Bad at Love by Karina Halle
What if she’s going to take what she learned from me and use it on the next guy? After all, according to her, most of her problems came from the fact that she had no real physical experience with men. That she was so nervous about having sex with them, she’d freeze up. Now, now that doesn’t stand in her way anymore.
“Laz?” she asks quietly.
I need to hold it together. My mind is running away from me and it’s not running to a nice spot. I know my own shortcomings, my own habits, and over-analyzing anything right now about our relationship isn’t going to be good for anyone.
“Sorry, I was thinking,” I tell her.
“I can tell. What about?”
“The flight home,” I lie. I lie because there’s no way I’m going to tell her my real fears right now.
“Ah,” she says, buying it because I probably do look scared right now. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you nice and liquored up at the airport bar.”
“Ugh, don’t mention liquor right now, I’m going to be sick,” Jane says. “Lucky for me, I’m taking the Amtrak back to Boston. I’d hate to be crammed on a plane for five hours all hungover.”
“Again, Jane, you’re the only one in pain,” Naomi points out.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “But aren’t you guys all on the same flight?”
“Same row,” Naomi says.
Jane gives her a devious grin. “You should take the middle seat between these two.”
“As long as I get a window,” Marina says.
“Oh hell no,” Naomi protests. “I always have to have the window.”
“No,” Marina says, eyes full of panic. “I like to look out it and dream.”
“Yeah well I get airsick. Don’t you remember when we flew to Chicago?”
Marina looks at me. “Laz,” she whines.
“Don’t go crying to your boyfriend,” Naomi chides her. “Like a crying kid running to their mother.”
But I’m stuck on the word boyfriend.
Is that what I am?
What are we?
I look to Marina for the answer.
She gives me a small, shy smile.
I smile back.
Nod.
Guess that’s what I am.
Chapter Fourteen
Marina
“So Much Love”
“Matcha latte for Martina!” the barista calls out.
Loudly.
Right in my ear.
It’s not like I haven’t been standing by the pick-up counter for five minutes or anything.
Normally I would grumble about the fact that I’ve been coming to this coffee shop for years now and they still can’t get my name right. Normally I’d complain about how long it takes to make a matcha latte.
But I am no longer normal.
I am sunshine.
I grin at the barista and take my drink from him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the guy, Chris, says. See, I can get his name right. “You look different.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Did you go on vacation or something? You’re all glowy.”
“I went to New York over the weekend,” I tell him. “Must be that east coast sun.”
He just nods and I turn away beaming at the compliment because I feel different, like I’m a whole new woman.
And the cause of that transformation just walked in the door to the coffee shop. Helps that Laz literally lives right across the street.
“Hiya,” Laz says to me, smiling broadly, causing those gorgeous crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
“Hi,” I tell him and even though I’m overjoyed to see him, there’s still a sliver of awkwardness between us. I haven’t seen him since we got off the plane yesterday. He kissed me goodbye as he dropped me off at my house and I wanted him to come in so I could fuck him in my own bed but he had already made plans to head to Long Beach to jam with Frank and the band, and I had a lot of stuff to do at my place.
So we made plans to meet here for coffee, like an actual date, and then see what happens next.
Honestly, I just want him to drag me across to his apartment, which is why I picked this location to meet, but I also want to keep my hormones in check for one moment and actually talk to him.
Because we have a lot to talk about.
Or, at least, one important thing.
And until we discuss said thing, I’m not sure what I should do right now. Do I go over and kiss him? Here, in public? Is that what we do? Is that acting out of line? I have no idea?
So I just stand there smiling at Laz and he stands there smiling at me and then a spot opens up across the crowded café (I swear to god, it’s always full of everyone and their screenplay in this joint) and I gesture to it with a shake of my head.
But he just comes over to me, places his longer fingers at the small of my waist, leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek. My heart cranks up, my pulse quickening. It’s like my hormones have been conditioned to come to life just from his proximity, from the moment his body heat interacts with mine, when his warm and spicy scent floods my senses.
“It’s too loud in here,” he says to me as he pulls away, eyes focused warmly on mine. “Let me get a coffee and we’ll take a walk along the river.”
“Sure,” I say but I barely hear it.
I watch as he goes to the counter and gets a coffee, black, which thankfully takes no time at all, and take in the sight of him. Today he’s wearing his usual get up, though he’s switched out the boots for burgundy, suede skate shoes, dark-blue jeans and a thin, black T-shirt that says San Antonio Music Fest in burgundy font that matches his shoes. Actually, the more that I stare at him, the more I realize that he’s put more effort than normal into what he’s wearing. He always looks good. You know, sexy rocker kind of good. Today he looks like he wanted to impress.
And I’m impressed. He could wear a paper bag and I’d be impressed. I’d be the most impressed if he were naked because that man has a body that begs to be shown off. It would be an extremely inappropriate way to go and get your coffee, but hey.
