Trophy Husband by Lauren Blakely Page A

just stick my finger in a flame, but I can’t resist the way
she sings about tender lips, about dreams coming true, about all
the things I ever wanted.
    I may be hunting for a boy toy, but
somewhere inside of me I am still longing for someone to sail away
in the moonlight with.
    Only, I no longer have that luxury. I can no
longer ask for or expect those things. So I take a breath, I dry my
tears, and I crush the empty can of soda in my hand.
    Crushing my dreams of a love I can’t dare to
hope for.
    * * *
    Steely Dan Duran isn’t much better. For
starters, we’re dining at Baby Doe’s all the way in Marin County on
the other side of the bridge. I don’t go to Marin often. There’s
not much need because the city has everything I want. But let me
tell you all you need to know about Baby Doe’s.
    Baby Doe’s is where you took your prom date
in 1977. It hasn’t changed a lick since then. It’s the same
dimly-lit restaurant, with the same red pleather, same puckered
booths, same orange chandeliers, and probably serving the same
steak and baked potatoes and garden salad.
    Steely Dan Duran loves this place. Had I
known he was taking me here, I would have found a gentle way to nix
it. I would have perhaps delicately suggested something more
interesting, like sushi, Japanese, Thai. Heck, a pizza joint or
even a taqueria somewhere on Fillmore would be better. But Steely
Dan Duran wanted to surprise me. So he picked me up, wearing dark
brown slacks, a striped shirt, and a tie of all things, and kept
the location a secret as we drove down the 101 in his sky-blue
Buick. When we arrived, he came around and opened my car door – I
will concede he gets points for that – and said “Ta Da!”
    “Your baked potato, ma’am.” The waiter lays
the side dish on the table for me, complete with a sprig of parsley
and a pat of butter. Then he presents a baked potato to Steely Dan
and heads back to the kitchen to retrieve my date’s steak and my
chicken.
    I gesture to the spud, my right index finger
adorned with a flashy pink stylized ring in the shape of flower
petals that complements my maroon lightweight sweater, one of those
wrap-around numbers with a super slim tie around the waist and a
low-cut neck. I’m wearing a white lacy cotton camisole underneath
it and black capri jeans with ballet flats. I lean in and say
playfully, “Maybe we could get bacon bits for the potato too.”
    Steely Dan stops his fork in mid-air. “Would
you like me to ask for some?” He’s so earnest, so thoughtful, but
there goes another joke, falling to the floor with a dull thud. “I
was just kidding. I don’t like bacon bits.”
    He looks at me quizzically as if I have just
told him I have three ears and one of them is on my forehead. “You
don’t? Why not?”
    Um, because they’re gross?
    “Just not my thing,” I say lightly. Then I
happily spear a hearty glob of potato innards and smile broadly to
show I am enjoying every second of our evening. Just as I am about
to taste the spud, he reaches for my wrist and stops me.
    “We have to say grace first,” he says.
    “Oh.” I place my potato-filled fork
down.
    He lays his hands out on the table,
gesturing for mine.
    “Maybe I could say it,” I say, sort of
teasing him. Because I wouldn’t know the first thing about saying
grace. I’m all for religion, but have never been into it
personally. My parents were completely non-religious. He shakes his
head. “The man should lead.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “The man should lead. That’s why I was the
one to make sure to ask you out. Because the man should be in
charge. Guide all the decisions. For the woman. For the
family.”
    “About everything? Like dinner? Like work?
Like where to live?”
    He nods. “All of that. And also, what a
woman should wear. For instance, I would never let my wife leave
the house until I had approved her outfit.”
    I crack up into peals of laughter. “You are
a funny guy! That is the funniest thing I’ve ever