A Bit of Nothing Ch. 04

A/N: I'm sorry in advance if certain moments are just plain what-the-fuck when it comes to putting logic. Writer's block is real.

***

Chapter 4

"Do you still have contact with your exes recently?" I asked over this nonsensical phone call session. If he wants to simulate whatever liberty this dating routine brings him, he can have it.

But not without him going through hell. And me? By the baptism of fire. This jaded bitch of me wouldn't yield. I'll win, he'll see.

"No," says my phone's grainy speaker. "Why do I have to? Ellie and I remained as friends. But not with Jessica. Though Jess and I had a brief but awkward closure at a random store."

I flopped my good ass body in bed, and my soft mattress received me with a cushioned bounce. Ah...

The taste of holiday break.

"Are you sure you only have two exes?" I asked him.

"I have sustained two long-term," emphasizing the last word as if it wasn't already mentioned. "Ex-partners."

I rolled on my stomach and reached into the bedroom table for the lamp. Once I adjusted its lighting, my arms extended further on the calendar looking for the schedule of my Dad's new nurse.

It's been a month since Mike the Nurse reported conflict of interest on his duties and requested for relocation. See? He's no saint, this ass framed his cause like it's my fault.

Partially it was. But the worst part would still be if we are hypothetically caught sleeping if he's on his night shift. Since he really did bite my bait when he agreed to be involved with me in some way. I made a silent maniacal laugh at that thought.

I got this ass of a hot guy.

Would that actually be the worst? Or greeting him naked while he's still wearing his scrubs?

I made a face as if I was spewing the picture.

"Mike, it's been a month. If you want to be exclusive, may I ask? When are we going to have sex? My pussy's all dried up," I complained.

The other end was silent. He might have gagged. No idea. "You can come over to my house. It's not that hard," he eventually said.

Fuck, no. I don't want to see that humongous house. "I wonder how'd I do that? Suppose I'm horny right now and start walking. Mike, when I arrived there, my feet were so worn out that I'd be so pissed I would rather throw rocks at your window."

This ass stifled a sound. He bit his chuckle, and laughter spread over my phone. "That's rich. I'll pick you up, how 'bout that?"

With my deadpan face of pure annoyance, I deliberately drew my phone close to my mouth and grinded my words through my teeth. "You defeat your purpose."

And hung up without mercy.

Remember when this guy blocked me? Turns out he, too, suffers from mood swings. After that tete-a-tete at the diner, he unblocked and began calling. Right up to this moment. He then laid out this no in-person contact transition period that spans up to 3 months.

Why 3 months?

That bloke suffers from the pop culture verdict of the 3 month rule.

Why no-in person contact?

So nobody can put shit on his professionalism or credentials. Whatever that fucking means. A knock came to my door, followed by a light voice, "You ate those Swiss chocolates from my drawer?"

"Yeah," I confessed.

"How dare you, Kat. That's my boyfriend's." My sister, a freshman, started.

I flicked my hands away. "Nothing really lasts forever in high school romance. I heard it from a bloke who nursed his broken heart."

"Who?" Snorted this gal.

Then with pride ('cause I managed to reel him in alright), I flashed my phone to her and gave a sly smirk. "This. Look what I got."

The girl had her mouth opened. "Get. Out."

I cackled like a hen, and triumphantly laughed like a villainess.

"What potion did you make him drink?" This skeptical chit pry.

I inhaled my breathing with boastfulness, until I got up for Indian style sitting. "It's called perfect timing. Hot guy wanted a rebound, I wanted a taste," my voice smoothened.

Betty threw me a Swiss chocolate's wrapper. "Boo, you bitter bitch. I heard better stories."

Then Sven's silhouette appeared.

"Oh, little brother!" I greet, causing him to stop midway outside the open door. He raised both his eyebrows. "I thought you disappeared in Bermuda Triangle. It's nice you popped your living body sometimes for a visit," I cheered him.

This young man flipped me his middle finger and carried on. I turned my attention back to Betty. "Your boyfriend?" she reverted back.

"No." I fixed my crossed legs comfortably. "The deal has something to do with me role-playing to be his girlfriend. While--he--is my fine snack," I flaunt, with a face satisfied to report.