I can’t believe we’ve had sex, I think, for the millionth time. I can’t believe that man, my friend, that sexy British beast, had his dick deep inside of me. I can’t believe he made me come, over and over. I can’t believe I know what that all feels like.
He comes back to me, coffee in hand. “Ready?”
I nod, wishing my heart would calm down a little. It’s just a walk. We’re just two friends with their drinks, heading out along the river, about to discuss what all the hot sex between them just meant.
The Los Angeles River runs pretty much right behind Laz’s apartment, with a pedestrian path working its way along the shore. It’s a nice little secret this area has, the river has been cleaned up, and at the moment, is full and flowing, with birds and foliage giving it the feel of an oasis in the middle of the city. Sometimes I even see people kayaking down it.
We start strolling along the path and I’m tempted to just ignore the weight that’s on my chest and talk about other stuff—like bees—but then Laz says, “So, you said we needed to talk?”
And at that, he takes my hand in his and grips it firmly.
Okay, here we go.
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. I do. So…”
I glance up at him. He’s looking down at me curiously. Maybe even nervously. Maybe I’m just imagining that.
“So…?”
“Right. Okay. This isn’t easy for me to say…”
His hand turns into a vice, clamping hard around mine.
I continue, “but I just wanted to know where we stand. With each other. Because yesterday when Naomi said you were my boyfriend, neither of us corrected her. So I was wondering if…that’s what you are? I mean, no pressure. I know we haven’t really discussed what happened after we had all the sex. And I don’t know if we’re still just friends. If we’re friends who are now sleeping together. Or if we’re something even…more…than that.”
L
Oh shit. Oh my god. Did I scare him off? Is he about to break up with me even though we’re not together?
I stiffen, bracing myself.
“What do you want?” he finally says, his voice low. He looks at me openly. “Do you want to be just friends? Do you want to continue sleeping together? Do you want me to be more?”
That’s so not fair, he just turned the whole question around on me.
“I’m afraid if I tell you what I want, you might not want the same thing.”
“Try me.”
I nod, swallow. “Okay.” I pause, absently watching an egret fly past because it’s easier to focus on that and tell the truth than look at him. “I just want you, Laz. I have…feelings for you. Big ones. And I can’t go back to just being your friend again. I’m sorry, really sorry, if that’s not what you were wanting from me and that I’ve ruined it all but I just…I want more of you. I want more sex. I want this, us walking together, you holding my hand. I want to date you, for real this time. Be with you. Be in a full-on romantic and physical and exclusive relationship with you.” I let out a burst of air, shake my shoulders and prepare to get my heart broken.
He grins at me, a big beautiful smile that melts me into a puddle.
“You sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs, leaning down.
I tilt my head back, smile against his lips as they press against mine.
“So?” I ask him softly as he pulls back.
“I can’t do the friend thing anymore either,” he says, “even though you’re still my best one. And I don’t want to just fuck you, though I have to say, I love fucking you. I want you to be mine, through and through. Mine and only mine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Never been so sure of something in all my life,” he says to me. “And it feels bloody good.”
Bliss. This is pure bliss. This is sunshine in my veins, sunbursts in my heart. This is everything I’ve wanted to hear.
Almost. But I have no doubt, we’ll get there.
Won’t we?
“What are you doing later?” he asks me. “I’d invite you over to the apartment right now but it’s like Venice Beach up in there.”
“Why?”
“Scooby has a bunch of buskers over. I told him it was fine, as long as the fire breather stayed away from the curtains. I double-checked that we had a fire extinguisher just in case.”
“Well…” I say slowly. “Actually, I have plans and I was kind of hoping you’d come with me.”
“Where?”
I wince. “Out for lunch with my father and my aunt.”
“I’m glad to hear he’s doing better.”
“Yeah, supposedly. And I know I can do it on my own and it’s not just about the moral support, I just really want you to see him, meet him, when he’s sober.”
“I’ve met your father before, Marina. Sober. I know he’s a good man, you don’t have to try and prove anything to me.”
“I know but…” I trail off.
He squeezes my hand. “I’ll come. For sure.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Did you know that bees, ants and ravens are the only species, other than humans, that can communicate time and distance to each other?”
Laz’s brows twitch. “You’re nervous.”
“Because I’m talking about bees?”
“Yes. It’s a tell of yours. Like, if I was a detective interrogating you, that would be one of your tells. I’d ask you if it was you that robbed the bank and you’d tell me that when the worker bees kill the queen, they basically cuddle her to death.”
“It’s also called a murder ball,” I tell him, impressed that he remembered that fact. We’re sitting in his car, waiting outside P.F. Changs in a mall parking lot. We’re early to meet my father and Margaret, which, yes, has given me plenty of time to be nervous. “Do I have any other tells?”
“Well I know the ones when you’re nervous. Not sure if that always means you’re lying.”
“I never lie.”
“Bullshit.” His mouth curves into a bemused smile. “You lied just then. I saw your tell.”
“Which is?”
“You press your lips together afterward. Like you’re trying not to smile.”
