Playing Favorites

I was definitely more embarrassed than Joe, who reluctantly removed his hand from its previous location on Eve's ass to take the basket that was in my hands - but less so than Eve, whose face could well be described as beet red. "Umm...I'm gonna head out now, and so is Martin..." I figured it was safe to speak for him in the situation. "Thanks for a great party..."

"Yep..." Joe managed with a nod, sliding the basket onto a shelf behind him. "Are you guys the last?"

"Yes," I replied, halfway out the door.

"Lock the door behind you, okay?" In my peripheral vision, I saw him diving back in for another kiss, so I figured it was a rhetorical question.

"What are you smiling about?" Martin wanted to know when I entered the kitchen. He was busy putting dishwasher detergent in the machine, and my grin stretched even wider.

I thought that I was, quite possibly, going to smile every time I saw Joe kiss Eve. She had spent too many years in a marriage with a guy who didn't appreciate her - it was past time for her to be with someone who thought she hung the moon and couldn't keep his hands off her.

"Um, I think our hosts are ready for a little alone time. We need to go..."

He laughed as he straightened up and pushed the start button. "Say no more. I am not the kind of guy that stands in the way of true love..."

Fifteen minutes later, we were ensconced in a booth at a nearby micro-brewery, ready to delve a little deeper into my political views. For the record, it was not my idea to extend our time together, although I thought it was a damn good one.

Conversation was easy, once I stopped trying to impress him. I'm not sure if it was a conscious decision to be real, or just that he made it easy to let my guard down. Or it might have been that I'd had more than a few beverages over the course of the evening, and my tongue was a little loose.

"So, tell me..." An hour later, I was picking at a dish of crème brulée that I really didn't need to be eating and asking questions I had no right to ask. Like "How is it that a hot guy like you does not have a girlfriend?"

Laughing seemed to be second-nature to Martin because he did it all the time. "You remember the part where I told you I'm a teacher, right? Well, the pay sucks, and I take work home with me all the time, and it can be heart-breaking, but I love it so I'm not going anywhere... There are not a lot of women that would overlook all of that, just to be with someone as devastatingly handsome as I am..."

Despite his smile and sarcastic quip about his good-looks, there was a certain rawness to his response that tugged at my heartstrings. "Do you always lead with the 'the pay sucks' line?" I teased. "Because I would bury that part until after she's realized what a great guy you are..."

"I believe in being up-front..." he replied, stealing a bite of my dessert. "Because, like it or not, earning potential can be a deal-breaker, and I'd rather not get too involved if there's not going to be a future..."

Furrowing my brow, I shook my head, "What kind of materialistic bitches do you date?" Yep, the filter was gone.

He raised an eyebrow at my question but didn't say anything.

"See, there's this new thing. It's called women working." Oh yes, I was officially going off on a rant... "We can have jobs, make our own money, pay our own bills, buy our own jewelry...We can date guys whose pay 'sucks' because we are not dependent on them. And that is okay. Really..." I paused to take a breath. "Because it's better to be with someone who likes his job and feels good about his contribution to society than someone who makes a lot of money but loses his soul every time he heads to the office."

Martin reached across the table and removed the half-finished beer in front of me. "Pretty sure you've had enough of these..." and he proceeded to take a drink.

I exhaled slowly, not realizing I'd been forgetting to breathe, took a sip from the water glass he pushed towards me, and started rambling. "I have been a trophy girlfriend before, and it feels like shit. It's like all your worth is wrapped up in how good you look, and how good you are in bed." I raised my gaze to meet his. "It fucking blows..." Was that the smart of unshed tears in my eyes?

"Linds..." his look conveyed what he did not say. That he was sorry for what I'd been through. That he wished he could make it better.

"But this is not about me..." Oh God, was I still talking? "I was only telling you that because I want you to know that there are women out there who could give two fucks about the balance in your bank account. Granted, I don't think any of them are Republicans, but I get the feeling that'd be okay with you..."

He was smiling again, "Yeah, that'd be okay..." He raised his hand to signal for our check and then stood up. "Scooch..." he ordered, sliding into my side of the booth, and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I leaned my forehead into his neck and inhaled deeply of his glorious scent, as he murmured, "You're the best, Linds. Seriously..."

"Even though I'm a little sloshed?" I asked lamely, closing my eyes.

