Unzipped Page 3

  And I nearly die laughing.

  The song has stopped, and the Dobler wannabe is now kneeling on the ground, furiously hitting buttons on the boom box.

  I peer around the curtain’s edge, and it’s like watching a sideshow act auditioning for my circus.

  He hoists the boom box up above him again. A new tune plays. I cock my head, listening, and I cringe when I recognize the tune.

  For real? Is he truly playing “Unzipped”? I could never stand that song when it was popular eight years ago. The music sounds like a can opener mating with a trombone. I wish he were playing Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes,” like Dobler did in the film.

  But as I study the bizarre suburban male mating ritual, I decide to award him points for sheer balls. He also deserves bonus points because he chose to go without the super cheesy trench coat that Dobler wore. It worked for Cusack, but on anyone else that attire screams serial killer.

  This guy seems harmless.

  And admittedly, from my vantage point two stories above, he’s kind of handsome with the glasses, the thick, floppy hair, and the jeans that fit nicely. Strong jaw too.

  Fine, fine. He’s more than kind of handsome. He’s 100 percent good-looking, in that hot nerd kind of way.

  The song stops playing. I straighten and inch closer. What will he do?

  The answer?

  Go balls to the wall.

  He does it. He sings solo. He belts it out. His voice is scratchy and terrible and off-key in ways I’ve never even known a song could be.

  He’s singing about wanting her love, wanting her back. And the look on his face, the hope in his eyes, the commitment to the song, it touches a part of my heart.

  The creative part of my heart, because I’m witnessing a gift from the muses.

  This man is an angel.

  I’ve never seen him before, which means he’s surely got the wrong address. He’s embarrassing himself for nothing.

  And I’m the lucky recipient of the sideshow. This is real life on steroids, and truth is stranger than fiction if a living, breathing man thinks something like this is going to work to win a woman who’s not even here.

  This is exactly what I need for my TV show.

  As the song nears its end, I fling open the window, yank back the curtain, and wave.

  He blinks when he sees my face, then falters on the words in one of the last few lines.

  I make a keep-rolling gesture. “Go on. I want to hear the end of it.”

  His brow knits. “Do you enjoy badly sung ballads?”

  I nod vigorously. “Seems I do.”

  He shrugs as if to say suit yourself, then does as requested, and when he’s done, I cheer. “I love it.”

  He scratches his jaw. “So, is there any chance Cassandra is hiding back there?”

  Ohhhhh.

  “You’re looking for Cassie Martinez?”

  “Yes, that badly sung ballad was intended for her, and it’d make my night if she’s crouched behind the curtains, beside herself with happiness.”

  I try to rein in the laughter. This guy. His heart.

  Most of all, these damn numbers on these townhomes.

  I frown on his behalf. “It’s just me.” I pat the windowpane. “This is my home. 101 Vintage Oaks Lane. But technically, it’s 101A, and technically she’s 101B. We share a doorway.”

  His face is crestfallen. Utter devastation slides across his features like a neon sign flashing all that for nothing.

  Poor guy.

  “Don’t worry—even the mailman gets confused. Don’t get me started with the UPS mix-ups when it comes to Amazon Prime. I got her yoga candles, and she got my—”

  I cut myself off. Maybe best not to let on I ordered some underwear from Amazon. But when I saw the black low-rise undies with the words pants are dumb on the butt I could not resist.

  I point to the window a few feet from me. “Anyway, I suspect that window is the one you wanted. That’s her bedroom. But she’s not home. She never is. She Airbnbs the place all the time.”

  The guy shakes his head, hanging it. “Just my luck,” he mutters.

  “But look on the bright side. Last night, there were two big, burly biker dudes staying there as they rode up the coast. At least you got me tonight.” I flash him a cheery grin. “And we need to talk, Lloyd. Don’t go.” I hold up my hand as a stop sign. “Stay there.”

  I race downstairs and invite the Say Anything imitator out for a cup of coffee. I need to know everything. Every single detail about his antics tonight.

