:
Just you. See you then.
I put the phone back on the desk and immediately sit down in the chair, picking up the pen. A rush of euphoria goes through me, just a quick burst, but it’s enough for my pen to move.
There is a layer of terror under honey so sweet, the barb that always gets you when you plunge your hands in, sticky and raw with the promise of everything.
I sit back and glance at it. Not bad. Not great. But it’s something.
“Hi,” Marina says brightly as I open the door. She’s smiling but it’s a bit shaky, like she’s already nervous. Not that this would be an unusual state for her.
“Hey,” I say back, opening the door wider and gesturing for her to come in.
Damn. Maybe it’s in my head, but I swear there’s already this bizarre tension between us.
“Hey,” Scooby says to Marina from the kitchen. Somehow, he still has a cucumber. I’m guessing there are multiple. “Cucumber?” He sticks it out toward her in offering.
She frowns at him. “No thanks. Already had one.”
“I can slice it up for you, if you’d like.”
“I’m good,” she says, giving him a quick smile and then looking to me with a bemused expression. “Should we go somewhere private and talk?”
“Oh,” Scooby says loudly. “I didn’t know you guys needed, uh, privacy. Hey, I’ll be quiet. Really. I’m going to my room. You cats do whatever you need to do. There are more cucumbers in the fridge if you want.”
He saunters off down the hall, waving the cucumber around like he’s going into battle.
“You know, I think with the book deal you’ll be able to afford a place without a roommate,” she says to me, keeping her voice low as she watches him disappear around the corner.
“I know. We’ll see how the book does. I don’t want to get ahead of myself and make any bad decisions.”
“You’re so adult,” she says. “If I had a book deal I’d be betting on the ponies.”
“The only ponies you’d bet on would be of the My Little variety.”
“A hundred grand on Applejack.”
“High roller.” I head to the fridge and open it. “Want anything? Beer?”
“Sure,” she says and sits down at the table as I grab two Coronas and hand one to her.
I sit down across from her, the chair scraping loudly on the tile floor, and shoot her a grin that I hope looks absolutely charming. “So?”
“So,” she says, wrapping a strand of hair around her finger. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Apparently.”
She holds up that hair-wrapped finger to signal for me to wait, has a sip of her beer, and then reaches down into her purse that she hooked on the chair, digging for something. I wait patiently while she empties out the entire contents of her hobo bag onto the table.
“Where the hell is it?” she mumbles to herself. She pulls out handfuls of receipts, wads of cash, empty packages of gum, three pens, a compact, a comb, bottles of Benadryl and salve, hair ties, her phone, mints, lip gloss, a tiny rubber pig (?), her keys, a cigar cutter (??), a McDonald’s cheeseburger wrapper, a case of colored pencils, and what looks to be a chunk of honeycomb in a Ziploc bag. “Damn it.”
“Dare I ask what you’re looking for? I guess I should be glad it doesn’t involve a cigar cutter and Benadryl.”
She takes one of the receipts from CVS that’s almost longer than a roll of toilet paper, turns it over, then picks up a pen. “I thought I packed a notebook. I had made a list of rules at home but I guess we have to start from scratch.”
“You know I have paper here, right?” I tell her, getting to my feet and grabbing a notepad from beside the fridge. I slap it down beside her. “And I assume the rules are about…”
“You won me over,” she says.
I’m smiling like crazy. “Really?”
She nods quickly. “Yup. Though, at the end of our conversation there yesterday, you did say that I had a point. About the fact that we could ruin what we have.”
“That’s true.”
“So, I figured some hard and fast rules would keep us in line. And the moment it gets a bit weird for us, I think that’s the moment when we bow out.”
“Sounds fair. So, what are the rules?”
She clears her throat and sits up straight, pushing the emptied bowels of her purse over to the side.
“First, we start with the schedule,” she says matter-of-factly, like we’re having a business meeting.
“Schedule?”
She writes as she speaks, her hair spilling over her face. “A minimum of four dates over the next two weeks.”
“Why the timeline?”
“Because otherwise we’ll lose character. Best to stay in character.”
“But we’re playing ourselves, right? Isn’t that the whole point?”
“But we need to be strangers for a bit. And we’re both busy people with lives, so I think we can master four dates within that time frame.”
“So, I guess if we’re strangers, then we shouldn’t see each other as friends during that time.”
“Correct.” She writes that down too. “Date number one, you pick me up. We treat it like we met online or through Tinder, so we don’t know much about the other. We go somewhere nice. Remember, you’re trying to impress me.”
“And you’re trying to impress me.”
She grins at me, sticking the end of the pen in her mouth. “I haven’t impressed you already?” she asks saucily.
I don’t know if it’s her faux-seductive expression, the way her shiny wild hair
is flowing over her shoulders, or the full swell of her breasts pressing through her low-cut top as she leans forward, but I’m suddenly feeling very hot under my skin.
I clear my throat and try to ignore it. This isn’t going to help our situation.
“And date number two?” I ask.
“Same thing. Maybe we can do something with the bees.”
I cock a brow. “Do we have to?”
She laughs. “No, but I saw this beekeeper in Arizona online and she has like these date nights where couples come and learn about beekeeping and how it’s done, stuff like that. It makes her some extra income, it educates people, and it’s a fun experience for the couple.”
“Providing neither of them have a fear of bees…”
“Oh, you do not have a fear of bees,” she says with a dismissive wave of her pen. “After all I’ve told you about them. Anyway, it would be a fun thing to add to Palm Trees and Honey Bees and we could kind of test it out.”
“Okay, fine. And then the third date?”
“I don’t know, we’ll figure it out. Same goes for the fourth.”
“Then what happens beyond the fourth?”
“I guess we just take stock of it. See how we did. Give report cards.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“No one is pulling your leg,” she says. “Speaking of, we now need to lay down the other rules.”
I laugh. “Speaking of things the size of your leg?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says. “And I mean it. No sex, no kissing, no touching.”
“Well, I simply won’t agree to that.”
She frowns, a flush appearing on her cheeks. “Why not?”
“Because touching, kissing, and sex are all very integral parts of dating,” I tell her.
“No they aren’t,” she says quietly, looking away.
“What? Yeah they are, Marina. To me, anyway.”
“It’s not needed.” She pauses. “And we shouldn’t even be discussing it. If anything is going to screw up our relationship, it’s that.”
I watch her carefully. She seems flustered and embarrassed on a whole other level. It’s like she’s ashamed.