He chuckled. "Yep, even though. In fact, if you were sober, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have gotten such stellar dating advice..."

I laughed too, "No Republicans...that's the bottom line!"

My car was still back at Joe's place, but since I was in no condition to drive, that was a non-issue. Martin very kindly poured me into his vehicle, extracted my address from me, and started to drive me home. It was late, I was tired, but not quite ready to call it quits.

"Anybody ever call you Marty?" I asked randomly on the drive.

"When I was younger..." he admitted. "But by the time I was a teenager, I'd managed to get everyone to stop. Why do you ask?"

"Well... you keep calling me 'Linds' all the time - I figured I should come up with a nickname for you..." I paused, "Would it be okay if I called you Marty?"

He laughed, "No. Seriously, I hate that name..."

"Can I call you Luther? You know...like Martin Luther?"

Boy, was I clever after several drinks! My guess is that he didn't really think so. "Umm...no."

"Slugger? Hoover? Beefcake?"

"God..." he muttered, as if praying for divine intervention.

Sighing, I accepted momentary defeat. "You know you love me, Martin. Deep down, under all that apathy..."

"Yep..." he reached over and squeezed my hand reassuringly. "You are disgustingly lovable, kiddo..."

That was progress, right? Except for the 'disgustingly' part?

*****

Martin looked a little too pleased to see me looking like shit on Sunday afternoon. He had texted me earlier, volunteering to take me to get my car, and I agreed - but only because I needed my vehicle. I was fully aware that I looked like I'd been run over by a truck, and I didn't need to hear any snide comments.

I had thrown on a tracksuit and some tennis shoes, wadded my hair on top of my head, removed all vestiges of last night's makeup, and brushed my teeth. That was as good as it was going to get, frankly, and if he didn't like it, well he could just go fuck himself.

Oh yeah, I was in a good mood too. And I didn't feel much like talking.

Martin, however, felt otherwise. "So, last night was kind of crazy, right?"

Was it? I didn't exactly remember any crazy bits... "Uh, yeah...?"

He elaborated, "I mean, I feel like I got to know the real you..."

Now it made sense. He thought the real me was crazy... Oh boy!

"...and I must admit that you weren't quite what I expected," he finished.

I turned to look at him, "And what did you expect?"

Shrugging sheepishly, he said, "I don't know. Perfect hair, perfect nails, cheerleader type..." I groaned at that and he glanced over at me quickly, "Sorry! I know now that I was wrong..."

I focused on the biggest insult. "What have I ever done to make you think I am the cheerleader type?"

He grimaced, "I don't know...stupid male conditioning? That every pretty girl who puts herself together well must be that type?"

"So, you didn't pay attention to ANYTHING about me before last night?" I was offended. "I mean, really?"

"Well, I never really talked to you much before then." His tone was defensive, but there was a smile on his face. "And now I know different..."

I decided to give him a pass because it hurt my head too much to be pissed off. "So...is that a good thing?"

"Yeah. I have never really been a fan of cheerleaders - just a little too fake for me..." he paused for a moment. "Besides, I think you'd make kind of a cool friend..."

Friends. Hmmph. That's where I'd been afraid this was headed, but 'friends' was okay, I guess. Could a girl ever have too many of those? "So, even though I'm a total bitch when I'm hungover, you still want to be friends?"

Looking over at me, he laughed again, "If this is you at your bitchiest, then sign me up..."

By the time he had delivered me to my car, which was still parked outside Joe's house, we had made plans to get together again. Martin had promised one of his students that he'd attend a fundraising dinner and auction for the school choir in a few weeks, and he was looking for someone who wanted to tag along and spend a little money for a good cause.

I could not say no to an invitation like that. It would be another three months before spring softball started up, and although that break would give me plenty of time to move on from the fantasy of Martin, I didn't really want to move on. With any luck, as I got to know him better, I would discover something unbearably irritating about him, and the problem would take care of itself.

Like when I asked Martin what one might wear to a high school auction and he laughed at the idea that I couldn't bear to be dressed inappropriately. That was pretty damned annoying! Not a deal-breaker, but I had faith that it was just the tip of the iceberg.

*****

I didn't exactly know what to expect from the choir auction, but it wasn't the group of kids that descended upon Martin and me as soon as we walked in the door of the cafeteria. I was introduced as a friend, and I thought that would be enough. It wasn't.