  After all, when the muses drop a gift like this into your lap, you don’t leave it on the table.

  4

  Him

  There is planning, then there is damn good planning, and then there is precision-timed planning.

  And there are also townhomes listed on Airbnb. The fly in the let’s-get-back-together ointment.

  Why didn’t I think her place might be rented? Cassie’s name is on the property record as the sole owner. Plus, the light was on in what I now know is the house next door. To top it off, she’s posted photos on Facebook in front of the yellow house.

  That damn double home.

  It’s like a trick duplex townhouse.

  I prepared for every possibility . . . except this one.

  That’s why I’m making the quick drive into town, following the pedaling blonde who’s most definitely not my college girlfriend at all.

  She’s the woman I serenaded. Terribly.

  And yet she’s the woman who invited me out for coffee anyway, but not to the Italian restaurant where I imagined Cassie and I would be laughing, drinking wine, and toasting to my ingenuity and chutzpah.

  This has thrown me for a couple of loops, and since I’m not sure what to do next, coffee with the witness to my massive face-palm seems as good an idea as anything.

  When we reach the main drag, she hand signals that she’s pulling over. Not-Cassie takes off her helmet, secures it to the middle bar, and locks up her bike at a lamppost on the sidewalk while I park along the curb.

  “Nice electric bike,” I remark when I get out of the car.

  “Nice electric car.”

  “Can’t beat the gas mileage.”

  “Ditto.”

  She turns to the coffee shop, and its closed sign seems to mock us.

  Her shoulders sag. “Shutterbug. I forgot Cup of Joe closes at seven.”

  I lift one brow. “Did you just say ‘shutterbug’ to replace a curse word?”

  She nods, a little impishly. “It’s my language test this week.”

  “Explain.”

  “Each week I give myself a new language test.” She counts off on her fingers. “Don’t swear. Don’t use adverbs. Use the subjunctive mood—correctly, I might add—in nearly every conversation.”

  “And do you grade yourself on your own proficiency?”

  Her eyebrows wiggle. “I do.” She peers from side to side. “But honestly, sometimes my teacher is a bit of a slacker.”

  “Sometimes those are the best teachers to have,” I say, still trying to figure out what her deal is and why she’s so eager to chat. I want to know partly because she’s connected to Cassie but partly because she’s oddly interesting.

  She points a thumb at the empty coffeehouse. “Also, how is it that no one in this town needs a caffeine hit in the evenings?”

  I gesture to the block after block of wine bars and chichi restaurants lining the main street. “I’m guessing it’s a town ordinance that any beverages consumed after eight must contain grapes.”

  She snaps her fingers. “You’re right. It’s in the bylaws.”

  My eyes sweep the block, catching sight of an ice cream shop. “Want to follow the bylaws? Or grab a gelato instead?”

  She pats her stomach. Her flat, trim stomach that goes along with her flat, trim figure. “There’s a warrant out for my arrest if I eat any more ice cream.”

  I scoff. “Who would ever arrest you for doing that? That’s like arrest
ing someone for helping a little old lady cross the street.”

  “I filed it myself. I had to implement tough love when I noticed my cardboard recycling consisted primarily of Ben & Jerry’s containers.” She tips her forehead to a wine bar. “Is it wine o’clock?”

  “It’s after five, so I believe it is.”

  But she doesn’t order wine when we grab a high table at Red, White, and Rosé. She orders an iced tea, and since I’m still discombobulated to be sitting across from this woman rather than Cassie, I follow suit.

  “So, um . . .” I gesture to her. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t throw it. But that’s okay. You didn’t exactly hurl yours at me either, Lloyd. I’m Finley.”

  “I’m Kyler,” I say, extending a hand and shaking hers.

  She arches an eyebrow, her light-blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Did your parents put Tyler and Kyle in a hat and shake it up?”

  “Wow. I’ve never heard that before. Do you want to ask me next if Tyler rammed into Kyle to make my name?”

  She cracks up so loudly she snorts.

