Fit AF

Chapter 1

Samantha

         It’s another Sunday funday – our day, just for us. And Nick, of course, God bless him, is spilling chips all over the sofa.

         “Yes! Touchdown!” he yells.

         I grimace visibly and involuntarily suck my teeth. I can feel the stern look of my mother that always followed when I did it growing up.

         “Nick, I know you love the team, but how can you still be so excited? You’ve seen this game 200 times,” I say.

         “Even if I saw it 2,000 times, I’d be just as excited. It’s such a good game,” he says.

         He looks like an excited springer spaniel, with the contrast of his dark, shaggy hair against his porcelain-smooth skin. Plus his chocolate brown eyes, impossibly long eyelashes and huge dopey smile.

         It’s hard to imagine his mother ever saying no to anything growing up. But I’ve never had a problem drawing boundaries.

         I sit on the big easy chair, cappuccino on the side table. I’m reading Michelle Obama's new autobiography, which I had waited months to have the time to start.

         “Yes! End zone!” Nick yells.

         I’ve been reading and re-reading the same paragraph for an hour.

         I shoot him a glance, but he’s too engrossed in the Rams pummeling the 49ers to notice.

         “So loud, Nick. Michelle’s about to add a chapter about how you gave her hearing loss,” I say, lifting up the book like I’m flashing him the former first lady’s big smile.

         “Don't blame me! Blame Matt Stafford for QB’ing one of the best games ever,” he says.

         “I’ll go back two years and give him a call,” I say.

         “While you have him on the phone, get me some season tickets?”

         “Sure.”

         I take his plate to the sink. It’s half filled with dishes from the pancakes he insisted on making. Batter is everywhere.

         “You know, I love your pancakes – but I’d love them even more if you didn’t leave all the dishes for me.”

         “I’ll do them when the game’s over. Promise, babe,” I hear in his rich, honey-sweet voice. He’s so sweet that it almost doesn’t bother me that I know he won’t do them. Almost.

         I grit my teeth and resist doing them, as a show of good faith and to stop a fight from starting. But I’m just delaying the inevitable.

         I don’t know what I was expecting when we moved in three months ago, but this wasn’t it. Or maybe it was, and I just hoped it wouldn’t be.

         Nick and I always had so much fun together. I figured it would be like that, just more. But the difference was back then I could go back to my perfect little haven, where everything was arranged just so, nothing out of place. 

No boxes to unpack. No underwear on the floor. And no two-year-old football game reruns that he still watched even though he could give a play-by-play by heart.

         When I started taking on extra hours at the ad agency and Nick got consumed by construction of the club he was opening, we decided to make Sunday fundays – his name. I live and die by my planner. Nick, on the other hand, has trouble committing to anything requiring more than one day’s notice. So we never could sync up.

         Sundays, we agreed, would be ours. Only now, it’s begun to feel more like Nick’s special day with his stale football games, and my day to ruminate on everything else I needed to do.

         I need a Tylenol – I’m starting to get a headache. I head for the bathroom medicine cabinet.

         I should get an appointment for a root touch-up, I think, looking at my caramel brown afro with platinum blonde streaks. As soon as I joined the exec team as marketing manager, I ditched the relaxer and put my whole fabulous self out there. Everyone needs to see a woman with natural hair being a badass boss bitch. Nick fell in love with it instantly.

         On our third date, he admitted that, as a teenager, he had a huge crush on Beyonce. She made him want to be with a girl with natural hair, especially the caramel-blonde color I have been wearing since high school.

         He could be so romantic and adorable.

         And he could also be so fucking infuriating, I think as I look down. He left. The damn. Toilet seat. Up. Again.

         “Nick! There’s a big problem in the bathroom!”

         “Be right there, babe…”

         I can see him in the reflection of the mirror through the open door. He gawks at the game for a few more seconds, not moving.

         “Nick! Get in here!”

         “Hang on, the quarter’s almost over…”

         “The quarter of a game you’ve seen 500 times!”

         I march out of the bathroom and plant myself in front of him, hands on my hips like I’m club security. He is not getting past this rope.

         “What’s so important that you have to interrupt my game?”

