Secondhand Love

By Annie Hoff

Zoe Markham believes the words I love you only spell trouble.  A child of divorce, her family is a cautionary tale littered with broken hearts. She's never had a relationship that lasted longer than the blink of an eye. In fact, she writes about breakups weekly for her column in New York Today. The only exception to the rule might be Zoe's friends, Bella and Henry, who have been engaged since college.

Zoe's first date with a new man, Derek, ends up with him making her breakfast, and she finds herself hoping the affair might be more than a one-night stand. But when Bella shows up at the door crying, the engagement ring she'd so proudly displayed gone from her finger, Zoe is again convinced that true love is impossible. Bella persuades her to write about the breakup with Henry and Zoe does it reluctantly Meanwhile, she sets out to prove she's wrong about true love, particularly as it pertains to the two best friends she's ever had. She does everything in her power to get Bella and Henry back together. In the process, Zoe discovers some surprising truths about herself and what she's been looking for all along.

Zoe Markham believes the words I love you only spell trouble.  A child of divorce, her family is a cautionary tale littered with broken hearts. She's never had a relationship that lasted longer than the blink of an eye. In fact, she writes about breakups weekly for her column in New York Today. The only exception to the rule might be Zoe's friends, Bella and Henry, who have been engaged since college.

Zoe's first date with a new man, Derek, ends up with him making her breakfast, and she finds herself hoping the affair might be more than a one-night stand. But when Bella shows up at the door crying, the engagement ring she'd so proudly displayed gone from her finger, Zoe is again convinced that true love is impossible. Bella persuades her to write about the breakup with Henry and Zoe does it reluctantly Meanwhile, she sets out to prove she's wrong about true love, particularly as it pertains to the two best friends she's ever had. She does everything in her power to get Bella and Henry back together. In the process, Zoe discovers some surprising truths about herself and what she's been looking for all along.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dream River Press
• Release date: Sep 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393035213

Annie Hoff

Annie Hoff writes comedy and romance. When she’s not huddled over a laptop with her 15th cup of coffee, you’re likely to find her off watching a play with her hubby, relaxing while listening to music, or out in the woods taking lots of pictures to support her photography habit.

Book preview

Dedication

For Jim

1

I 'm going to call it ‘Uncoupled’, I said as I toweled my hair. This, I figured, was the icing on the cake. The genius topping on my genius idea.

Bella, who was carefully painting her finger and toenails fire engine red, frowned at her thumb. You're kidding, right?

This stung. Of course I hadn't been kidding. Ever since Morgan Fenton, the executive editor at New York Today, the magazine where I worked, announced he wanted his writers to pitch him a new column, I'd been wracking my brain to come up with a theme. The idea had hit me as I was lathering shampoo through my hair in the shower. It rose out of nowhere, as though the flowing water had finally freed my mind and I'd been so excited I shouted eureka! under the spray.

Leave it to my roommate to knock the wind, or water, or enthusiasm, right out of my idea with the simple wave of a nail polish brush. It's too depressing, Zoe. I mean, do you think people will really want to read about breaking up?

Of course they will. You love hearing about my bad dates and crazy exes. I raised my eyebrows in triumph because it was true. Bella would listen to all my stories as long as I provided the chardonnay.

That's because I'm trying to help you, she answered without an ounce of sarcasm. By the way, what happened with Ryan?

Case in point, the night before Bella had fixed me up with a client of her fiancé’s, a stockbroker who made the Wolves of Wall Street look like a puppy pack. I groaned. He took me to the Palm, ordered up some fifty-dollar steaks and then spent the whole night with his ear glued to his cell phone. I think he should have asked the phone out to dinner.

He took you to the Palm. Bella hobbled on her heels to the box fan in the window and waved her wet fingernails in front of it.  At least this gave the fan some function, as it did nothing to decrease the heat level in our two-bedroom walkup. If you keep dating him, maybe he'll buy us an air conditioner.