Betty knitted her forehead, "so it's like a double-edged sword, more or less? Sis, damn you, if you're going to steal my snacks, can it not be the ones James gave? That's for me." She had her arms crossed with eyes that's flaming with anger.

"Well--" I couldn't speak. "It was left open in your drawer, a-and I was hungry that day, so--"

Betty exploded, she stomped her feet. "Thief! You thick-faced thief!"

Oh, shit. Another upbraiding. Gotta endure.

After that, she walked out. Then Chelsea came in, "Did you take the top I bought last season."

I snuffed. "Not me." Then shrugged and ignored her. She moved on, catching up to Betty asking about that top.

When this sibling reunion was over, my phone started ringing again. Annoyed at Betty, my mood is not in a people-pleasing mood. As it should. Mike blocked me once, my mood says I'm blocking him now. I did. Payback time, Mike.

A message came: Kat, don't be such a bitch. We're at a talking stage, remember? After 3 mos, I decide if u become my girlfriend or not. I'll wait in 5 mins.

Oh, right. To displease means no sex from this guy. I-unblocked him then, and reached out. He picked up.

"Mike," my sweetest voice smiled. "So, you were calling?"

As if nothing had happened, he dropped a profound question. "After sex, what happens?" he spoke softly.

Easy. I coughed. "You mean if I slaked my lust after I courted you? Well, as promised, Michael, it'll be an easy break. We'll go on business as usual," I told him. That profound question has a basic answer

The other end was eerily silent. Am I hearing crickets or awkwardness? Shit, what did I say? I'm tryna be real here! What the hell?

"That goes on why we're not yet having sex," he began. "I'm taking you with me to our family holiday this Thanksgiving."

My mouth dropped, and I started mumbling gibberish sounds, "Hu--. Wait. W-what?"

Mike didn't react, as if waiting for my serious reply. I made a sound of plea. "Why?" came my long wail.

"Didn't I tell you? I don't do sex. If you want me to sleep with you that bad, work on it, little princess."

I was about to say fuck you forget it you asshole when he continued, "I like what I do. I like sex the way I do. If you want me, do me on my terms."

I hung up, and he no longer bothered afterwards. I didn't talk to him for the span of the remaining 2 months he imposed 'cause I'm pissed as fuck. Besides, there's that popular saying: absence makes the pussy grow fonder. By the time we officially saw each other out, he took me to a boba tea shop. He wore his off-duty casual look. A black Nike work out t-shirt, where he crosses his arms and there flashes a heavy duty wrist-watch,

The off-duty look always makes him lighter, more breathable and athletic. When he moves, the quick flex of those wrist watch, those slender hands above those wrists makes my mouth water. The reason I want him this bad. He leaves me breathless and dazed just by the way he looks at me with a taunting chin.

His cool gaze looks down because of my own bad behavior. I want him to look at me like that in bed, punish me like that in bed while driving me to peak level orgasm. I don't care. If he made me see heaven, I'll consent enough to be his fucktoy. That damn face, body, hell of an attitude and coolness. Give it to me, I'll take it.

So he wanted family involved in this dating field...

"Where to? Where will you take me on Thanksgiving? Better bring me back in whole piece and not like some horror ploy from Get Out."

"What the fuck," the thickness of his native tongue cursed. "And here I thought I'm treating you to a nice lunch."

"You call water therapy like sweet boba, lunch?" I raised the too-large-for-my-stomach unfinished boba. "You will have me meeting the Mr. Andrew Sanditon?!"

Now that shit is a real panic. I never asked this complication except that my pervasive libido overrides my logic. "Where will it be held, Mike? Where?"

He made a quick shrug. "From my childhood state, Tennessee," he spoke under his breath.

Taylor Swift's state? It's better under prudence not to go on asking what he is doing in Michigan. Because if he is going to say their mansion in the east side of our neighborhood was their holiday house, I'm really going to smash his head. Why can't I just have simple sex and not drag myself further from this? Why?! I'm not going to ruminate how that neighborhood itself created a contact between us.

The both of us? Could've just remained friends of friends after some few sexual encounters. Who said about taking a flight to Tennessee?

"You grew up in the South?" I exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Who gives a fuck about prudence anyways?