         “You left the goddamn toilet seat up – and then you can’t look away from your game for two seconds when I tell you it’s important,” I say.

         “I’m still not getting what’s so important,” he says and cranes his neck to see the TV passed me.“It’s a toilet. It’s the end of a sewer pipe. What’s the big deal?”

         “The big deal is that this is my home, not a locker room. And you don’t respect a really simple request to put down the seat so my ass doesn’t get soaking wet. In water that I don’t know has been flushed or not!”

         “I always flush.”

         “That’s not the point!”

         I storm off and slam the bedroom door, then lock it. How does he not get it?

         “Sweetie, I’m sorry. Just open the door so we can talk,” he says.

         “Oh, now you want to talk? Now that I’m pissed and you don’t want me to be mad at you. I’m not talking to you right now.”

         “Please. Come out. I’ll turn off the stupid game.”

         “No. It’s too late. I want to be by myself.”

         “Okay, Sam. I’ll be out here when you’re ready. I’m sorry. Love you.”

         Dammit. I forgot my book out there.

         I start going through some of his boxes. That was an issue, too. I took off after the move to make a place for everything and organize it all, but Nick didn’t want me to unpack his stuff. “I have a system,” he said. “It’s all up here.”

         No, it’s not, I think. It’s all down there. In boxes cluttering up my sanctuary.

         I hear the water running and the dishes clattering. Maybe I was too hard on him. He’s a good man – even if he’s more manchild than grown man.

         It’s just that I don’t know when he’ll ever grow up. Or if.

         I hear the sizzle of cooking and the clattering of pans as I work on the boxes. That’s one thing about him I can’t complain about. The man knows how to cook.

         “Hey Sammy girl, you hungry?” He yells from the kitchen.

         “No,” I yell back.

         Even though I’m not really mad anymore, I’m not ready to concede.

         “I don’t believe you. Especially when you hear what I’ve made,” Nick says. “Please come out, beautiful?"

         I open the door a crack and look out inquisitively. Then I remember to put back my scowl.

         “Caramelized brussels sprouts and roast chicken,” he says.

         “Ina’s chicken?” I ask.

         “What do you think? Only the best for the best.”

         I love cooking shows. Especially the Barefoot Contessa.

         “I guess I’m a little hungry,” I say. “I lost my appetite earlier.”

         “I made you a mimosa, too,” he says. “In the little champagne flutes you got. I’ll toast how lucky I am to learn new things every day. Like how civilized people put the toilet seat down.”

         He flashes his fifty watt smile that he probably learned early on could get him out of anything. I laugh despite myself and walk into the kitchen.

         “Please forgive me, baby,” Nick says, begging with his chestnut eyes.

         He kisses me, and I feel like I’ll lose my balance. He reaches out a fork to give me a taste.

         “Mmm, so good,” I say. The kitchen smells delicious.

         “After all, I gotta remind you why you stay with a caveman like me. I know use fire!” He grunts.

         He grabs me by the legs with his bulky arms and holds me over the shoulder like he’s stealing a sack of potatoes. I scream in mock-protest, and he drops me on the sofa.

         Instead of football, there’s an episode of Ina. She’s cooking chicken for her husband, Geoffrey.

         I keep up my pout all through lunch, just to let him know that he can’t get out of the doghouse that easily. But he can tell that he’s back in my good graces. He can read me so well, and he never lets me forget it.

         “And now, the piece de resistance!” he declares.

         “There’s more?” I ask.

         “So much more,” he says in a sultry voice, throwing me a seductive look and licking his lips.

         He brings out two silver bowls. He’d been warming it in the oven during lunch and managed to keep it a surprise. Brownies a la mode.

         “Please, please forgive me,” he says, kneeling and making his big eyes huge.

         “Okay. I forgive you.”

         He kisses me on the lips fast – and a freezing-cold finger, daubed with ice cream, hits my face.

         “Oh my God, that’s cold!” I shriek, and he bolts. I grab a bowl and run after him. Finally, I catch up – and get him back with a dollop of ice cream in the nook of his sexy collarbone.

         He playfully tackles me, pinning me on the couch and hovering above. I can see his excitement.

         “You’re much sweeter than any dessert,” he says.

         “Even Ina’s?”

