“Can I ask you something?” Ruth twists her lips, clearly contemplating her question. “It might seem forward…”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Why are you blue?”
“Blue? Well, I had an argument with my friend. How did you know?”
She turns from the refrigerator. “Oh, I meant your face. It’s got a light blue tint.”
Of course my face is blue. Mirrors are my friend. I need to remember this. “Well...I was painting and got it on my face.” That’s pretty much the truth.
“Oh, okay. I didn’t know if it was a new makeup trend. It’s a nice shade on your forehead. Goes well with the blond hair.”
“Thanks.”
Ryan finally enters the kitchen. “Hey, Mom,” he says as if it’s no big deal he forgot to mention her planned visit.
She hugs him. “Hi. I was just talking to Chloe about her blue face. She’s an artist too?”
“Yeah,” he says. “She makes pottery.”
“Oh, interesting.” But not too, because she doesn’t ask any further questions. “I got all the things you like,” she tells him. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Just some work and then chill.”
“Sounds fun.” She pats his chest. “I’ll be cleaning.”
She grabs supplies from beneath the sink as Ryan checks out the haul she brought; it’s all very awkward. Because I can’t let her clean alone, I offer to help. And even more awkward is that she accepts and I end up doing Ryan’s mountain of laundry, while he sits at his desk, doing his very important job. It’s okay, though. It’s domesticated. If domestication means one person doesn’t have to help.
Really, I don’t mind. I’m fulfilling my pledge to be a better person, and it gives me an opportunity to avoid speaking to Ruth in my stoned state. Not that she minds I’m not speaking to her. I get the distinct vibe she’s not feeling me, so really, I’m happy to be secluded in the laundry room. Doing endless laundry.
“What’s this?” I hear her say as I fold T-shirts. “It’s magnificent.”
I peek my head from the laundry room and see her holding our sex art. My mouth drops open, aghast, as she props it against the couch and runs her hands over the smears of my ass. “This big blue spot reminds me of the ocean, endless and huge.”
Instead of snatching it from her roaming hands, Ryan sits in his chair, still doing very important business. “Had a creative spark last night,” he says.
“Where should we hang it?” she asks, scoping out the room.
“I think the bedroom is a good spot,” I suggest. Now that I’ve seen her touch it, I’m not sure about having it in the living room.
“No,” she says. “I think it works best here in the entryway.”
Alrighty then. And just like that, it’s decided. Ryan agrees to her spot, and she smiles.
“I’ll hang it later,” he says.
Okay, I get it. I’m the new girl, but it’s my butt on there. Oh, well. I return to my laundress duties while she sweeps the floors. When she’s ready to leave, his place sparkles from top to bottom.
“Thanks, Mom,” Ryan says, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“You’re welcome, honey. Nice meeting you, Chloe. Next time, if you’re here, I’ll show you how to fold shirts correctly, so they’re in a neat little stack. I fold them with the design facing out so Ryan knows what shirt he’s picking.”
Really, it would be best if she showed Ryan how to fold them, but it’s probably too soon to say that. “Sounds great.”
After she leaves, we hang out, and Ryan gets high again. I’m still feeling the effects, so I pass. Then I forget all about the painting placement and laundry when I finally get the elusive nap date I’ve always wanted for six months.
It’s glorious, except for Ryan’s alarming snoring. But his spoon is excellent with his beard resting on my shoulder. It’s really more of a catnap, since I can’t sleep with his rumbling in my ear, but it’s still a nap.
It’s all good, though. This guy can Netflix and Chill like a champ, unlike Finn.
Ryan might actually Netflix and Chill better than me. We watch so many 90s movies, I sort of zone out.
During Wild Thing, when the girls kiss, he asks, “Have you ever been with a girl?”
I put aside my popcorn. “No. Well, I mean, I kissed Charlotte before at a college party to win a bet, but it wasn’t like a thing-thing.” Saying Charlotte’s name out loud gives me another twinge that I’ve been here all day and haven’t bothered to check in on our fight status. I really escaped. “Have you ever been with a guy?”
I don’t expect his answer. “Oh, yeah,” he blows my mind by saying. “My Kinsey Scale number is mid-range.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Cool-cool-cool.”
“Yeah.”
He turns his attention back to the movie, and after a few minutes, I escape to the bathroom to google Kinsey Scale. Interesting. It’s a scale to determine sexuality, and on a scale of one to six, midrange is a three. According to the numbers, he likes men and women equally. Huh. Ryan is bi-sexual? Normally, I would text Charlotte right now to figure out how I feel about this. But can I? My fingers say yes.
Since I am still high, I text the last person I communicated with…Roger, my Uber driver from last night.
This isn’t an inch-line situation, if that’s what you’re asking. But you should probably make up with your friend. I’m not able to charge you for texts the way I can for rides.
Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. Thanks, Roger.