"So...Mr. Wells - what kind of friend?" was the first question asked.

"Is she your girlfriend?" one of the girls asked.

"Uh, no..." Martin seemed at a momentary loss as he looked at me for help. "Just regular friends..." Then, trying to change the subject, he looked out over the crowd and spoke to the student who'd invited him. "Do you know what table we're at?"

The kid completely ignored the question and turned to me, "So what's the deal? Do you already have a boyfriend?"

"Oscar..." Martin rumbled warningly.

I shook my head and smiled serenely, my mind scrambling to think of a clever response. "No, that's not it." Then the epiphany hit. "He's just far too old for me..."

The kids all laughed at that, and Oscar replied, "Yeah... no, I didn't think about that, but you're right. He's OLD..."

"Hey!" Martin protested, "I am not that old..."

"Dude," the teen gestured towards his head, "You've got gray hair!" as if that were proof enough.

It was almost laughable how quickly he denied it. "I do not..." he insisted, looking to me vainly for help.

It was too delicious to pass up. I reached out touched the only silver strand I could see from my vantage point, "Sure you do. Right here..."

Martin's brow furrowed, and another boy patted his shoulder. "It's okay man..."

I had a great time that night, hanging out with Oscar and the other kids and poking fun at Martin. Every student that I met seemed to think very highly of 'Mr. Wells' and I could see why. It seemed that the traits I loved about Martin on the softball field were indicative of who he was in everyday life. Go figure.

Two auctions went my way before all was said and done. I was going home with a basket of high-end hair products (yes, Martin gave me shit for that), and a pair of silver earrings, hand-made by one of the students. We had attempted to pool our money to bid on a pair of tickets to see the Harlem Globe Trotters in January, but we didn't quite have enough to stay in the bidding. Our one consolation was that we helped drive the bidding up, which ultimately benefitted the choir.

It was an early night, and by 9:25 pm, we were pulling up outside of my apartment building. "Want to come in and meet my cats?" I asked as I opened my door.

"Meeting your cats?" he repeated warily, climbing out of the car as well. "That's not young-people slang for anything, is it?"

"Ugh...no! Gross!" and I smacked him on the arm. "And just when I was starting to think you were slightly enlightened..."

He laughed, "Slightly, Linds. Only slightly... And yeah, I'd love to meet your cats..."

I made him carry the hair products up the stairs (I, too, am only slightly enlightened), and I could hear my babies meowing as I dealt with the lock.

I hadn't asked whether or not Martin liked cats. I figured if he didn't, he wouldn't have accepted my invitation to meet them. And sure enough, he seemed perfectly comfortable to sit on my couch, holding a beer in one hand and stroking the cat that lounged on his lap with the other.

"Pebbles likes you..." I commented as the tabby rubbed her head against his hand. "She doesn't like very many people..."

"Ah, she's a sweet girl..." he replied, giving her a little scratch behind the ears. "Now that one, I'm not so sure about." He nodded towards the pair of eyes glowing under the TV console.

"It takes Jack a little longer to warm up to people..."

He nodded his head as though he understood. "Any more running around here?"

"No... just the two cats..." And then I remembered that I probably should see how he felt about snakes. "Oh, and then there's Killer..."

Martin raised an eyebrow, "Killer?"

*****

He passed the test. Not that I had planned for there to be one, but meeting the pet family is a critical step in any burgeoning relationship. Not that we really had one, but I imagined, as he hugged me goodnight, that this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

And we were friends now, I knew it. Like honest-to-God friends, where I could text him or call him if I wanted to. I could invite him to just hang out, or go see a movie, or something - if I wanted to. There wouldn't be any pressure, because we weren't an almost-couple, no matter how badly I might have wished we were...

December was upon us, and every time I turned around there seemed to be some good reason to hang out together. We went to the gym, and the movies. I took him with me to Amber's parents' house (my second home growing up) for their annual "Eggnog & Ugly Christmas Sweater Party", and I helped him shop for his nieces' Christmas gifts. Eve hosted a work party at her place, and I brought Martin along "so that Joe would have someone to talk to." (Not that Joe could ever, even remotely, be described as shy...)