Not worth it. The thought of another date spent sitting by myself while Ryan paced the restaurant floor whispering intensely into the phone made my teeth hurt. He asked me out again and I told him I was busy next weekend and the week after. I think he got the message.

How about that guy, Derek? From the pizza place?

He's probably an out of work actor-singer-dancer. If he is, then he's probably also gay, I said.

He's not gay. If he was, he wouldn't have given you his number on a cocktail napkin. You do still have the napkin, right?

Yes, but... He was cute, great big soulful brown eyes and corded forearms. I'm a sucker for good forearms. Still, I wasn't crazy about calling guys from numbers on cocktail napkins.

Bella held my cell phone out to me between her partially dried nails. Don't be a wuss.

I swear to God, since she was engaged and therefore unavailable, she needed me to go out with men so she could still date them vicariously. What if he's a serial rapist or something?

You don't plan on meeting up with him in a dark alley, do you? He's a great-looking, out-of- work actor who makes the rent by waiting tables at a pizza place. Where do you get serial rapist out of that?

The number was in my purse, which was on my bed. I took the phone, went to my room, and shut the door. Then I took off my robe and put on jeans and a T-shirt. I’d always had this weird idea that people could see through the phone. I knew it wasn’t true, of course. But still.

I found the napkin, punched the numbers in and let it ring once before I hung up.  I took a deep breath, reminded myself it was no big deal, I had this.  I hit redial.  Hello? I asked when a man, presumably Derek, answered. It's Zoe?

Zoe? he sounded confused. Confused was not good. I considered hitting cancel again. Maybe he gave his number to all the women who ordered pizza. Maybe it was a kind of sickness. But then he said, The gorgeous redhead with big blue eyes?  Vegi pizza without olives, appletini, and chocolate explosion?

He had me at gorgeous. I know it sounded like a pickup line. Hell, it was practically a cliché, but at that moment it made my face hot and I felt that heat clear down to my toes.

Yes, that's me, chocolate explosion.

I was hoping you’d call. I’ve never done that before, you know. I mean, give out my number at work.

Oh. Good to know.

So how are you gorgeous Zoe? What are you doing?

Right now? Calling you? He called me gorgeous two times in one conversation. If he’d said it again, I would have had an out of body experience.

Do you like bowling? he asked. It was a question so out of left field that I wondered what to say next.

Uh, yeah. I guess.

There's this terrific bowling alley over in Williamsburg near where I live.  I thought maybe you'd like—

Sure, I'd love to.

Great!  He sounded as though the scratch ticket he'd bought had come up a winner. And, despite myself, it made me feel like a winner, too.

Bella eyed me when I came back into the living room. Bowling, Friday night. Seems I am meeting him in an alley, albeit not a dark one, I reported.

Terrific! She sounded nearly as enthusiastic as Derek.

I'm still pitching the column to Morgan Fenton, I said. One date was not about to make me change my mind on a great idea.

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE summer nights when your skin sticks to the sheets and the air is so thick you might as well put it in a glass and try to gulp it down rather than inhale it.  I tossed and turned while fan blades whirred in the open window and blew hot air around the room. Sirens blasted in the distance, louder than usual without the benefit of glass to insulate the sounds that were a normal part of noise in Park Slope.

I twisted and turned all night long, sleeping and waking, and by morning I looked as bedraggled as I felt. Even a cold shower couldn't refresh me. Determined to look great when I pitched my genius idea, I did the best I could with hair and makeup, chose a sundress that wouldn't cling when wet and then grabbed a sweater, because the office where I worked would have the air conditioner cranked to frozen tundra. At that moment, the idea of being stranded on an iceberg wearing a strappy sundress seemed like a portrait of paradise.

I took the subway into Manhattan, grateful for air-conditioned train cars, which gave blessed relief from the overheated and stuffy platform, up to Thirty-Fifth Street, where the offices of my magazine were housed on the twentieth and twenty-first floors of a skyscraper.

