So I needed to stop obsessing, ordering, thinking.

I needed to just let things . . .

Be.

Unicorn

Izzy

“SO CAN YOU do Friday instead of Saturday?”

I was in Deanna’s office and had just told her about camping with Johnny.

And after I finished talking, I studied her face. She was a couple of years older than me, but at times she felt decades wiser than me, and I was trying to get a lock on what she thought of this latest development.

“That boy isn’t playing any games,” she replied rather than answering my question.

“Sorry?” I asked.

“Charlie said the same thing yesterday when I told him what was going down. Said if this guy was playing you, he’d not be coming to dinner tonight. He’d be calling you two days from now at around nine thirty and setting up a booty call. Now he’s called you and set up a whole weekend together on top of dinner. So yeah . . . this boy isn’t playing any games.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I told her.

“That’s ’cause you had a long dry spell before Kent, and also ’cause Kent was a successfully disguised psycho, so when you met him neither of us saw he was a successfully disguised psycho and we just thought he was into you. But, you’ll remember, we met Charlie at that bar and I gave him my number, and he made me wait three days before he called. When he did, I didn’t pick up. I waited two days to call him back, and when he answered the first thing I said was, if he pulled that crap again we wouldn’t even get to our first date. He didn’t pull that crap again. He was a player and he admitted it to me on our first date. But he saw what he wanted in me and the games ended. This Johnny, he’s not playing games right off the bat.”

I wanted that to feel good.

Instead, I said, “I don’t think it matters.”

“Uh . . . what?” she asked.

“He wants me for sex.”

She stared at me.

“And I’m good with that,” I told her.

She kept staring at me but she did it this time looking freaked.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” I continued. “He likes me. But I’ve been thinking on things and he’s making it clear this might be about spending time together, but it’s mostly about having sex. He’s not giving me the wrong impression. He told me not to worry about tonight, he’d bring the condoms. He didn’t ask if he could bring a bottle of wine and he didn’t ask if maybe I might want to rent a movie to watch with him after dinner. He assured me he’d bring the condoms. So I know the lay of the land and I’m good with that.”

Her eyes narrowed and she asked, “You sure?”

I nodded. “Totally.”

She stared at me again and didn’t hide she didn’t believe me, and she did this by beginning to look alarmed.

“I’m not getting a good feeling about this,” she shared.

“I am,” I replied. “Because, listen, like I said, I’ve been thinking on things and after Kent, this is perfect. I mean, I get to feel pretty and funny and spend time with someone that doesn’t have feathers or fur or a mane or isn’t my best friend in all the world. I also get to have unbelievably good sex. When it’s time, he’ll move on and maybe we can still be friends and then maybe he’ll give me discounts on oil changes or something.”

“Did Johnny Gamble perform an invasion of the body snatchers through orgasms this weekend?” she asked.

I grinned at her. “No.”

“This isn’t the Izzy Forrester I know.”

“It’s the Izzy Forrester my mom raised and with what went down with Kent”—and with my dad but Deanna knew all about that so I didn’t have to remind her of it, just myself, so I wouldn’t find another Kent, or another Dad—“this could be the best thing that could happen to me.”

When it looked like she was going to say something, I hurried on and did it quietly.

“I’ll find the guy for me and it won’t be a lunatic like Kent and it won’t be a loser like Addie’s husband. It also won’t be some guy who settles for me, might fall in love with me the way he can, even if most of his heart belongs to someone else. But I’m thirty-one years old, Deanna. Since I can remember, I’ve done everything right. I’ve researched everything, not including Kent, to the point where I’d never put any foot wrong, never make a mistake, never mess up so bad all I worked so hard to get was lost. It’s time now to have a little fun. It’s time now to do something just because it feels good. I know where I stand with Johnny. But I like him and he likes me. I like having sex with him and he wants to have sex with me. So I know where I stand and I’m good with that.”

“Okay then, babe.” She lifted two coral-tipped fingers to her eyes then turned them to me and stated, “But I’ll be watching.”

I grinned again. “I’d expect nothing less. So are you good with changing to Friday?”

“Totally. And looking after your menagerie while you’re camping. And we’re doing lunch this week. I wanna know all about this unbelievably good sex.”

I was still grinning when I replied, “You’re on.” I started to the door, saying, “Gotta get back to work. Lunch tomorrow?”

“I’m in.”

I gave her a wave, left her office and I went back to work.

I’d messed things up.

As I drove up to my house that evening, seeing Johnny lounged in the wicker rocking chair on my front porch, one knee bent, one leg stretched out, two six packs of bottled beer on the deck beside him, his truck parked off to the left so I had a clear view of him, all my calm of understanding where I stood with Johnny Gamble flew out the window and the nerves settled in.

I was late.

And I’d made him wait.

Which was rude.

I kept my eyes on him in a state where I couldn’t let it filter through how good Johnny looked coming out of my wicker rocking chair on my little porch with its pillow festooned porch swing, standing, curlicue, iron candleholders with the crystals floating down, the big and small pots filled with flowers, the amazing fretwork at the corners of the roof supports and in the screen door (it might be crazy, but that fretwork was one of the primary reasons I bought the house).

I had to park, shut down the engine, grab my purse then practically merge with the cushion of the passenger seat while I felt under it for my phone.

I’d called him when I was twenty minutes away, telling him he could show in forty-five and I did this sharing that I was almost home but had to stop for beer.

He told me he’d bring the beer and see me at my place in forty-five minutes.

And then all hell broke loose, part of that hell meaning my phone slipped under my seat so I couldn’t call him and share about said hell, and that I’d be late so he shouldn’t be there in forty-five minutes.

I found my phone, nabbed it, straightened, got out of the car, slammed the door and expertly motored through the gravel of my wide front drive on my spike-heeled pumps toward him now standing and leaning against one of my fretwork festooned posts, staring down at me.

I did this talking.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. After I phoned, some idiot who looked like he was texting swerved into my lane and I had to swerve to avoid him, and my phone flew across the car, settling under the seat. This means I couldn’t get to it to call and tell you that they set up construction sometime today out on 32 and traffic was backed up forever. Then I had to take a detour that I thought might take me five minutes out of my way but took me twenty minutes out of the way, and now I’m late and you’ve been waiting for me.”