No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) Read online

I sigh. “Yes. I guess. It’s gorgeous. Like so insanely pretty, I can’t believe I get to wear it.” My grandmother holds a charity ball each fall. It’s the who’s who of New Orleans society. The event is Saturday, and the only thing I’m looking forward to is the great number of views my blog posts will get the next day.

  “And Tripp?” she asks, sliding her purse on her shoulder.

  “He’s coordinating his bow-tie. It’s so unfair. He gets to wear the same tux every year, and I get poured into itchy dresses that cover nothing and leave me freezing.”

  “I don’t give a damn what Tripp is wearing, and you know it.” Her hand goes to her hip and her lip curls in the don’t be an idiot, MK pose.

  Shaking my head, I flop down on my comfy Robin’s egg blue velvet couch. “He’s mentioned he thinks that two people as good of friends as us can make a relationship work without getting caught up in sex. He’s commented that sex is like a once a month thing, but we would spend several hours a day hanging out.” I grab a throw pillow, giving it a squeeze. “I’ve made it clear that he’s just my escort to the ball, but he keeps hinting at more. He sent flowers to work last week. I want passion and romance. I want mind blowing sex. I want all of that with a guy who I also enjoy hanging out with.”

  My door opens and a cool autumn breeze doesn’t chill me as much as Bella’s words do. “So you just put him through that?” She gestures towards my kitchen and shakes her head. “You haven’t been on a date in months. You’re thirty. You want to be married and have kids. What’s so wrong with Tripp? He’s good-looking, a self-made man, and more importantly, one of the nicest guys ever. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

  “I adore him,” I reply. “Last weekend he invited me to go furniture shopping for his lake house and also pick out fun dishes. We had a blast! But you saw us together. It’s like I said. We have no chemistry.” I pause for a second. “He doesn’t make my heart beat faster.”

  Her parting words as she shuts my apartment door are, “You aren’t getting any younger. Maybe it’s time to quit waiting for chemistry and go with practical.”

  Ouch! Bella’s advice leaves me doubled over on my couch as if she literally, instead of figuratively, punched me in the gut. Did the person who knows me best just advise me to settle on a life partner? Is that what thirty means? If you haven’t found your significant other, you should just pair up with whomever is still available? Is this like shopping the day after Christmas? You grab what’s left on the store shelves and considered a good deal.

  That’s not okay with me. I could have a happy life with Tripp. He would be a great dad and husband. I’d never have to compel him to be home for dinner or beg for his attention, but he doesn’t make my heart go pitter patter. When he walks into a room, my breath doesn’t catch in my throat. He doesn’t make me feel alive.

  I shake my head to clear the depressing thoughts. Not going down that path tonight.

  Since my taping got cut short, I decide to work on a post I’ve been writing in my head for a while. I grab my Mac off of my marble coffee table.

  My fingers fly over the keys . . .

  I’ve been thirty for exactly four months. Friends who have reached this milestone before me have said things like, “Turning thirty makes your butt sag and your boobs point south.” Fortunately, thanks to my diligent workout routine and good genes, my boobs still can’t hold a pencil and my butt is not in need of a sling. Physically, I still feel twenty-nine, but what I have noticed is that my circle of friends is decreasing. Many have gotten married and started their families. I understand. Being a full-time mom doesn’t leave much room in your schedule for your single friends’ problems, like what dress do I wear on a blind date. But how many messages do I need to leave before my “I’m thinking about you and your new addition” turns into “I’m stalking you and looking like a needy clinger?”

  Pausing, I re-read what I just wrote. Apparently, my head shake didn’t do the trick. Am I worried that Bella is going to become one of the girls who’s too busy with her new husband and baby to have time for her best friend who was there for the past twenty-years of hardships, long before her husband and baby entered the picture? Obviously.

  Does being thirty and still single mean it’s time to settle? Are my standards too high?

  I want it all. I’m not looking for the hottest guy in the club or the one who drives the flashiest car with the highest number of zeros in his bank account. I’m looking for a guy who makes me feel. I want passion and romance. I want my heart to beat faster when I see him. Most of all, I want someone whom I can spend the rest of my life with—someone whom on my deathbed, I’ll wish I could have one more day with.