I didn't have an office, but I did have a desk, a small one tucked into one corner of a large open room where I spent my days re-writing press releases from celebrity publicists, not exactly what I had prepared for through four years at Columbia School of Journalism. No matter, I understood that I had to start somewhere and starting at New York Today was better than most of my fellow graduates had managed. Besides, if my great idea was as great as I thought it was, I'd have my own column before my twenty-fifth birthday.

All I had to do was pitch the idea to Morgan Fenton. I eyed his office, door closed, at the other side of the room.  Going over and knocking felt a lot like jogging up Mt. Everest without extra oxygen.  The sooner I got it done with the better, and so I brushed through my hair with my hand, put on an extra layer of lip gloss and marched stridently across the room.

The door had, in the minutes my hike had taken, flown open as Lauren Mitchell, the financial editor, walked out and passed me as though I was an office chair. I knocked on the door frame, which must have startled Mr. Fenton, who was staring out the window while twiddling his thumbs. Mr. Fenton? I would never have called him Morgan. I didn't think anyone, not even his own mother, called him by his first name. He turned to me and his eyebrows ran together. In case he searched his memory for my name and came up with the wrong one, I added, Zoe Markham.

His forehead relaxed just enough to release the crease in it. Yes, Zoe. What can I do for you?

I took a deep breath and pulled up all the bravado I had stored in my solar plexus and hoped it would be enough. It's more a question of what I can do for you, sir.

This brought the hint of a smile to his face, which I took as a good sign, so I continued. You mentioned a column. I'd like to do it.

Would you? Okay, maybe the smile was the slightest bit patronizing, as if I were staring in one of those kitty videos on You Tube.

I want to write about break ups.

The smile faded and the forehead crinkles reappeared. Break ups?

Yes. I'd interview people who have broken off their romantic relationships. They could tell their stories.

Was that a glimmer of interest in his eyes? I dared myself to hope.

"Didn't the New York Times do a series like that?" he asked.

They had, but my idea was different, and I was ready for him. Yes, they did, are doing, a series about people who have been married for a long time and then got divorced. This would focus on a younger demographic, couples in their twenties who never got as far as the altar, or who got divorced not long after getting married.

I did an inward cheer when his eyebrows shot up at 'younger demographic.' I'd thought, correctly, those would be the magic words. I'd call the series 'Uncoupled'

Isn't that what they do to trains, uncouple them?

This was something I hadn't considered. It's also what Gwyneth Paltrow called her split from Chris Martin; Conscious Uncoupling.

I might have gone too far with the Paltrow reference. It was known at the magazine that Mr. Fenton liked to think of himself as a news guy and celebrities were, to his mind, not news. He closed his eyes. Gwyneth Paltrow.

I don't plan to write about celebrities. Just ordinary, everyday New Yorkers.

He stared out the window again, his face still set in a frown, and I imagined my great idea swirling down the drain with the remnant of shampoo suds. I began to console myself, at least I'd given it a shot, when he said, I like it.

I almost blurted, You do? and had to bite my cheek to keep from doing it. I nodded, smiling, like one of those bobble-head dolls they sell in souvenir shops.

You've got yourself a trial run. Give me three stories by month's end and we'll see how it flies.

Thank you! It's going to fly, I know it.

There was enough air under my shoes for me to take off and jet back to my desk. My own column for New York Today. Well, nearly, anyway. I knew Mr. Fenton would throw more than one idea out there and then figure out which one would stick around. But mine would win, I knew it in my bones. And it was going to be splendiferous! Then another thought made me plummet back to earth. Where was I going to find people to interview? Who would want their terrible relationship story broadcast to the world?

BELLA WASN'T HOME WHEN I got back to our apartment after work that day. She taught Spanish at a private school on the upper east side of Manhattan and on Friday nights she usually met up with some of her colleagues for drinks and then had dinner with her fiancé, Henry, who was an orthodontist with an office near her school. His handiwork could be seen in the mouths of the majority of the seventh and eighth graders she taught. Henry and Bella and I had been pals since college. I often tagged along with them, unless, like tonight, I had other plans.

