Breakfast in Stilettos

Camel Press

PO Box 70515

Seattle, WA 98127

For more information go to: www.Camelpress.com

www.
lizkingswood
.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design by
Liz Kingswood and
Sabrina Sun

Breakfast in Stilettos

Copyright © 201
2
by
Liz Kingswood

ISBN:
978-1-60381-878-0
(Paper)

ISBN:
978-1-60381-879-7
(eBook)

LOC Control Number:
tk

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Pr
oduced
in the United States of America

For
my mother,
Carole,
for a lifetime of love and support
.

You and me against the world, eh?

The practice of putting women on pedestals began to die out when it was discovered that they could give orders better from there.

—Betty Grable

Frank Trager folded a thick slice of turkey around a double-stuff Oreo and then shoved the swaddled cookie
complètement
into his mouth. With a muffled crunch, he conferred a black-speckled smile in my direction before puffing out a small, dark cloud of crumbs onto the picnic blanket.

He laughed. “You should see yourself!”

My stomach lurched. “That’s disgusting.” There was a good reason why Frank Trager was my
ex
-boyfriend. I hated the way he ate.

“Food all ends up in the same place anyway.” He shrugged and chased the concoction down with a swig of his Tabasco-infused beer. “Besides, segregation was outlawed in the ’50s. Admit it, Em, you’re just too chicken to try something new.”

“You know, in French, the phrase
tu
débandes
, their version of ‘are you chicken,’ means the same as ‘have you lost your erection?’ Being penis-free, it doesn’t apply to me.”

I bit into my plain old turkey on wheat and awaited his riposte. Frank was a walking repository of facts, a true terror at Trivial Pursuit. In college, he would read entire history textbooks in one sitting. For pleasure. But what he did with those facts was another story. He’d combine them the way he did his food with equally unnerving results.

“Ah, you and your leetle French.
La femme le manger
?” He dipped a sweet gherkin into the salsa, and leaned forward to offer it to me.

I swatted his arm, sending a spray of chunky red sauce onto his 501s.

Undaunted, he double-dipped his pickle in the salsa and sucked the concoction into his mouth, licking his fingers in noisy satisfaction. “
Fantastique
.”

“You do that again and I’m leaving.” He had, after all, invited me to this picnic. And, in typical style, he had scanned his fridge for whatever passed as food and scooped it into his backpack.
Voilà
. Picnic. At least the bread wasn’t green.

I turned away from his next magic trick and instead watched the boats as they passed by. Today was the official Opening Day of boating season. The air was nippy, but not unusually so for early May. Overhead, the sky was the gray-blue haze that so often graces Seattle—not sunny, not rainy, but looking dressed and ready for either.

We had managed to commandeer our favorite place, a small floating dock on Lake Washington right next to the Montlake Cut, where all manner of spectator watercraft were anchored side-by-side. Red, midlife-crisis speedboats next to old-money yachts next to home-built fishing dinghies. The scheduled rowing regatta was already well underway.

I scanned the picnic array and decided the red corn chips looked safe. I grabbed a few and nibbled on one while watching him check out the boats. I was trying to remember why I had broken up with him. His awful eating habits, maybe. It sure wasn’t because of his appearance. Every gorgeous gay boy I knew lusted after his
Colin Farrell
-good-looks. And there was the peculiar way his mind worked. He was as comfortable reading Joyce’s
Ulysses
as watching
Jackass: The Movie.
Like the boats aligned in front of us, everything in his mind sat side-by-side without concern for category or class distinction. I never knew what would happen next.

I missed his surprises—the little notes, the flowers, the backrubs. But then, that same tendency toward mystery drove me crazy. All the times he’d disappear without calling. Or wouldn’t share his feelings—preferring to clam up or resort to jokes. Sometimes I just needed him to be serious, and that would typically lead to an argument. I hated conflict.

I sighed. “You know, today
would
have been our anniversary, or whatever you call it when people stick together,
sans
wedding rings. You know, if we hadn’t broken up.”

He stopped his teasing and scooted over to lean against me, still staring out at the boats. “Well, we should get some credit for showing up.” His breath, warm on my cheek, smelled of sweet vinegar.

“Yeah, maybe.” I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable at the familiar thrill of his touch.

He rested his head against mine.