         He licks the spot on my face where he dabbed the ice cream.

         “Yup. You’re sweeter,” he says.

         He puts his hand on my waist, sliding it under my hip. He stares at me inches away, and my heart races.

         He bites his lip and gives me a devilish look. I stare at those luminous dark pools, so sweet and seductive all at the same time.

         I grab his neck and pull his face to mine. I kiss him, gently at first. I bite his lip a little, and he sucks lightly on mine. His tongue enters my mouth.

         God, I can never get enough of this man. Even if he doesn’t know how to put down a toilet seat.

Chapter 2

Nick

         This is one thing I love about Samantha: even when we argue, we can make each other laugh right away.

         I pull her close to me on the couch, feeling her soft breath against my neck. She’s out of breath from laughing. I’m out of breath from wanting her.

         I’ve wanted her all morning. Even when she stormed out of the room, I wanted her.

         And now she was here, like a little doe. Powerless in my arms.

         We lay next to each other, side by side, pressed up as tightly as we can be. Our legs are enmeshed, and she can feel me throbbing for her. She reaches down and brushes, feeling the outline through the jeans.

         It sends a chill through me. She can see it on my face and feel it in my body’s shudder.

         “You like that?” she asks.

         “Not as much as I like this,” I say as I put my hand behind her, gripping her ass and rubbing it.

         I kiss her, and she parts her lips for me right away, breathing hot. My tongue lulls into her mouth, pushing ahead to feel the softness of her mouth. She nibbles my bottom lip, and we open our mouths wide for each other. We search each other. We find each other.

         I pull her legs around me, and she pulls back.

         “Let’s stop for a minute,” she tells me, and my face registers my disappointment. I’m so ready to go.

         “You’re still mad?” I ask.

         “How could I be mad at this face?” she says and gives me a tiny love tap on the cheek. “No, I’m just still hungry. Your food is so good.”

         She smiles with a little embarrassment, like she’s a kid who wants an extra cookie. I love it when she’s relaxed enough to let herself calm a little bit. To not be so focused on doing everything just right. She doesn’t deserve that stress.

         “I’m hungry, too, just not for food. And if you think my cooking’s good…Well, I’ve got something much better.”

         She smacks me a little harder this time, playfully. “But I’m huuuungry,” she says.

         “Anything for the queen,” I reply. I give her a slap on the ass, then help her off the sofa.

         I look back at the couch a little longingly, and she grabs my hand. “Come on. I can’t get enough of those Brussels sprouts,” she says. “What do you put in them?”

         “Heroin. The first taste is free but after that…”

         “Nerd,” she says, laughing.

         “Let me prepare you a plate, my lady,” I say.

         Growing up, I complained miserably every time I had to set the table. But with Samantha, I enjoy doing things like that for her. She works so hard, and she’s so hard on herself. She needs someone to spoil her every once in a while. 

I just wish I were better at having my shit together for her. But hopefully that’ll come eventually, right?

         “Just for you, my lady,” I say, and I put down the bowl like I’m her own personal butler. “Fresh from the downstairs quarters.”

         I take her hand and lay a trail of kisses from her fingers to her shoulder.

         “Stop!” she says with a laugh. “I’m trying to eat!”

         “As you wish. I live to serve,” I say. I come up behind her and kiss her neck, nuzzling her ear with my nose.

         Ever since we binged Downton Abbey, I have done this routine to make her laugh. She likes to remind me that I’d be fired in a house like that before the day was out. I remind her that’s what makes it so funny.

         “Let me have a taste,” I say, and I kiss her. “Not of the food. Just you.”

         “I’m sorry. I need to complain to house management. Someone here won’t leave me alone,” she says, and she heads out to the living room.

         I run after her and grab her waist. I turn her to me and look her in the eye with the most serious expression I can muster.

         “Are you really…just going…to leave your dirty dishes? Naughty girl!” I pretend to scold. Then I smother her with kisses, gently pushing her onto the couch.

         She rolls her eyes and tries to get up. “Nope! Nope! This is your penance!” I place my strong hands on her tiny waist and pull her back down. “Stay right here, sexy. Your place is with me.”