Bella hadn't forgotten about me or my date with Derek. She texted me in the afternoon, 'Wear the black shirt that shows off your boobs. He'll like it.'

I scoffed at the message and answered back-'Why would I want him staring at my boobs all night?' and then went and dug the shirt out of the dresser and paired it with red shorts. Red and black, very dramatic, very Les Miz, an actor would like it. Then I chided my reflection for being so ridiculously excited to be going out with a guy who served me pizza. The other voice in my head said I shouldn't be so quick to judge, he seemed like a nice guy. Besides, he had those corded forearms.

A COLD FRONT HAD MOVED through bringing rain showers and the rain had scoured away the hot stickiness leaving behind a perfect summer evening. I loved walking along the tree lined streets, busy now with kids at play, people with baby carriages and dogs on leashes. It was five miles from my apartment to the bowling alley, a long way in heels, and I opted out last minute and took the bus instead.

The bowling alley had a neon sign in front—a goofy looking man in a bowling shirt held a ball and looked ready to toss it down the alley, the words "Brooklyn Bowl" in bright blue encircling his head. Derek was at the bar near the entrance, his back to me so I could study the muscles in his shoulders, barely covered by a form-fitting T-shirt, and the back of his hair, which curled around his neck. He was twirling a beer coaster around between his fingers. There was something endearing about his nervousness and right away I liked him even better for it.

I tapped him on the shoulder and he smiled a hundred watts worth of smile at me. You're here! he said, as though maybe he’d expected me to stand him up. 

I'm not late, am I?

Nope. Right on time. Would you like a beer?

I wasn't much of a beer drinker, but when in Rome or a bowling alley...Sure.

He summoned the bartender and ordered me a Heineken; the nervousness not yet dissolved. We'll have to get you some shoes.

It took me a minute to catch up to his non-sequitur as I envisioned him marching me into a shoe store while declaring to the salesman that the heels I was wearing wouldn't do. Oh, bowling shoes, I said, when I finally caught on.

You can't wear those bowling. He was eying my feet.

I'm not sure I like the idea of wearing rented shoes. I mean, why rent when you can buy? I said as we walked over to the rental area with our beers.

I'd meant it as a quip, although I guess it wasn't that funny. Derek nodded as though I'd just told him about the GDP dropping. It's not a problem. They spray them with antibacterial stuff, so you shouldn't worry about it.

I had thought to bring socks and I slipped them on and then laced up the size sevens, with a big seven on the back of them. Derek took a pair, no size fixed on the back from a blue bowling bag and held them up. I have my own.

You must really like to bowl.

Oh yeah. I love bowling. I joined this league? Come September we'll compete and everything.  I discovered this alley last winter and now I come in here at least once a week to practice.

He was more enthusiastic about bowling than anyone else I knew. I wondered, briefly, if he'd be as enthusiastic in other areas of his life. The idea of an enthusiastically romantic guy was one I liked a lot and I hoped to find out. I'm practically a bowling virgin, I said.

Again, my quip fell flat. He put his hand to my shoulder and, in all seriousness, said. Don't worry, I'll teach you.

He handed me a ball. This one is pretty light; you can handle it.

Light? It felt like a two-ton brick in my hands, I nearly dropped it on my foot.

See those three holes? He helped me thread my fingers through then got behind me and took my arm. Now we're going to walk up to the line, cock your arm back and release.

I probably would have followed his instructions exactly if I hadn't been so distracted by the way his body curved into mine. He smelled nice. Not cologne kind of nice, a good clean soapy smell that made me want to turn and inhale his shirt. I knew this would not be an appropriate reaction to his mentoring. We sidled down to the line, I cocked back my arm and released, sailing the ball back into our drinks, which spilled all over the table.

I felt my face go hot. This didn't seem a good way to impress him. Don't worry, it happens, he said, as we grabbed napkins and sopped up spilled beer.