I felt a tug of regret. How did you know when a relationship was done? Why did I still get a tingle when he touched me? Was I not over him? If only I could read his mind.

“You look deep in thought, Ms. Royce.” Frank nudged me. “Imagining me naked, I suppose?”

I nudged him away. “No. In fact, I was thinking of your brain, not your penis.”

“Rats. That always was our problem, wasn’t it? Confusing one head for the other.”

“Ha. Ha.” Yes, here it was. Frank’s finesse returns. I heard the next rowers’ race announced. “Just be quiet and eat your disgusting
mélangé
.”

He was silent for a little while as the race started. It was a women’s eight, with four shells making their way through the cut to the cheers of all the folks lined along on shore in the moored boats. There was real beauty in the synchronicity of the rowers—that likeness of mind and body that made rowing seem so effortless.

I always imagined a successful relationship would look like that. I had tried rowing and finally quit because it was just too damned hard. The deceptive look of ease was an absolute charade. Relationships, rowing, and writing. I was good at one of them,
anyway
.

As the rowers crossed the finish line, Frank leaned toward me again. “Do you miss me then?”

Of course I did, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to have this conversation. “Which head is asking?”

“Well, that would be the bigger one.” He was smirking.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?”

He edged closer. “Well aren’t you full of compliments today.” He smiled.

I pushed him back, feeling exasperated. “You read that article I wrote on brain scans, right? The one where they finally found where the penis is represented in the male brain.”

Leaning back on his palms, he stretched out his legs in front of him. “I
did
read that one. Something about putting guys in an MRI and brushing various body parts to record brain stimulation.”

I nodded. “They found it somewhere between the areas for toes and the abdomen.”

“Well, that would explain the prevalence of food and foot fetishes. But what’s your point? Are you just avoiding my question? Or is this that thing where you have to lecture me before we have sex? Because I’m
OK
with that.”

My next thought was usurped by his comment. Did I really do that? I knew Frank had asked me out today because he wanted something. Sex, yes, and maybe more. And I had agreed because I wanted something too. More, yes, and maybe sex. But I was avoiding his overtures. Maybe I
was
chicken.
Tu
débandes
, Emily?

Luckily the start of the next race, the men’s eight, saved me from having to answer right away.

Frank and I had only been split up for, what, a month? Yet I thought about him every day, but always with that sense that something was missing between us. And yes, I wanted to have sex, but that’s not a
good
reason to get back with someone. Besides, I didn’t want to wake up in the morning to the sight or smell of Top Ramen with a couple of eggs dropped in for good measure. Or to have to sit by while his buddies get drunk on home-grown microbrews, flick bottle caps at the cat, and puke up day-glow Cheetos in the street as they leave. Or experience that inevitable tipping point when my need to see inside Frank becomes a blustery
Wizard of Oz
display from him.
“Don’t you dare look behind that curtain!” Who was most afraid of what lay behind the
disguise
, him or me?

The race ended just as the leading team’s bowman crabbed his oar too deep into the water, causing the handle to slam into his chest and knock him unceremoniously out of the boat. The thud and splash made both Frank and me jump up to get a better view.

“That looked painful.” Frank took the opportunity to snake his arm around my waist as we stood there. “Reminds me of when you dumped
me
.” He patted his chest with his free hand. “Right here. Ouch.”

“Oh stop. I doubt you even noticed.” I hip-bumped him and he pulled me tighter.

“That’s not true. It did hurt, Em. More than you could know.” His trusty smile had vanished and for a moment I honestly believed that he had missed me. Was this a peek at the Frank I so desperately wanted to exist?

I swiveled in his arms and looked at him, enjoying the remembered warmth and contour of his body. We stood eye to eye; he was just a hair taller. “Mister Trager, I’d kiss you if I thought you were really serious.”

He laughed. “Would you kiss me even if I wasn’t?”

Well. Maybe I
was
a sucker for kissing him—for believing he would finally spill his secrets and tell me that he really loved me, needed me, and couldn’t live without me. But instead we had a happy couple of weeks and then broke up. Again. To make matters worse, we became serial splitters. We made up, fought, and then broke up so often that people no longer wanted to hear about it—not my mother, my boss, my best friend … no one.

So imagine everyone’s relief when Frank finally broke up with me. For good.