Mike gestured his head in a casual dismissal. "Dad grew up here. My mom took over my grandfather's legacy there that he had to move--"

Oh, holiest of fucking fuck. Would you understand now how I hated privileged kids? Would you?! 'Cause trust me, I would rather that you take my shoes instead. Right at this moment. Right now.

These people are talking alien shit the rest of us never truly understand. I'm starting to have doubts. I really am.

Then something clicked, I turned around and looked at him. Wide eyed, he returned the favor, albeit, puzzled. No fuckin' wonder...

No fuckin' wonder he wanted all of this dating shit before we start bangin' 'cause he's a traditional boyfriend. What about hunting season and his shotgun? His high school girl-next-door Ellie with an ethereal aura like Julie Delpy in that film Before Sunrise, while Jessica comes off sizzlin' like Megan Fox?

Then him being a polite person (at first), and him casually checking the lightbulb, being Rosana's children's lifeguard/ tour guide/forest ranger--

What the fuck he doesn't do and doesn't know? He can even speak French for fuck's sake.

Argh! Why didn't I just do my research like a simple background check of his father's LinkedIn profile? Fuck!

My head sunk down on the table and unconsciously banged it multiple times on its edge.

"What the hell are you doing?" threatens the guy across from me.

"Finding sanity," I replied, not looking up. I'm catatonic. Ya'll don't talk to me.

I should've enrolled in that etiquette class back in New York years ago. Back in high school. Big damn, I should've indulged that little vanity then. Who knows I could bring it to good use?

"Michael Sanditon," I breathed out. Slowly, I fixed myself, still with eyes firmly closed I continued, "If I'm meeting them, would you please tell me we're not taking a private jet."

"We're not," he affirmed. "Waste of unnecessary gas. But we can take business class if you want--"

"I don't," I cut off. "Leave me alone."

He lets his arms go, and in a confused expression, "What do you mean?" He asked. "We're taking flights separately?"

I agreed, but the asshole snapped me out of it. He argued logistics, and I realized proximity. Come to think of it, more proximity means more chances to sex. More chances to sex, the quicker we can have this shit over with. So I made plans, packed my bag and was relieved to go get some life (her words when I told her I'm tagging along with Mike) before my own family took their trip abroad.

*** *** ***

We met at the airport, and since I can carry my shit, I didn't ask for his help. We then moved to our own accord. The most awkward thing that happened from the rest of our trip was probably sitting next to him in his off-duty existence.

Too-close.

Wait, didn't I say I want him?

Too overwhelming.

He was seated near the window 'cause I have motion sickness. When I tried to suppress the nausea, praying to God with my head bowing as it was planted to my hand, this guy whose head was also mindlessly planted on his hand and stares by the window took my free hand.

I wanna puke. Not because of his contact, oh no, but because the plane was taking off. Please, please, please. Let him not find out this embarrassing shit. It means no sex.

"Why are you holding me?" I asked. My stomach is in turmoil.

He turned around. "Shouldn't we suppose to get handsy?" He quipped.

I got conscious. First, if you do sex: go big or go home. Second, he's always good from a far view, but when things get fleshy like my hand having been covered entirely by the textured lines of his palm alone, it's awkward.

But I like the contrast though, his body hair is really blonde next to black. Brown next to a blank slate of white. Hmm... It looks like an accent to a painted light ceiling. This sort...

What the fuck I'm doing here? My stomach rebels to find me a washroom basin now. Fuck no, Kat. Endure it like your menstrual cramps every month. I pressed my head firmly into one of my hands every time this sickness fluctuated and eased. Wisdom says there is beauty in romanticizing pain. I'm one of its hopeless romantics. Since my other hand was stolen by the same thief who stole my food, I want to jab him.

"Would that mean being handsy includes me daring to ask if I can grab your balls?"

He coughed a little before holding it back. Once returned to his composure, he looked me dead in the eyes, "You female douchebag."

I chuckled, and gave him a challenging smirk based on that claim, before I removed my gaze away from him and set it to the opposite aisle. This urge to puke is my greatest calling. I think I should sleep it off, so I reclined and counted sheep. One Shaun the Sheep jumping over the Tennessee fence, two Shaun the Sheep jumping over the Nashville ranch--

I felt my head covered by a hand until it was guided to a good smelling armpit and to a hard chest surface. No body odor? God, why?