I am definitely going to make up with Charlotte. After we order pizza. And maybe have sex again. There’s more chilling to do.
Nine
There’s something different about Austin. Something is amiss in Clown World. Please, don’t let it be what I think it is. If my inkling is correct, I don’t think I can handle it.
No, I know I can’t.
This will be the final red nose on the clown cake, and I might as well move into that creepy clown motel in Nevada. Hopefully, it’s on a hill, because I’m sure to die there.
From beneath my lashes, I glance at Austin and fling a ball of clay onto my potter’s wheel. We were having a productive day at home: me building up my Mae’d With Love inventory while he works on a new song. And now this. I wish I could unsee it.
Austin strums his guitar, humming about back-seat Chevy shenanigans, and I finally gather the courage to ask...
“So, um, are you growing a beard?”
The soothing rhythm of guitar strings stops. “Yeah.”
I knew the stubble was thicker. “Why?”
“No-Shave-November is coming up, so I’m getting a head start. The restaurant is having a fundraiser. I’ve already got fifty dollars on me winning.”
This cannot happen, so I discourage it, “Really? Isn’t that unsanitary? Health codes and stuff. You’ll need a little beard net to keep hair out of the food.” I shudder, as if repulsed.
“Nah.” He touches it! “It’s coming in nicely.”
Yep, it is. I work my hands around the clay so hard it shoots up a foot into a clay boner. “Do mustaches count? Maybe you could do a mustache? Did you know the longest mustache recorded was fourteen feet long? I bet you could beat that.”
He laughs as if I’m joking. I am not. Where is Lucy when I need her? She’s been out-of-town forever and a day. As much as it annoys me how often Lucy is a fixture, it’s a little weird when she isn’t around. That’s progress, right?
“Thought you and Charlotte liked beards,” he says. “Heard you two drooling over Ryan’s. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re dating his beard.”
My clay topples. “Well, you do know better. I’m not that shallow.”
I’m so shallow I’m a dry creek bed. When did I become this way? Once upon a time, pre-rock age, I didn’t drool over abs or tattoos. Of course, they’d never been in my orbit, and you can’t know what you’re missing if it’s not there. You just know you’re missing something, and that’s
how I view this time in my life—a mess.
“Speaking of Charlotte…have you talked to her?” Guitar in hand, Austin takes a seat on the couch.
“Not yet.” I throw another ball of clay on the wheel.
I haven’t figured out exactly what to say to Charlotte, because it’s not like I’ve changed my mind about anything, so I’m giving it another day to see if she reaches out to me instead. It should be Charlotte, in my opinion. I’m not as warm and fuzzy and forgiving without the pot. But I miss her terribly, so she needs to hurry so I can show her my “Festive AF Winter Weddings” addition to our Pinterest board.
“Well,” he strums a few chords, “whatever happened, be the bigger person.”
My phone rings with Ryan’s special ringtone and I rise and clean my hands.
“Want to come over and do some potting of the other variety?” Ryan asks.
I think about it. On one hand, good times! On the other, I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to another two days of being Full H, i.e., fully horizontal. And Austin’s working on a song that’s so pretty, and I kind of want to keep listening to it. “I have plans with Charlotte,” I fib. Fib is cuter and minimizes the harshness of a lie.
Austin’s eyes narrow on me.
“Oh, you made up? That’s great.”
“We did.”
Austin’s judgment is apparent, but it’s not needed. I’m judging myself enough for both of us. Ryan and I chat for a few minutes about an upcoming Halloween party at his work, and when I hang up, Austin looks over at me. “Trouble in paradise so soon?”
“No. I just wanted to get some pots done without so much pot getting done is all.”
“You couldn’t just tell him that?”
“It seemed rude.”
“Seems like lying is ruder.”
When did everyone become so judgmental? “I’m sure you’re not 100% honest in your relationship, Mr. McJudgerson. Every successful couple has a lie or two between them.” His judgy brows rise. “There are things that are excusable lies that don’t count.” Really, they need a word just for those circumstances so you’re protected beneath the umbrella of a not-lie. Who decides these things?
“Yeah. I suppose that’s true.”
What? Even though I said all that to deflect from my lying to Ryan, I didn’t expect him to confess to it. He seems so virtuous.
“Really?” I ask. “Like what?”
He strums a few cords and glances up. “My lips are sealed.”
I pout, but it does no good.
“And I still think you could have just told Ryan the truth.”
“Shut up and make me a sandwich,” I tease, once again to deflect.
He grins, one of those charming one-sided whammies. “What kind do you want?”
“I’m kidding.” Or am I? “But if you do it, I’ll make you a pot.”
“How about this...I’ll teach you how to make my signature sandwich, and you teach me how to make a pot?”
A swapsie. “I’m in.”
I shouldn’t be, but I trail after him to the kitchen like a puppy, anyway.