He’s probably right. When I do lie, I often feel like laughing, like I never think I’ll pull it off.
“So, what’s my tell?” he asks.
I study him for a moment. His strong jaw, those lips that bring me to another place, those dark, arched expressive brows that tell me everything and the moody, intense eyes underneath.
I smile.
“What?” he asks, frowning.
“I just like looking at your face,” I say, feeling a rush of love for him flow through me. “It’s a good face. The best face. But I can’t tell your tell, you have to lie about something.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, thinking it over. “I absolutely do not want to fuck you right here in this car in this parking lot.’
I laugh. “Fine. I guess that works. I’d say then that your tell is that you don’t blink when you lie. Your gaze intensifies.”
He mulls that over, tapping his fingers on his chin as he eyes himself in the rearview mirror. “Hmmm.”
“By the way, I’m totally down for some car fucking right now,” I tell him, putting my hand behind his neck and pulling him toward me, marveling that holy shit, I can do this. I can touch him and kiss him and fuck him in his car because he’s mine. “Or anytime really.”
He raises a brow. “Is that so?”
“Mmm hmmm,” I say as he leans in and kisses me.
My heart trips, picks itself up, soars. Like the mere act of his lips pressing against mine can jolt my heart, bring me back to life.
“Isn’t that your dad?” he asks against my mouth.
Not the words I want to hear right now.
I open my eyes to see his eyes focused in the distance then turn in my seat and see my father and my Aunt Margaret walking into the restaurant.
“Guess we better go,” I say, though my throat feels like it’s closing up.
It’s been just over two weeks since I last saw my father. After Laz and I went to Lancaster and had to deal with him, I ended up putting on the brakes. I ignored my aunt’s phone calls, I ignored his too. I didn’t know what I was going to hear when I finally picked up.
But guilt finds me easily and it wasn’t long before I started feeling horrible for shunning him when he needs the most help. He’s not my problem, I know this but…I can’t seem to separate that from my life. It just is what it is and I’m always going to feel like I need to do something.
So, my father called last night when I got home and I answered and now we’re meeting him and my aunt at a P.F. Changs in Irvine. He’s been staying with her for the last week and when I talked to him on the phone, he sounded completely sober.
But who knows. Going to restaurants where alcohol is offered is always a dicey move and though none of us will have anything stronger than coffee, it’s a temptation that’s staring him in the face.
“It’s going to be fine,” Laz says. “Come on.”
We get out of the car and head into the restaurant, the tangy smell of the food wafting over us.
My father and Aunt Margaret are at the hostess desk waiting for a table. There’s a split second before they’ll see us so I use it to scope out their posture, their faces, their mannerisms.
My dad’s back is straight, carrying himself stiffly. In a way, that’s good. He’s probably sober, probably nervous too. I told him last night that I might bring Laz and he must have some idea that Laz took care of him that night. Or maybe he doesn’t know at all. Maybe he’s nervous for the same reason I’m nervous.
My aunt is a skinny, frail-looking woman with a mess of frizzy, brown curls and thick glasses, but her tongue is sharp and she’s stronger than she looks. Sh
That’s good. Maybe this will be okay.
Then my father sees us. His face breaks into a toothy grin, the exact same smile I inherited from him. It’s not forced at all, I know he’s happy to see me, and it immediately dissolves the hardness around my heart. This is the problem, this has always been the problem. When he’s sober, he’s my father. He even looks like a different person than the one we saw the other night.
“Marina!” he exclaims with open arms.
He envelopes me in a hug and without hesitation I hug him back. If anything I hug him harder, as if I’m trying to hold onto the person I know he can be.
“Hi Dad,” I tell him, smiling against him, and for a quick but weighted moment I’m ten years old, running through the house to him after he comes home from work, my mother cooking dinner in the kitchen. It’s bittersweet.
“Dad,” I tell him as I pull away. “You remember Laz?”
I watch him carefully as he looks to Laz. There’s a faint hesitation in his smile and when it comes, it’s slightly forced. Not in an unfriendly way, but in an embarrassed one. I think he remembers that night, maybe not in detail and that’s for the best, but he remembers Laz was there.
But Laz, bless his heart, he just sticks out his hand, shakes my father’s and gives him a big smile and hearty slap on the back. “Good to see you Mr. Owens,” Laz says.
“Nick,” he says. “Please call me Nick.”
“And this is my Aunt Margaret,” I say, flashing her a smile.
Margaret shakes Laz’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.”
She’s a tough nut to crack, but this is good enough for now.
The hostess seats us at the table and small talk ensues.
A lot of it is focused on Laz. They’re interested in his poetry, in his music, in England. Aunt Margaret spent a lot of time in England and Scotland when she was younger, so she likes to talk about Manchester and the Mancunian accent, how it differs from so many of the other ones.
Laz talks to them with ease. He’s not always the most sociable guy, I suppose the stereotype of the quiet, broody, and introverted is quite suited to him. But when he does talk to people, he has this way of giving them his utmost attention and keeps the conversation going when it lulls.