"Here," he murmured above my head.

He smells like soap, a scent that intends to remove any smell, and what is left is a light tinge of his own faint cologne. Fuck him for me not finding out what's his body odor will be. Unless we're skin to skin. Ha! I was about to laugh when my gut punched a strong urge to puke. It went up as far at the back of my throat.

It tastes like my recent meal. But it subsided eventually when I smelled what's around me. He was soundly breathing that Mike's chest heaved with a steady rhythm. I slept. When we got off the plane, the next thing I became aware of was their family car and their driver had been waiting to have us picked up.

I want to initiate a physical altercation anyhow, my protest about privileged kids is too persistent. We sat next to each other again, this time--in the light I shall see for the rest of my days--he's now in the back seat. The only difference, however, is how his breath exhales easy directives to the professional driver. May I be allowed to punch him?

We stopped at a pharmacy store. My hand that had been gotten used from his hold had been dragged there. He brought me bottled water and medicine. Then, opened that medicine and commanded me to drink it in front of the pharmacist like it was some content creation for YouTube.

True blue American asshole.

When I swallowed the last drop of that water, I looked at him with an expression that clearly states this mind.

"Don't try my patience, Katarina. I could reproach you for what you've done during flight," says his barely restrained voice. He was lightly tapping his foot. What am I? A kid? "The plane was not without its lavatory, let me inform you. Of all the time you've let that illness go, I was waiting. As a nurse, can you just imagine my frustration?"

"I thought you're not on duty?" wags my good ass tongue.

His expression relaxed with controlled and condescending annoyance. "Let's go," was his curt reply, not bothering to wait as he began walking.

Oh, shit. They might leave me in this state Safari could only guide me on. I ran to catch up on his quick strides. Soon enough, we left the pharmacy simultaneously. This guy, after sulking, took a time to open the door and stood, "After you." Well, I want to cackle, it looks like it was almost against his will. Why bother though?

You know what's a real bother? To see that their legacy is not just any legacy where an iota of that is a 20 hundred acres estate that sees no end to our ride. Mike, for whatever he's at, still didn't let go of that fuckin' hand which belongs to me and intstead lay it into his thigh.

Tch. Here I thought I asked permission to grab his balls. Why play hard to get, boy? Who's more prudish? Me or him?

We got out, saw his fucking country boy castle, and a dog that wags his tail to him and eagerly sniffed its nose to me. Two dogs. A farm dog, big and idyllic to move casually, and a house dog named Great Dane Scooby Doo who sniffs my cheeks that I pray to Jesus she won't open her mouth to swallow me.

"How was your dog back in Michigan?" I suddenly remembered, since I mentioned it once, that Dad might accidentally shoot that innocent creature. I've been busy evading my head from these current dogs' noses, with their big furry bodies about to squash me since I decided to give them a massage that they are eager to have.

Mike gave a noncommittal tweak on his forehead. "Left it for a while to Rosana's."

"Mamita's dogs are friends with him?"

"Seems like it," says another noncommittal answer.

These two dogs left me alone when he whistled--could've done that earlier, don't you think so, Michael?

When he invited me inside this fuckin' mansion that I will no longer describe since I've had enough about sizes, I saw household staffs, then his mother in the kitchen whom he gave a kiss. When Mrs. Sanditon turns her head, I see a woman that spits the image of this man. Of fuck, no wonder how he got that beauty. Talk about blessed genetics.

"And," says a bright soft voice, "who would this lady be?"

Heh. Me, a lady? It would be an honor to even deserve that title, madam. 'Cause I'm very far from it.

I tried to play my girlfriend mode. Very demure, very mindful.

"My date, mama," says the man currently present in the room.

So I greeted in a very demure, very mindful girlfriend mode. Wait, wouldn't it be more fitting if I was a Southern belle instead? Though, how?

Damn... I finally found those etiquette classes a miss.

"Mikey, dear," tuts Mrs. Sanditon.

Pfft. Mikey... How are you a Michael then a Mike and still be a Mikey?