And each time we were together, I felt like it cemented our friendship further. I learned that he does much better with beer than hard liquor, that he hates malls (but loves his nieces), and that he can pull off a Rudolph sweater like nobody's business.

I was starting to embrace my celibacy. Well, perhaps 'embrace' is too strong a word. 'Accept' is probably more accurate. If it wasn't going to happen between us, then so be it. He was a really great guy, and I was lucky to have a friend like him.

In fact, so certain was I by this point that we would never get together, I even told him about Khan - something I'd never have done if there was any hope of us dating. We'd both had a few drinks and were lying on the floor of his living room looking at the lights from his Christmas tree reflected on the ceiling. He was the one who brought the subject up.

"So, a while back you mentioned that you were once a 'trophy girlfriend.' And I'm kinda struggling with that image of you. Not that you're not beautiful, or anything - God knows you're definitely that..." he was quick to clarify. "But now that I know you a bit better, I have a hard time seeing you as a woman who's in it for the money, you know?"

I felt my cheeks getting hot and was glad I could focus on the pretty lights instead of meeting his gaze. "That's not really how it was..." and I started to explain. About how I'd met Khan at a party when I was 19 and was instantly attracted to him. He was well dressed, charming, edgy, with a healthy dose of bad boy thrown in. I didn't mention that we went out to the back yard later that evening, smoked a joint together, and ended up fucking in the gazebo. I wasn't necessarily proud of my behavior that night, but it certainly didn't lower me in Khan's esteem.

I was naïve...he called me the next day, and I thought it meant he really liked me. In reality, he thought I was pretty and an easy fuck, so why not see if I'd put out again? I did, and before I knew it, he was taking me places with him, spending money on me and introducing me to his friends. I was flattered that this older, much more sophisticated guy wanted to spend time with me. Me, the girl who couldn't afford to go to college, who bought her trendy clothes at a resale shop and who knew little about culture (other than pop culture.)

I'm not entirely sure if he ever really cared about me. Perhaps in his own twisted way. But as the months morphed into years, the only compliments I could recall were offered when his cock was halfway down my throat. Where he used to tell me how beautiful I was, he began to critique my clothing choices, hair length, chest size... When he told me I should really consider buying myself a new set of breasts, I started to think that perhaps he was only with me for my appearance. That maybe he was obsessed with sex a little too much. The things that didn't seem to matter early on (my lack of formal education, for example) became tools he used to undermine my confidence.

"So, I was THAT kind of trophy girlfriend. The kind who is...exploited, for lack of a better word, but doesn't really get a lot in return..." Then I realized how 'woe-is-me' that sounded, I tried to put a positive spin on it, "In retrospect, I'm really glad he left me when he did so I didn't waste any more of my life with him..." Okay, so maybe not quite as positive as I had hoped...

Martin rolled onto his stomach beside me and, propped up on his elbows, said, "I am not a violent person, but if I ever met this guy, I would dearly love to beat the shit out of him for treating you that way..."

I smiled faintly into his eyes. Honestly, what hurt more than Khan's betrayal was the knowledge that I had allowed myself to be used like that. I'd never thought of myself as a person with low self-esteem, but how else could I explain staying with him for so long? Didn't I know I was worth more? The whole thing just made me sad...

But instead of dissolving into tears, which I considered, I forced a little levity. "So now that you know all this, if you try to fix me up with one of your friends, try to make sure he's not a total douche!"

"Ha! You are way out of any my friends' league!"

I rolled my eyes, "Based on what criteria?"

That stopped him. After a few long moments, he replied sheepishly, "Well, to be honest, I was going to say, 'based on your looks', but I now know that is the wrong answer..."

A smile flirted at the corners of my mouth, "Attaboy... you're learning!"

*****

When my mother moved to Sri Lanka with her most recent husband, she was excited for the adventure. Don seemed like a decent fellow, and he treated her right, so who was I to stand in the way of their dreams? That had been three years ago and, although I'd never tell her, I really missed having her near because she was my only real family.

My dad had never been a significant part of my life. He'd walked out on my mom and me when I was two, and never really made much effort to know me after that. We suffered through the occasional awkward dinners from time to time, and that was plenty. Mom married and divorced twice between my dad and Don, and I had a few ex-step-siblings, but we were never together for long enough to form a bond that would last beyond our parents' relationship.