The Starter Boyfriend

Untitled Part 1

Chapter 1

"Hey, handsome," I murmured to my honey in our first private moment of the day.

He didn't respond, but that was expected. I moved closer, as if to brush a speck of lint off the shoulder of his black tuxedo, when in reality I was going in for a whiff of his scent. Which I hoped would be all rugged and clean and alpha-masculine and even a little bit complicated-like the guy himself.

My big inhale was a big dud, rendering me a nose full of nothingness, and a faint aroma of mothballs and dust.

Still, no judgment, no worries. There was no place for negativity in this covert romance. It was all about creating excitement, and taking my first steps into the dating world.

For while I knew it was borderline nuthouse-ish to consider myself "in a relationship" with a mannequin (even secretly), I told myself it wasn't so different from, say, when Bobby Hoffman and I announced to our seventh grade class that we were "together," then barely looked at each other again.

I just happened to be a few years past seventh grade-four, to be exact-and had gotten tired of waiting for the right guy to come along. A few weeks ago, I'd taken matters into my own hands, deciding to run with my silly little crush on the five-foot-ten mannequin in the shop window at work. I'd bestowed upon him the name of Tux, and decided he'd be my starter boyfriend, someone I could make mistakes on and learn from, and who would hopefully ready me for The Real Thing. The beauty of it was, it kept me danger-free of a devastating heartbreak or the confusion that usually plagued me with the male psyche, not to mention giving me a secret from my softball team friends-who I still loved and adored, even though they seemed to have their own secrets from me these days.

For now, Tux was my guy. No one else need apply.

"Courtney," called out my boss, Phillip Manzino, punching a hole in my boyfriend moment. "Have you seen the tape measure?"

I glanced his way and nodded. Since the gadget was jammed in the rear pocket of my jeans, I had no choice but to give Tux's shoulders one last caress and hop down from the window display.

I didn't mind leaving, though, because if I was secure in any relationship in my life, it was this one. Tux would be waiting for me for as long as I wanted him, standing there in that one bent knee forward, one arm angled pose, wearing his thirty-eight inch long, thirty-two inch inseam style 02116 tuxedo, with the notch lapel and "silver moon" vest and tie, which just so happened to make his blue eyes pop.

"Got it!" I shouted, my black flats landing unevenly on the tile flooring, requiring the use of a surfer balance maneuver I'd picked up from a guy in my life (of the real and confusing type). The arm flail did the trick, and soon I was delivering the tape measure into Phillip's hands.

And not a moment too soon. It was already after three on a Friday, which meant we'd entered peak period in the tuxedo rental biz. From now until closing, and then for several hours tomorrow, we'd be pulling out the pre-ordered tuxes from the back room and doing final fittings, alterations and substitutions in the hopes that every customer left feeling handsome and happy.

Forty-ish Phillip, who owned Tux Everlasting here on the southern California coastline, needed to keep his needle and thread steady during the chaos. I, seventeen year-old Courtney Walsh, his somewhat new-but definitely trusty-assistant, needed to stay attentive so that I could jump in with whatever he needed.

I liked to think of us as a mighty duo.

"Thanks," he said now, tugging the tape out from its plastic holder to measure a baby blue jacket sleeve. He narrowed the brown eyes that seemed permanently dwarfed by his flat nose, and then aimed them back at me. "I want to get this finished before those groomsmen show up. And I wouldn't be surprised if we don't see more of your Homecoming boys today, too."

"My Homecoming boys?" I let out a laugh. "I couldn't name a single guy on Court if I was strung up on a wooden hanger and tortured with alteration chalk and straight pins." AP classes and softball-not to mention this job-kept my brain too busy for the stats from the school statusphere.

He smiled in mild amusement. "You know what I mean."

Actually, I did. With his permission, I'd created a discount flyer and posted it around campus. Mostly I'd expected it to appeal to the five or six guys who were required to wear tuxes on Homecoming Court, but I'd been hoping to grab some of the flashy dressers, too. It must have worked because we'd had close to a dozen orders so far.

Phillip had been rewarding me with bonuses in my paychecks, money that was adding up nicely, and that I knew he thought I was putting away for college. Because that's what I'd told him when I'd come in to apply for the assistant's job, that I needed to save for my college education.

It had sounded much better than the truth.

The bell over the door tinkled now, and I followed my boss's gaze to the doorway.