"You ain't gettin' young," she teased her son. "When will you bring me some grandchildren?" She stopped battering that slimy dough on a big bowl and lay it into the counter table. She leaned into the counter's edge.

Fuck, is this a signal from that film Get Out?

"Mrs. Sanditon, the time is yet to come," I inserted my brazenness. I thought of a plan: make myself look like an unwanted flak, so Mike will never think of bringing me here ever again. I made a maniacal laugh. Victory is near. "If mother knows best, you see, ma'am, based on Mike's history, your grandchildren should be blonde."

Yes. Just right. Make myself look embarrassing with my own circus shitshow.

Mrs. Sanditon laughed, and gave a two brief nods, "Now that's a wonder to Mikey why he ain't sowin' some wild oats." Then gave a big laugh again.

Wild oats? Heh...

Go ye and multiply thy genes but I shall prefer to miss it, thank you very much.

"Time flies when I'm givin' Mikey his little showers and changin' his diapers," Mrs. Sanditon continues. "If nothin' ain't sowin' on Mikey's little willy--"

"Mama!" cuts Mi-ka-el. "No. You ain't goin' that lane. Where's papa and some of my siblings?"

"Horses. Took some visit along with your brothers," Mrs. Sanditon replies before moving on to continue what she's doing.

Next plan: act like a kiss-ass to his mother.

"Mrs. Sanditon, what will you be cooking?" I beamed with curiosity. "May I stay and watch? I heard some good fried chicken that's not KFC--"

Mrs. Sanditon's cheerful features spoke of a beautiful woman comfortable with her own brilliance. She had eyes like my mother, they bide the time to seize opportunity within their hawk-like perceptiveness as if they are used to negotiating technical business deals.

"You betcha', darlin'," she said, winking that sharpness into a motherly candor, still battering that dough. "We cook our food grilled and deep-fried."

"Nice," the tone in my voice reveled, snapping my hands to a single clap like some preppy city girl. "But you're mixing dough?"

"It's cornbread," says her accent that had a nasal pinch to it.

"Oh, cornbread," says my performance. "May I watch and learn?" I, then, look at Mike with a mischievous look before returning to his mom. "And tell me more about Mike's diapers too, Mrs. Sanditon. We should exchange information when Mike stops pissing his bed, it helps complete the research I have about my date."

I want to laugh. Vulgar, inappropriate piece of shit, Kat.

Mrs. Sanditon's staccato laughs emerged again, she beckoned her hand. "C'mere," she said before looking at Mike, "Leave this chit-chat to the ladies, Mikey. Go find your papa."

Yes. Yes! Ha! I'm poolin' in the information, bitches. With some trade from my kiss-ass self.

"May I be of assistance, Mrs. Sanditon?" I offered when Mike's off to the races--or horses. Or what-not. See my saccharine people-pleasing personality? I followed her to the sink when she started taking another kitchen utensil.

"No, dear. I got it," replied this already glamorous woman. I hope she's not Meghan Sussex with those expensive accessories when Meghan tries (and fails) on that Martha Stewart knock-off cooking show With Love, Meghan. I peeked through both her wrists, and damn those wrists are delicate as fuck.

But I was wrong, however. There were no accessories but bare hands. She had her sleeves rolled up and put on an apron while her white-powedered hands reached to her wrists as they knead and powder another dough. Oops, she seems busy.

"So, Kat, right? Kat, Katie--"

Who the fuck?

"It's Katarina, ma'am. Mike calls me Kat sometimes," I interrupted.

And now you relegate what your Dad calls you to Mike? Hypocrisy, Kat. And karma. Ha!

Mrs. Sanditon raised her eyebrows up. "Kat," she repeated. "Kat, how'd you meet my son?"

It's time to put myself in a bad light and self-destruct. "He was my father's nurse, ma'am. And we live in the same neighborhood."

She stopped kneading and turned to me, "Yeah? I guess Mikey practices what he took after all."

"Of all the options that he has, Mrs. Sanditon, if you don't mind me asking, why'd he choose to become a nurse?" My nosiness began.

She shrugged and got back to kneading as she turned her back and concentrated. "I have no idea myself, darlin'. But once his papa asked if Mikey wanted to take over his estate back in Michigan, he broke up with his sweet Ellie."