  “You’re a snorter,” I point out.

  “And proud of it,” she says between chuckles, then catches her breath. “I bet you’re one of those people who always has to say your name twice, aren’t you?”

  “Every. Single. Time.”

  She shoots me a coy smile. “For what it’s worth, I heard it right the first time.”

  “You’re a rare breed, then.”

  She narrows her eyes, studying me as if she’s a detective. “I am. Also, call me crazy, but I get the feeling you don’t like your name.”

  I tap my nose. “I can’t stand it. I don’t think you can measure how high my levels of can’t-stand-it go. Every school year, I had to explain my name because the teacher thought it had been written wrong on the class roster.”

  “That’s the worst, not being able to blend in.”

  “It is, and other kids would ask how I got my name. It reached a point where I’d say, just for kicks, that my mom wanted to name me Ky and my dad wanted to name me Lar.”

  She laughs. “And the reaction to that?”

  “At first, it was so absurd the other kids stopped asking. But then someone figured out K-Y was a popular brand name, and that became my nickname in sixth grade.”

  She cringes. “Oh, that’s terrible, John.”

  “Why are you calling me John?” I ask, laughing as I still process how the hell I’m sitting across from this motormouth rather than Cassie. This adorable blonde motormouth who seems like she’s never met a question she wouldn’t ask.

  “John has to be better than K-Y. From here on, I shall call you John.”

  “John?” I arch a brow and point in the direction of the bathrooms. “Trust me, kids will mock you for anything.”

  “True. Scratch John from the potential new name list. So how exactly did you wind up with Kyler? Were your parents going through a let’s-give-our-kid-a-unique-name phase?”

  “Precisely. My mom wanted an original name. It could be worse. My brothers are Ransom, Nash, and Gannon.”

  “Like Dannon yogurt.”

  “I bet Gannon has never heard that comparison before.”

  “If you don’t like your name, why do you keep it?”

  I furrow my brow. “It’s hard to change a name.”

  The waiter swoops by with two iced teas, depositing them on the table with a cheery grin. I thank him, and so does Finley. She takes a drink then continues. “It’s not that hard. You go to the county and file some papers.”

  “I don’t mean literally hard. It’s more socially hard.” I take a swallow of the cold beverage. “I’d have to explain to everyone why I changed it. Plus, my brothers would never let me hear the end of it.”

  She’s like a dog with a bone. She won’t let go. “What’s your middle name?”

  “Tom,” I say as a smile tugs on my lips.

  She shoots me a knowing look like she’s caught me red-handed. “You like Tom.”

  I take a drink. “Tom’s a good name.”

  “You totally wanted to be Tom.”

  Busted.

  I heave a sigh. “Look, Tom is better than Kyler. Tom is solid, Tom is sturdy.”

  “I had a cat named Tom growing up.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  She practically slams her glass down for emphasis. “Of course. He was the epitome of cool. He had swagger but not in an in-your-face way. He was a striped tabby. Silver and black. All manly and cool. No one messed around with Tom.”

  I pick up the thread, liking this direction. “Tom’s a builder, a fisherman, a man who works with his hands.”

  Her eyes gleam. “Tom’s the guy you call to get you out of trouble. He’s your buddy who always knows his way out of a jam.”

  “Tom is a man’s man.”

  She points at me. “And the ladies love him because Tom is fantastically easy to “say”—she sweeps her gaze from side to side, then lowers her voice to a whisper—“in bed.”

  “Maybe you could show me what that sounds like,” I say, since why not indulge in a little harmless flirting?

  She hums, sliding into a sexy purr. “Tom.”

  And maybe the flirting isn’t so harmless judging from my body’s reaction. But she switches gears in a second. “Tom also doesn’t need to be trendy,” she adds, and I don’t think she can shut up, but I don’t mind. “Tom doesn’t need to be Braxton or Jayden or Dane.”

  “And Tom doesn’t have to be Jax or Ace or Diesel or some other aggressive male name.”

