Page 2 of Real Good Man
“All right, esteemed elder of the world. Have a lovely day plotting my death.”
“Get out! And take this with you!”
“Nope. You need a good O more than I do. Same time tomorrow?”
She glares at me with such force, I’m a little shocked I’m not feeling the daggers shred my skin.
“Of course, you horrible child.”
“That’s what I thought.” I give her a cheeky wave and a wink.
Sofia, Myrna’s caretaker, emerges from the kitchen with afternoon tea service comprised of crustless watercress sandwiches, peppermint tea, and Fig Newtons as I head for the door. Nasty combination, but I nab a Newton off the tray anyway and pop it in my mouth.
“You better not be stealing my cookies,” Myrna yells from the living room.
Sofia rolls her eyes. “Why do you both delight in torturing each other? It’s a mystery of the universe I’ll never quite understand.”
Sofia’s Eastern European accent clings to the words, despite how hard I know she’s worked to lose it. The statuesque brunette looks like she stepped off a runway, but the twenty-two-year-old came from a much rougher beginning.
“Drinks tomorrow night?”
Sofia’s eyes light up. “Yes, please.”
“Good. Come over when you finish your shift. I should be home from work.”
Before I can escape from the apartment, Myrna comes out from the living room, leaning heavily on her cane to impart one last bit of wisdom.
“You know what’s wrong with your generation, Banner? You don’t understand a damn thing about relationships. You’re all texting this and sexting that. You don’t actually meet people in person and talk to them. You hook up and sneak out. Men don’t ask permission to call because they’ve already gotten what they wanted. You don’t hold back and make them work for it.”
“Are you calling me easy, Myrna?”
She shrugs a frail shoulder. “You said it, not me.”
Her insight stings, but I keep my smile pinned in place.
“Enjoy the big black cock. It might just change your mind about how good it can be to get some dick.”
She waves me off with a middle-finger salute, and I escape her pearls of wisdom and judgment.
Myrna is the crankiest old woman I’ve ever met, but for some reason, I love being around her. Her daughter and son-in-law drop in no more than three times a year, and the rest of the days she’s left with paid caretakers like Sofia, who are kind but are still no substitute for family.
Basically, Myrna’s exactly what I’m terrified my future is going to look like—old and alone with no one who gives a damn except the people who collect a paycheck from me. At least her dog is loyal. If I weren’t still one hundred percent selfish and could actually keep a goldfish alive, maybe I’d get one.Nah. Too much commitment.
Annnd we’ve just crossed into thedepressing-as-shitportion of the afternoon.
My phone vibrates with a text as I jam my key into the lock on my apartment door. I freeze, excitement humming through me. I can’t believe I’ve gotten sucked into this weird texting relationship with a man I’ve never met. But I can’t stop.
I mean, I would have stopped, but then my investigative (okay, call them stalkerish) skills got the best of me, and I found his picture.
Wearing fatigues, a wifebeater, and combat boots, Logan Brantley looks like one of those pictures women post on Pinterest boards but know they’ll never meet in real life unless it’s possibly on the stage of someMagic Mikestrip show. Except Logan is the real deal.
But we don’t sext. We don’t send naked pics. And there’s no dirty talk. We’ve actually becomefriendsin the last couple of weeks, and his texts fill some kind of need in my life I didn’t know I had.
Manhattan’s Queen of One-Night Stands, my self-proclaimed title, has suddenly fallen into a friendship with a guy who lives hundreds of miles away. And the more we text, the more I realize that maybe the men of New York I’ve been one-nighting aren’t the most masculine specimens around.
Basically, every time I go on a date, I end up texting Logan the same question, but with multiple variations.Would a real man ...and I’d fill in the blank.
Wear a rose-and-gray cashmere scarf?