  If that means I’m the only single girl left of my friends and I wind up never finding this guy, that’s okay because at least I’ll still have you guys.

  Muah,

  MK

  I hit publish. Usually, I have to spend quality time with my posts before I make them live. Not today. This one is straight from my heart.

  As I check to make sure it posts correctly, I find myself willing the words I wrote to be true. I’d love to have the confidence to say and honestly mean that I’d be okay being single the rest of my life. It’s personal growth and something I’m working on by reading self-help books on my Kindle and trying to increase my circle of single-thirty-somethings. As of right now, I’m not there yet.

  At some point in my late teens, Tripp and I made a pact that if we weren’t married by the age of thirty-five, we’d marry each other. Not going to lie—when I reflect on the promise it makes me feel nauseous instead of excited. That alone tells me Tripp is not my one-way ticket out of singledom.

  I’d already made plans to go to Eddy’s Bar tonight. Bella and Tripp have bailed on me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go. The locals, who I consider my friends, all hang out there. You’re never alone at Eddy’s.

  I’m kind of a celebrity in my neighborhood. I’ve occupied the one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old carriage house at old Green Mansion located in the Garden District of New Orleans for eight years now.

  My website started out as a way to cope with my post-college life. Let’s just say I was not living the sorority girl dream I’d been promised. I graduated Louisiana State University with a degree in sociology. No one had prepared me for how much the real-world sucks. Six months after graduation, I found myself with no engagement rock, and the guy I’d been going to marry was long gone. I had to find a way to make a living with a piece of paper which essentially only shows I completed four years of college. When I was about ready to hang my head and admit I was living with Mom and Dad forever, my college ex-boyfriend’s dad called with a job opportunity. His company was hiring a human resources manager. I took the job without asking what the pay was. Three weeks later, I signed the lease on my carriage house and three months later, I started NoPinkCaddy so I could connect with girls like me—a bit lost.

  I replace the cooking apron with my Burberry quilted coat, one of my ultimate thrift store finds. It’s been raining so I opt for my glossy, red Hunter rain boots. When one doesn’t have a car in New Orleans, these puppies are a fashion staple. Removing my baseball cap, I don’t bother with my hair. My bangs will just do what they want anyway.

  My purse hangs by the door. I grab my ID, a twenty-dollar bill, and my credit card, and tuck all of this into the case of my cellphone. Single Girl in the Big City Tip #27: Don’t carry a purse. It makes you a huge target for mugging. This was a blog post I did a while ago.

  Fall in New Orleans is magical. Most of the world would probably consider this fifty-five-degree night summer temperatures, but not us southerners. After a brutally hot, muggy August and September these cool fall nights are like a breath of fresh air. The Crape Myrtles, tall as oak trees, line my street. Their leaves are turning shades of reds and yellows, and if a big wind comes the leaves dance through the air. In my head, I change the lyrics to the song “It’s Raining Men” to “It’s Raining Leaves.”

  Ev
eryone is in a good mood now that it’s cooler. People are friendlier and their windows are open. This gives me a great opportunity to spy on my neighbors. I’m not a stalker, but I might walk a little bit slower so I can catch a glimpse of them in their natural habitat.

  Whistling Willie sits on a dark street corner, playing the bongos. No one knows where he lives, but for some reason he’s chosen this piece of cracked cement as his. It’s residential. He doesn’t seem to play for money because I’ve never seen a tip jar, but he’s here every cool night. I stick my phone in my pocket and dance for a bit to the beat of his drums. He plays faster, and my hips move more. Before I realize it, I’m laughing as I try to keep up with him. It feels like heaven to really enjoy myself. My worries left with my inhibitions, and I’m more my usual carefree spirit again.

  “You my brown-headed dancer.” He laughs.

  Bowing, I turn in all directions as if a crowd is giving me a standing ovation. Then, I tip my pretend hat to Willie. He applauds and laughs at my antics.

  “Can I take a selfie with you?” I ask as I pull my phone back out from my pocket.

  His smile reveals a beautiful set of teeth. “Sure, darlin’.”

