Tendrils

The rumor starts in the book club group last week. Not about me. About my husband. I joined the group to learn, to explore, to invest in my creative future. Now I’m vested to prove them wrong.

The Tuesday night book club tantrums are led by Tiny Pirate Tara and Tipsy Don’t Touch Me Tim. Last week, a tantalizing, zinger-fueled conversation about true romance leads to them asking my honest thoughts. I may have told them things.

“Give me one good reason to trust you?” I ask.

According to Suck On Reality Soup of the Day Sandy, my husband is “romance‑deficient,” “emotionally minimalist,” and “possibly raised by wolves who never learned the concept of foreplay, but did learn how to stack firewood.” I feign protest, but I don’t correct her.

“Why should I believe you?” I ask.

Apparently, this “expert” in rom-coms, who writes under a pseudo name Jana Something Special, the Miz Soupy Sandy Truth Slayer, knows true romance.

I’m going to prove something to her.

‘Ama’zon hears the rumor and becomes vested, too. I may have helped the vestment. She remembers my search history better than any vengeful vixen scorned by the opinions of a group chat.

‘Ama’zon decides to help. I smile as I type. No mother to teach me, no sisters to talk with, no friends made yet in our new, small, Stepford-style town. No worries—when I need to know something, I have my trusted friend guiding me.

Dear ‘Ama’, I type: ‘How-To-Romance.’

Which is how I end up in the garage with my husband on a Wednesday afternoon, watching him swing a hammer like a man who has never once been accused of romance in his life. At least, not that he’s aware of. I’m not telling him about the confession at book club. Our usual pillow talk revolves around hardness and hammering. In the wood shop.

I pause in the doorway. With all his hammering, he doesn’t hear me come in. I grab a handful of nails off the shelf and saunter over to the table he’s building. White oak, beefy black metal legs, seating eight people. He still hasn’t noticed me. I decide to join him where he’s at. The book says to swing my hips side to side, hand on hip, moving slowly and with caution so as not to startle the predator.

I scan the garage. Mood lighting: set (soft white sixty-watt bulbs over the workbench). One red towel laid across the end of the table, his tool belt hooked around his hips. Mood music playing softly in the background. The romantic scene is set. Check, check. Proceed as instructed.

I take in the scene. And a big gulp of air. Sawdust latches onto my lungs in a quick cling of hope for a spontaneous rebirth, and I cough. I move over to the table to get closer.

Three wide white oak boards separate us. I clear my throat to gain his attention. The perfume choice clearly hasn’t stirred his senses. Is it supposed to smell like coffee or chocolate to rouse desire?

I shift and shimmy my hips to raise his attention. Assume the pose the book tells me to do. Sultry in flannel, his favorite. I hope.

“What are you doing?” He stops swinging the hammer and looks over at me.

I bat my eyelashes and wink at him, swinging my head side to side so my hair swoops across my face. I huff some air, blow one lock away from my nose, and pause to give him my best ‘touch-me-now’ look.

“Seriously, what… are… you… doing?” His eyes are wide, his mouth gaped open. “And… what are you wearing?”

“Being romantic. Is it working?” I swipe the hair away from my eyes using one of the nails I’m holding, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

“If romance looks like you’re having a neurological event and in need of a medic? Yes, a thousand percent plus fifty, you’re nailing it.” He picks the nail out of my hand.

“It’s what the book says to do. What you’ll do next. What I’m supposed to do. You have the beard, you’re wearing the flannel, and you’re grumpy. But you’re not longing or swooning me.” I flutter my eyelashes again, purse my lips, and lean over the table he’s working on. Closer, so he can inhale my sensual scent.

“What are you reading now?” he asks, positioning the nail in the white oak board.

“This Pumpkin Spice Cafe book. The blurb says it’s a grumpy, sexy farmer meeting a city girl who’s supposed to run a cafe her aunt left her. I’m at the part where they find a cat. Can we get a cat?” I stand up straighter and swish-swash my hair side to side. “I think a tendril is hair, if I have to guess. You’re supposed to brush the tendril to fall in love with me.”

“Did someone recommend the book?” he asks, his lips curving up into a thin smirk on the left side of his face. “Why should I believe you what a tendril is?”

“The book. Research. My friend did, yes.” I reach over to caress his right bicep. He grips the hammer tighter.

“Who is your friend?” He pulls his right arm away from my grip, trying to poke my hand with the nail he’s holding in his left hand.

“Ama. Said it was recommended when I did a search. The how-to section.” I press my hips against the board to reach over and touch his chest. He steps back, waving the hammer between us.

“Ama? Is she a new friend of yours?” He laughs. “What are you trying to learn to do?”

I reach down and unbutton the top of my shirt. Red and black plaid flannel to match his. Couples are supposed to match. The other book said I need to be an unassuming, sexy city lady to catch a grumpy farmer’s attention.

I look up at his eyes. Chocolaty poop-mud brown, not deep-sea blue to get lost in. I’ll make do. Poop-mud brown can sparkle, right? I’m capable of the sparkle.

“When can we buy goats and get apple trees?” I ask. “I need to open a cafe to serve you coffee.”

“Why do we need goats?” He steps back to the table, his work in progress, readying the nail against the board again. I run my hand across his hammer.

“To set the scene, silly goose,” I whisper as I caress the hammer. “So you can romantic me.” I swish-swash the tendrils across my face and close my eyes. Nothing happens. I swish-swash again. Nothing. I open one eye and peek over at him. Nothing is swooning or sparkling in his eyes.