To whom?

What?

I don't think this happens to most bowlers.

Well, yeah. I guess not. You'll get the hang of it.

From then on, he guided me without physical contact, which I can't say was an improvement. I did manage to throw the ball down the alley and even hit a few pins now and again. My final score was forty, which Derek declared was not bad, though his score of one-sixty, which he managed while trying to go easy on me, trumped it completely.

In the second game, I threw a strike. I was so excited I flung my arms around Derek. It startled the heck out of him. He hugged me tight and I got a good whiff of his great smelling neck.  After which he said, Maybe we should get out of here. After we finish this game. His voice had gone the slightest bit husky.

Okay. I thought he was going to invite me to his place, and I wasn't sure how I felt about it since I barely knew him. Really, all I knew about him was that he had great forearms and he smelled nice and he was a good bowler. Maybe we could get a drink somewhere?

Okay, yeah. There's this bar, well, pub really, up the street.

Can I wear my own shoes? This time I got a solid grin and added one more thing to the list of what I knew about him; he had an amazing smile.

We walked down the block to where another neon sign announced, "Call Me, along with a picture of an old fashioned corded rotary phone. This is the place, he said stopping in front of the door. He seemed to consider me for a minute. I should tell you; it's kind of a pick-up bar. You know."

This is where you usually give out your number on beer napkins?  I’d gotten a smile from him earlier and I was hoping for another, but he looked so stricken I nearly apologized

I’ve never done that before. Honest.

I held up my hands. It’s okay. I believe you.

The reason for the sign over the door and the name of the bar was evident once we got inside.  On each booth and table was an old-fashioned rotary style black phone like the one on the sign. We sat at one of the empty tables and I picked up the receiver.   I think my grandfather still has one of these.

They’re great, aren’t they? See, the idea is, if you find someone you want to talk to, you pick up and dial the table number. He pointed to the green numbers posted to the sides of all the tables.

I looked around and raised my brows. So who do you want to call?  He got the stricken look again, as though I was really going to call the guys drinking beer at table three. I’m kidding.

Oh yeah. Sure. He nodded and I finally got another smile.

You want to sit at table twelve? I could call you, I said.

If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon stay here with you.  There was something so sweet and sincere in those soulful eyes of his that my heart nearly broke open.

Great idea. We could get to know each other.

He shrugged. I’m from Ohio. I moved to New York about a year ago. I work at John’s pizza, but you already know that.

And you want to be a Broadway star.

His eyebrows furrowed. Why would you think that?

You work in the theater district and you’re a great looking guy.

He blushed, and there was one more thing that made me like him. I’m not; I just wanted to experience the city. I’ve enrolled at the International Culinary Center.

The cooking school?

Yeah. Someday, I want to open my own place.

Oh wow. I nearly added ‘that’s a relief.’ I had dated an out of work actor once, he spent most of his time picking out clothes and checking himself out in the mirror.

How about you? he asked. I told him about my job and the new column I would be writing. His reaction to it was a lot like Bella’s had been. So, you want to write about breakups? Why?

I wasn’t sure I could explain it.  I gave it a shot. Maybe, if we can figure out what we did wrong we can avoid it the next time around. I wasn’t at all sure I believed what I’d said. My father had been married five times, my mother three times, my grandfather also clocked in at three, and my grandmother held the record at seven and counting. None of them seemed to learn from their mistakes.

Derek nodded thoughtfully. I can see that, I guess. I’m not sure I’d want to talk about my exes, though. Which pinpointed, exactly, the problem I might run into with my great idea.

DEREK WALKED ME BACK to the bus stop after we left the bar. The last bus ran at twelve thirty and we made it there as it pulled up. The door opened to the nearly empty seats and I got on. Derek got on, too, which surprised me so much, I turned just as the bus pulled out and was jostled into him.

He caught me before I could fall on my face. We should sit down.  I must have given him a funny look because he blushed again. "I can’t let you go home by yourself in the middle