Oof. Is this a hit where a mom implies she misses his son's high school sweetheart more than his current date? I wish I could be insecure. I wish I could care. No, I'm good. Really, Mrs. Sanditon? I only came here for a fuck.

My mouth made a flabbergasted sound. "Really, Mrs. Sanditon," I said, here comes self-sabotage 101. "I wish you would take him back. He doesn't look good wearing those scrubs, and he even offered to hunt with my father who suffers from forgetfulness to its extreme extent. I told my father he might shoot his beloved dog instead for being a bad nurse--"

She laughed again. Now, Mrs. Sanditon is a happy woman, isn't she? "You betta' forgive 'im, Kat. He grew up roaming in the wild forest here and there during hunting's peak season. But you say he's ain't fine in those scrubs, yeah?"

"Absolutely," I confided with perfect assurance. "He makes my pussy dry."

Shotgun fired, and I'll be kicked out of this place in a second.

"Bless your heart, darlin'" she said, before an uncontrollable laugh erupted from her. She stopped kneading and held her gut. "That's the first time I heard somethin' interestin' from the women he brought here," she laughed andnlaughed as if it's the end of the world. She wiped her eyes, "and from the women I heard gushin' from that coffee store," she continued in between laughter.

Nosiness knows no bounds. No more invitations from this house! I go for an overkill. "How many women he brings here, Mrs. Sanditon? He told me he doesn't do sex?" My face showed this perfect wonder of inquiry.

"He did? Now, as her mama, that's good to hear. But I ain't havin' grandchildren. How 'bout you, Kat? How many kids do you wish to have?"

How about a zero, ma'am? Bombastic-side eye.

"I already gave birth to my babies inside my head, Mrs. Sanditon," I boast. "And I prefer they should stay there forever. Rent-free." I smiled in triumph. As I said: self-sabotage 101.

Mrs. Sanditon's happy features faded into a bit of seriousness and shook her head faintly. "That Jessica may be fine, but she can never be a good mama to my grandkids," she spoke.

Now, I'm curious. What's the issue with her? "Why is that, ma'am?"

"She ain't cookin' nor have any interest of anythin' for a homemaker."

Huh? Can I politely qualify myself that I'm also not, so I can get out of here?

"She made Mikey sad for a long time. Now he ain't havin' anyone. It's possible I could've seen 'im with women but he never brought 'em here. He has many female friends introduced to me, but I ain't havin' it. They change like seasonal crops--"

Yeah. Talk about dating before sex when that asshole clearly has Friends with Benefits! Mi-ka-el, you son of a glamorous--you goddamn ass!

"---and that Jessica lass has no interest in even coming here. She stares at her phone--"

Pfft. Trust me, I know. She's my fellow chronically-online Gen Z, Mrs. Sanditon.

"---the whole day. She kept dancin' in front of her phone's camera," Mrs. Sanditon finally said.

Now that's a good information. In conclusion, I am relieved since I have no idea what ticks the checklist of a homemaker, and I'm not blonde. I was about to say that I'm also his female friend like seasonal crops when Mrs. Sanditon spoke again.

"When he chose to broke up with Ellie, because that sweet lass don't want to leave Tennessee and does not want some distance, he's takin' care his father's estate by himself. Alone in that house when he says he betta' be movin' out."

I shut up. Mrs. Sanditon is in remarkably low-spirits; based on her mouth, the angle of his head tilted down and her features in general. It can get awkward, and I hate drama.

"Well, Mrs. Sanditon," I manage to blurt when I finally find what to say after a heavy silence. "You know what they say," I told her. "Third blonde's a charm."

She chuckled it off, and smiled. "I know Mikey. He better have 'em if he wants 'em. Doesn't matter if he'll lose his sweetheart in the end, he still chose Michigan and many more paths I can no longer predict."

Oh. Is this the part where oversharing happens and information overload serves as a consequence to my nosiness? Well, self-sabotage more, bitch. I'm having a hard time becoming a very demure, very mindful girlfriend mode, since I don't know what to say.

But Mrs. Sanditon clearly moved on and asked for a favor to call on them instead and roam around their ranch. Me, reverted back to kiss-ass mode, complied. During the hot walks I come across a woman coming over to the house.