  I wrap my arm around his neck and take a couple of shots. Choosing the best one, I upload it to my Twitter account.

  MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy

  Best bongo drum player in the city. Love my neighborhood. #SitesofNOLA

  “Have a good night,” I call as I continue walking.

  A set of purple and gold Mardi Gras beads dangle lazily from a branch of an oak tree reaching like a man stretching over the pot-holed road. They’re a bit faded from the months of sun and rain, but they make me smile. Festival season will soon be here.

  Eddy’s Bar is two blocks north and then one block west. It’s the definition of a neighborhood watering hole. You’ll never see it featured in the Big Easy City Guide. It’s owned, shockingly, by a guy named Eddy. He’s probably fifty, looks seventy, and acts twenty. No one else is employed at Eddy’s Bar but Eddy. He even cleans the joint. I asked him once why he doesn’t have waitresses, a bar back, or janitorial help. His answer? “Who the fuck wants to deal with payroll?” I’d offered my human resources services in exchange for free drinks. He’s never accepted my help.

  The bar is long and thin and sandwiched between Joe’s Muffuletta shop and a dry cleaners owned by Whistling Willie’s niece and her husband. See, this is why I refuse to leave my neighborhood. Where else can you have a quarter of a muffuletta and a cold beer all while dropping off thrift store clothes at my favorite homeless guy’s niece’s store? The answer is nowhere.

  “Evening,” Eddy growls as I walk into his establishment. The walls are brick and the ceiling is covered in tin tiles. Benches line the walls, with tables and chairs on the other side. There’s a stage as you walk in and in front of the only window, but I’ve never actually seen anyone perform here.

  I wave as I walk past him. “Hi Eddy. How’s it going? I’ve missed you too.”

  Eddy doesn’t respond but I didn’t expect him to. He pops the cap on a beer bottle and slides it down to Doctor Jared.

  I survey the scene, spotting Ivey and Cherry (not their real names, but it’s what they go by) at a table in the back of the bar. They’re strippers at one of the chain clubs on Bourbon Street and share an apartment about a block from here.

  Big smiles and waves are exchanged. They yell for me to join them over the music Eddy has blaring.

  “Cherry, those are some fab shoes.” I point at her glossy red high-heels probably six-inches tall. They could be taller. I’m a terrible estimator. My leg goes straight. “Look, my boots are like their ugly cousin who is only let out of the basement for a family reunion.”

  “We’ve got to do something about your clothes, girlfriend.” Cherry scowls as she eyes my appearance. “Men don’t like frump and you’re Exhibit A: Frumpy.”

  Some might find this insulting. Not me. Anytime Cherry or Ivey, for that matter, give me fashion tips, I do the opposite. I’ve thought about featuring them on my YouTube channel. I bet girls could learn a lot about their sexuality from strippers.

  Ivey asks, “You need a drink?”

  “Always.” I nod.

  While she does a controlled fall/wobble to the bar, I take a seat and check out the rest of the crowd. It’s pretty light. Cherry begins updating me on her sister’s Maury Povichish drama with her baby-daddy while I let the story go in one ear and out the other.

  There’s someone who I don’t recognize sitting in the other corner of the bar by the window and stage. He’s by himself. The bar is dark, only lit by the amber glow from old sconces which line the wall, so it’s hard to make out his features. He’s wearing a fedora, which further shades his face, a plaid shirt, and jeans. People-watching is one of my superpowers. In less than two seconds, I can make up the life story of anyone I observe. Unfortunately, I forget sometimes what’s true and what I’ve fabricated.

  Case in point is Jared, who slams the beer that Eddy opened for him. When he first started coming here, I imagined he was an oil rig worker who was on his ten-day leave. That was why he had a stubbly beard and looked exhausted. I maybe mentioned the story to Ivey and Cherry, who ran with it. Turns out Jared is actually Doctor Simpson who runs Charity Hospital’s ER. I visited with him one night. His wife left him because he works too much, but he can’t seem to slow down. When she gave him the ultimatum to give up some of his hours or she was going to leave, he bought her a house down the road and had the divorce papers drawn up. That’s actually a true story. I didn’t make it up. Now, every time he comes and goes from his house, he sees her new husband’s car in the driveway and her son’s tricycle on the porch. He said that’s why he hangs out at Eddy’s.