  She slices a hand through the air dismissively. “Tom doesn’t care about any of that. Because Tom is easygoing. Tom gets along with everyone.”

  “But do you know what Tom likes most of all?”

  “What does Tom like best?”

  “Tom likes that no one ever asks how his name is spelled, or what it means, or why the hell he was given that name.”

  “Um,” she says, a sheepish expression on her face as she speaks in a confessional tone. “What does Tom mean? I don’t actually know.”

  Laughing, I realize I don’t entirely know either. “I think it’s from the Bible. Wasn’t he an apostle?”

  Recognition seems to flicker in her eyes. “Yes, that’s it.”

  “But mostly I think Tom means”—I pause to sketch air quotes—“‘the name I really wanted but my parents needed a name to match my brothers.’”

  “Tom.” She says it like a statement, and I tilt my head in question. Her eyes light up. “Look! You answer to Tom.”

  “Like a dog?”

  “Exactly like a dog.” She holds up a finger. “Hey. Idea. What if I called you Tom, instead of Kyler?”

  “Why would you do that?” This woman is a bit of a nutjob, and yet I’m digging her crazy company.

  “You like the name better, and this way you can test it out. You think your brothers would give you a hard time. You worry it’s too hard to change. I don’t know you from Adam, so you might as well be Tom to me, and then you can see how it feels.”

  Right now, it feels unexpectedly good. “I’ll be Tom to you.”

  She smiles. “You’re Tom to me, and Tom is strong, charismatic, and the ultimate good guy. You can trust Tom.”

  “Now that we have that out of the way, are we going to change your name too?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m good with Finley. Want to hear why it’s my name?”

  I think she’s going to tell me anyway, so I say yes.

  “I have two older brothers, and my mom didn’t want to get her hopes up by picking a girly girl name, so she chose one that could go either way.”

  “She must have been happy to finally get her girl.”

  Finley shrugs. “She probably was at the time, but I promptly began disappointing her, though that’s a story for another time. As for the name, it’s for the best that I didn’t land a Y chromosome because my dad was leaning toward Adler for a boy.”

/>   “Adler is uncommon,” I say diplomatically.

  “Adler sounds like something you take when you’re not feeling well.” She affects a falsetto voice. “‘Honey, can you pick up my Adler? Oh, I need to go to Target and get some Adler. I have a terrible headache, and I’m all out of Adler.’”

  I laugh. “You’re funny, Finley.”

  She flicks her hair. “Thanks. I kind of have to be.”

  I knit my brow. “What do you mean?”

  She waves it off, zipping away from my question. “Anyway, so tell me all about Cassie. You decided to big-gesture her, and you got me instead.”

  “That’s my life in a nutshell. I went all out, and I had the wrong house, wrong girl, wrong everything.”

  “Townhouses with A and B addresses are literally the worst thing that has ever happened to big gestures,” she deadpans.

  “Fine. It’s a first-world problem.”

  “A first-world love and romance problem. But don’t worry, the doctor is in.” She taps her chest and takes another drink of her iced tea. “And my diagnosis is that your effort was impressive. I’ve never seen that kind of commitment to a re-enactment. I need to know everything. What inspired you?” Her tone drips with curiosity.

  “You want me to tell you everything?”

  She swirls the straw dramatically in her drink. “Hello? I’m plying you with iced tea. Doesn’t that entitle me to all the deets?”

  I can’t quite tell her everything, but I can tell her enough. “Cassie was my college girlfriend about eight years ago when I was twenty, a sophomore in college,” I begin, leaning back in the chair. “I met her freshman year working on a protest—”

  “Ooh, what were you protesting?”

  “Straws. They're bad for turtles. She wanted them to be banned, and so did I.”

  “And that was before straw protests became a thing.”

  “We were on the vanguard.”

  She holds up a fist for bumping. “Long live the turtles.”

  I fist-bump her back. “Turtles are cool. Anyway, we became friends, bonding over sea creatures and our amazing ability to drink beverages without needing straws.”