         I pull her on top of me and kiss her until her body relaxes. She picks up her book, and I just marvel in her presence. I don’t even realize I’ve fallen asleep until she gives me a small shake and tells me it’s time to start getting ready.

         “But wait, I just had the best dream. No, actually, I woke up to the best dream: you being here with me,” I say.

         “Such a charmer,” she says, with an expression that betrays how much she loves being doted on. Sometimes I know her better than she knows herself. It drives her a little crazy, which makes me love her even more.

         She’s already showered, changed, and made up. She looks effortlessly sexy. Only after I got to know her did I realize how much work it takes to look so polished without looking like you’re trying too hard. She has a mastery of it.

         I shower, then slip on a navy blue T-shirt, jeans, blazer and some Nikes.

         “Ready to get going. Where are we off to?” I say.

         “Hey look, we match,” she remarks, pointing to her blue dress. She’s wearing a silver brooch with stylized sails, matching the Nautica logo on my blazer.

         “Twins! Except you’re the more beautiful one,” I declare, and I touch the inside of her arm. Her eyes widen and a small smile crosses her face.

         “We’re going to this new spot. I’m excited about it,” she says.

         “Well, if you’re excited, I’m excited,” I agree easily.

         “It’s called Old Port. Like a play on Newport Beach. Sort of an artisanal, old-California style,” she says.

         She always finds the coolest spots. Some of the best ideas I’ve had for my clubs came from places Samantha took me to, or from Sam herself. I’ve told her that if we get big enough, she should come do marketing for me full-time. She just laughs it off, but I’m serious.

         I’ve never met anyone as smart as her, even though she never believes me when I say so. Even at Harvard Business School, I never saw a memory like hers. ‘Well, I went to Duke,’ she’d just answer. ‘And there were plenty of people there smarter than me.’ I doubt anyone else in her graduating class felt the same way.

         “Let’s get going. Do we have a reservation?” I ask.

         “Of course we do. I made it last week. You can’t get in without one,” she says.

         The restaurant is on the Balboa Peninsula, with a view of the Pacific Ocean at sunset.

         “Right this way, Mrs. Jackson,” the hostess says when we arrive.

         “Ms. Jackson,” Samantha corrects her.

         “Ah, haven’t put a ring on it yet? Don’t let this one slip away,” the hostess teases.

         “Oh, I know. She’s one in a million. I’m never letting her go,” I return. I put an arm around Sam and pull her close, then kiss her.

         She rolls her eyes playfully. She gets uncomfortable with PDA, but I can’t help myself. She’s just so cute, so sexy, so smart.

         We order a bunch of things and share it all: oysters, lemongrass salad, mahi mahi, a cheese course, and fig tart. We finish the meal on the beach deck with specialty cocktails named after pop culture tidbits from Orange County – the Lucille Bluth, the Snake Plissken, the Gordon Bombay, the Poltergeist, and the Substance D, named from A Scanner Darkly.

         “I’ll have the Lucille, he’ll have the Snake,” Sam says, cool as a cucumber. She explains all the pop culture references to me once the waiter leaves.

         “We should do something like that at the club. Will you help me come up with some stuff like that?” I ask.

         “Of course. That is, if you can afford me,” she says with a wink.

         “It’s so hot to me how you know so much about…well, about everything. Makes me want to take you out and rub up against your…intellect,” I say, giving her a leer. I can’t help but put my hand on her leg. She indicates to me that she likes it, so I keep it there a bit longer.

         “I have an idea,” I suggest. “After this, you wanna see the renovations we’ve made to the club? I’ll give you a private tour. It’s been a while since I got to show you off there.”

         We had put in a waterfall, an outdoor dance floor, and a rooftop bar with a view of the club underneath. It doubled as a view of the stars from the dance floor.

         “Sweetie, I would, but I’m just so tired. All I want is to go home, take a shower, and get to bed,” she says. She rubs my arm, almost like a consolation.

         “Next time, then,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

         On our way home, we go past some of the haunts where we had stayed up half the night in the beginning of our relationship. Places full of great memories of us partying until dawn, making out on the dance floor, having a great time with friends.

Those days feel far away right now. I suppose it’s only natural that at some point we had to become adults. I just wasn’t ready for it quite yet.