  “I tried to offer him my services, but he didn’t want a piece of Cherry,” she says as she drags her bright red fingernail through the condensation ring on the table.

  I must look at her with a puzzled expression thinking she hit on Doctor Jared because she replies, “Loner in the corner.” She gestures at the guy in the fedora. “He was scratching in a notebook and didn’t even look up.” Cherry adjusts her rather large breasts while she shares her encounter.

  “Well, you know if he’d actually taken a look at you, he wouldn’t have been able to say no.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’.” She winks. Her lips are the reddest shade of red possible. I always marvel at her makeup. She wears so much. And it’s dramatic. If I wanted to wear that much, I wouldn’t know how to mix so many colors and shades and highlights and paints as she does to achieve her look.

  We laugh as Ivey places three drinks on the table. “What’re y’all talkin’ about?” She cocks her hip and gives us a conspiratorial wink.

  Cherry fills her in.

  I spend the next hour buying them drinks while I quiz the girls about their sexcapades. I go to Catholic mass every Sunday and went to an all-girls Catholic School until college. I feel like my religious parents handicapped me in the sex department.

  Ivey and Cherry are a wealth of information. Sometimes they’re referred to as “my friends” when I’m making a video or writing about dating.

  At eight forty-five, they give me a hug each and head to work, and I make my way to the bar. The place has filled up with a few more regulars who all greet me warmly. This is my home away from home. Not that I drink all that much—okay, I do, and these people are my friends and neighbors. We’ve built a community around this watering hole.

  I slide onto the bar stool next to Jared. “How ya doin’?” I ask, concerned about him. He looks worse than normal and reeks of alcohol. His head is hung and his stubble is entering beard territory.

  “Just found out she’s pregnant again,” is all he says while he takes another sip of his drink, which is no longer a beer and so strong that I can smell it combined with his body odor. I signal for Eddy to call him a cab. We take care of our own at Eddy’s Bar.

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t thi
nk there’s much else to reply with. I am sorry. I’m sorry he couldn’t step away from his career for long enough to be a husband. I’m sorry that he can’t get over her. I wish I could fix his problems, but instead I’ve made him my cautionary tale. The role of Doctor Jared is played by my fictitious friend Carl. He teaches my followers about making sure they aren’t getting serious with a man who’s married to his career.

  I spot the bright yellow cab out of the corner of my eye. “Jared, it’s time to go home.”

  My heart aches. I’d give anything for a man to love me like Jared loves his ex-wife. If I knew who she was, I would knock on her door and beg her to move away from him. What’s she’s doing is cruel. Like you using Tripp as a date when you know how he feels about you.

  Doctor Jared looks at his drink and then at me with large glassy, watery eyes. “But I’m not finished.”

  Kissing his cheek and giving him a side hug, I say, “You’ll feel better tomorrow.” Biggest lie ever told, but he needs to leave.

  Standing up, I take Jared’s hand and help him to his feet. He’s been drinking for a long time or had a lot of drinks in a short time—I’m not sure which, but I’m not prepared to support all of his weight when he drapes himself over me. We both tumble to the ground in a heap. On the way down, I gracefully hit my elbow on the thick wooden bar and my head on the cement floor.

  Both injuries scream with pain. Well, that’s not entirely accurate I decide. My head aches, and my elbow throbs. Jared’s knee is in my crotch and he uses my shoulder to push against so he can sit up to examine me. Doctor Jared is determined to make sure I’m okay, but in his sloppy, drunken state, he gropes my chest.

  If Eddy has security cameras, I’m sure he could make a wheelbarrow-full of cash off of our antics. I’m trying to get a medium-sized fortyish grown man off of me while said grown man sloppily tries to examine my injuries. He keeps mumbling, “Sorry MmmmKaaaa.”

  It’s awful. He’s squishing me and I’m not strong enough to push his lethargic weight off. Then, all of a sudden, Doctor Jared is removed from my pelvis and taking his tune in Tokyo hands with him.