“Aren’t you going to move it?” I ask.

“Move what?” he asks.

“My tendril. The hair. It’s supposed to make you long for me when you touch it. You’re supposed to swoon. Like this.” I reach up, slowly move the hair away from my cheek, and tuck it behind my ear. “See? Like that. It’s supposed to build up feelings and anticipation and make you want to touch me. To hold me. To take me here… and now. The books say—”

“I’m building up a feeling about something,” he mumbles, laughs, and looks down at the table to position the nail. “You know they make all that up, right? Give me one good reason to trust you. To trust what you’re reading. It’s not even been a week since your pancake and bacon how-to book. I’m a little gun-shy with proof.”

He twists his hand. Red speckles litter his knuckles from the burns. I flinch a little bit. Stifle the chuckle girl, stay on track. Think sexy, not messy.

“Not according to Ama. It was recommended when I searched the how-to section.” I reach over to run my hand across his bicep again. “It says I’m supposed to touch you to activate butterflies. Do you feel anything?”

“Suspicion, dread, a little curiosity, mild anxiety,” he says. “Who is Ama, again? I need to talk with her. She in that book club?”

“She’s nicest to you when you hit add-to-cart. Here,” I lean over the table. “Touch me to see if this is working. Trust me, promise…”

He sets the hammer down and pokes my forehead with his index finger. “Feels like a fever dream. One where I missed the memo.”

“No, silly goose. When you touch me, you’re supposed to do it with romantic emotions to activate the need to kiss me.” I grab for his hand to show him. “Soft, gentle… shhh, you can trust me. We are making a romance. It’s what the books say to happen.”

For a moment, he resists being moved, then finally submits. I force his hand over to my cheek. He wiggles his fingers to tickle my cheek.

“You’re supposed to touch my hair. And move it. It says to move the tendril behind the ear. And then I’m supposed to look at your lips. That’s your cue to kiss me.” I pucker my lips.

He moves his hand into position, his index finger pressed against my lips. I hitch my breath the way the books say to do. He slides his finger across my upper lip, smooth and sensual. He’s believing me! He does know how to romance. I hope.

“Go slower, I’m not feeling butterflies yet,” I whisper.

He obeys.

“Now,” I whisper. “Tell me your deepest, darkest secret. The desires of your heart. What you want. What you fear. What you long for? You’re supposed to do that when you touch my tendrils.”

He slides his hand across my cheek and cups my face, fingers around my ear. This is awesome! Hope it activates butterflies soon. Sandy, this is a good reason you can suck your soup through a straw—he’s not an emotionless, devoid degenerate.

“What I long for? And my fears…” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “When I was twenty-three, my greatest fear happened.”

He lowers his face close to mine. I try to inhale the sauerkraut, onion, and sausage stew breath from lunch. Gawwgle! I try not to dry heave.

“Go on, tell me. This is where I rescue you from your fears and you fall in love with me. The part of the books where we discover soul mate status,” I open my eyes and flutter my eyelashes at him. “Keep going.” I reach up and caress his bicep.

“I knew it would one day happen. My father warned me, but I didn’t listen. He said I didn’t have the wisdom to know what to trust. What not to trust.” His fingers squeeze around my ears, his thumb rubbing across my upper cheek. “I was naive. My ability to trust was taken from me in that moment.”

“Yes, what happened?” I watch his lips. His hands fall from his embrace of my face. His voice isn’t quivering and his hands aren’t shaking yet. He’s supposed to pull me closer.

“I was in a hurry. The biggest day of my life. That’s what my father told me it was supposed to be. The way I met you wasn’t an accident. It was because of an accident.” He slowly runs his hands across the hammer. Not looking up at me, I watch his lips tremble. This is it, we are having a romance moment. Suck on your novel word quota, Sandy.

I reach over and put my hand over his. That’s what the books say the distressed damsels do. I’m understanding the assignment.

“Do you know what my deepest fear is?” he asks, not making eye contact yet.

“You can trust me,” I caress his hand gently. “Go on. You can trust me to love you through the good and the bad.”

“My biggest fear is—”

I rub the back of his hand.

“My biggest fear is not knowing…” He pauses, looks up, and we make eye contact. Nothing is sparkling yet.

I wait for him to finish. The silence between us—no bleat of goats to break the trance. No one around to interrupt us. No phones to scream at us to break up the silence that is lingering. Sweet baby ray of sunshine on a rainy day, this is what the books say romance is and I’m doing it! No butterflies the way they say it’s supposed to be, but we are having a romance moment. He’s not a wolf, and I’m ready to howl.

“Not knowing what?” I ask, squeezing his hand. I study his face as the wrinkles around his eyes start to form and deepen, his eyelashes resting atop his cheeks. His lips quiver and thin to a smirk. I pucker my lips together. This is where he will kiss me scene.

I lean in and flutter my eyelashes. Get ready for incoming!

“My fear is trusting things,” he says, looking up, his mud brown eyes glaze themselves over like the donuts I ate this morning. “Specifically, trusting what your ‘friend’ Amazon tells you to do with my body parts while I’m holding a heavy tool.”

I look down at the white oak boards, his hammer, his hands. I swish swash the tendrils from my face, set my hand on my hip and shift. Maybe the wood shop wasn’t the right scene to prove the rumors wrong.

“I have an idea,” I look at him. I smile.

His eyes shift from curiosity to panic. He nods slowly and steps away from the table. “Why am I suddenly afraid?” he mumbles.

“So, um… do you know how to stack firewood?”