Page 21 of How to Get Lucky
“Props for the application of the scientific method, but it sounds like you’re an ice cream rake.”
My brow knits. “What’s an ice cream rake?”
“Like a Victorian-era man who enjoys all the ladies. All the flavors. Like Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility or Wickham from the best book ever.”
“That’s me. I’m an ice cream rake, like those two.” I chuckle and shake my head. “No, I’m more of a Wentworth-style one-shop man. Once you’ve picked the right parlor, though, it’s fun to explore the menu.”
With a look of contentment, she crooks a smile, then says, “Happiness is all about exploring ice cream flavors.”
“I can’t argue with that.” As I lick the mint chip, I wiggle my fingers on my free hand, the sign for her to tell me everything. “All right. Lay it on me. I want to know the details of this epic new dance show you’ve planned.”
She spreads her arms wide, practically bouncing as we walk. “This is my plan. Everyone knows Magic Mike, right?”
I scoff. “Of course. Magic Mike is a cultural institution, along the lines of Michelangelo and Shakespeare.”
She raises a you don’t say eyebrow. “Oh, absolutely. Magic Mike’s legacy is secure for the rest of time, right alongside other titans like Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë.”
I smile at her. “London, did you bring up Jane Austen so that I would ask about Mr. Darcy?”
She brings her hand to her chest in a What? Not me gesture. “Actually, I’m a little offended that you haven’t asked about him yet.”
“You know what? I’m kind of offended at myself too. What is wrong with me?” I clear my throat and place my hand over my heart in exaggerated shame. “How is Mr. Darcy, and do you have any pictures of him today?”
“Maybe,” she says coyly, and whips out her phone. She scrolls through a copious amount of sunbathing pooch poses.
“He could be a dog model.”
She slugs my arm playfully. “Thank you. Also, nice save making up for forgetting to ask about him.”
“Whew. Okay. He’s a stunner,” I add as she tucks the phone into her purse. “But back to Magic Mike. Cultural institution, right up there with Rembrandt and Vonnegut. And honestly? It’s kind of a good movie,” I say as we round the corner.
“Shockingly good, and not just because my friends and I wanted to throw dollar bills at the screen,” she says, almost like a whispered confession, before continuing. “So, for the routine, I’m envisioning this: Magic Mike, but instead of the oiled-up, half-naked men, we have tastefully clothed, confident women. Instead of the hip-grinding gyrations, it’s more effortless fluidity. And in place of that brutish sexuality, we have more nuanced, playful sensuality.”
“Okay.” I draw out the word out as I track her train of thought, or try to. “So, nothing like Magic Mike.”
“Except . . . good dancing,” she points out.
“True. Gotta give Channing and the crew props for those moves. I sort of hate to admit it, but I’ve seen the movie a couple of times.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “Look at you, Mr. Magic Mike fan.”
I raise my hands in surrender, one of them still holding the cone. “Look, I . . .” I’m about to say my ex loved the movie and insisted on watching it. But I don’t feel like talking about Tracy, so I let the sentence die.
But somehow London reads into my silence, and softly, in a kind voice, she says, “Let me guess. You had an ex who liked the movie?”
“Yes.” I sigh, but I’m relieved that she figured it out quickly. That I don’t have to be the one to bring up the ex. “I was involved with someone for a long time. She actually really loved the flick and wanted to watch it a lot.”
London shakes her spoon in my face. “We’ve cracked this open. We’re going to have the ex conversation,” she says, and she’s so open about career, life, love, and un-love. That’s a refreshing change from the norm.
Plus, I’m the guy I am now partly because of all the shit that went wrong with Tracy. The problems we had helped me see what I don’t want and what I do. “I went out with this woman for about three years. It ended badly, as things with exes sometimes do. She cheated on me with the dog walker.”
I say it clinically, not wanting to give this too much weight. Tracy doesn’t deserve the air space. “Everything was tangled up, though, because I worked for her father. That’s one of the main reasons I’m trying to be careful about getting involved with anyone who’s close to my job.”
London shoots me a smile, a soft, sympathetic one. But it’s not an I feel sorry for you smile—more like an I get it, and you were dealt a shitty hand smile. I appreciate the difference—that she sees the difference.