“Before we get started, I’m going to show you something I’ve never shared with you before now,” he says, splaying his hands on the counter and pinning me to the spot with his dark eyes.
“Okay.”
“It’s big.”
“How big?”
“Enormous.”
I swallow. For argument’s sake, if it’s his penis, am I allowed to look at it? I wouldn’t touch. That’s probably way inappropriate.
He reaches in the cabinet above the fridge and removes a white pillowy hat. “This is the first chef hat I ever owned.” He crosses to me and places it on my head. “Now we can start.”
He moves around the kitchen, collecting ingredients and lines them up on the counter.
“I’m going to train you like I do newbies at the restaurant. With no mercy.”
I smile at his seriousness. “Oh, okay.”
“What do you think is the most important part of a sandwich?” he asks.
“Meat.”
“Wrong,” he says so loud, I jump. It all feels very Hell’s Kitchen, except its heaven being this close to his world. Usually I’m lazy and watching him cook, and how silly of me to not take part.
“There are rules to sandwich building. Did you know this?”
“I did not,” I say with shame. “I thought it was a free-for-all type thing.”
“Chloe,” he says, tilting my chin up with his finger, “you disappoint me.”
“I promise to do better,” I barely get out with his finger of fire searing my skin.
“Try again. Really try.” He crosses his arms. “Don’t half-ass it. What’s your answer?”
Stern Austin is intimidating, and I’m doing my best not to imagine this is his handcuff voice. “Condiments.”
“No,” he booms. “Bread is most important. Do you know why?”
“Well, since I didn’t guess bread, I’m gonna say the chances I know are slim to none. But since I’m afraid you’re going to spank me with a spatula if I don’t try—” I stop when Austin’s eyes widen. Seconds tick by in silence and I attempt to dispel my spanking comment, “Because it holds everything together?”
“Yes. It can’t be any bread. It needs to be relative to what’s inside. Would you put something thick and heavy in something soft?”
Yes, I absolutely would, but I can’t even look at him right now because who knew the details of sandwich making sound so sexual. I keep my eyes trained on the loaf of French bread. “Sounds like a terrible thing to do.”
“The meat has to fit perfectly. You’re building something, ya know? Imagine you’re this loaf of bread.” He runs his hand along it, fondling the outer crust. “You’d be selective about what goes inside you, right?”
My eyes are burning a hole in this bread. I mean, come on now. “Definitely.”
“Would you put bologna in here?”
“Yuck.”
“Exactly. You’d want the best meat in you, right?”
“Absolutely. I mean...unless I’m on a budget.”
“Chloe, no.” He shakes his head. “Then you just put nothing inside you. You’re better than that. How can you not want the best? You deserve the best.”
“Okay, yes. You’re right. No budget bologna in me. Only worthy meat.”
“Only the best, remember that.” He takes out a knife and slices the loaf in half, then slides his blade lengthwise to open it. “First, we spread you open. Now we fill you up. We’re gonna fill you so full, you’ll barely be able to take it all, but you will.”
This was a bad idea. I could cut this bread with my nipples. How was I to know when I accepted the trade I’d be whore bread, stuffing meat in me? I could not know, therefore the feelings rambling through me do not count and cannot be held against me. Stop judging me.
Austin lays out ham along with sticks of salami and pepperoni. “We’re going to stuff you.”
“I’m going to need about eight inches of meat,” I say, eyeing the length. “I can handle that.”
His gaze darts to me before he slices salami and pepperoni and all the fixings. Cheese, too. Everything is fresh and laid out on the cutting board.
“Okay, arrangement is key. You want it layered correctly so every flavor and texture hits your tongue differently.”
“Once it’s all together, it kind of tastes the same.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Chloe.” Oh God, that’s the last thing I want to do. “Close your eyes. I have an experiment for you.”
I close my eyes and my heart thunders in my chest when he says, “Open your mouth.”
When I do, he pops something in it. Not his penis, thankfully. “What do you taste?”
“Pepperoni?”
“Good. Open again.”
We repeat the process and this time I taste ham and cheese.
“Now together,” he says.
This time there is a flavor explosion. Sp
icy, crisp, salty, tangy. I savor it and open my eyes to meet his dark stare. “Oh, I see what you mean. It kind of built up and exploded in my mouth.”
He swallows and then turns away. “A drizzle of olive oil on the bottom is important.”
I’m grateful he doesn’t say to get me wet. Cause…I don’t need that oil. I’m going to hell. Legit hell with fire and brimstone and horns, and I don’t want to go there. Air conditioning is crucial to my survival. I need to move out.
“So meats first, then cheese, lettuce, tomato,” he continues. “Condiments on top.”
I follow his instructions until I have a professional sandwich.
“That looks pretty damn perfect,” he says, admiring my handiwork.
I take a bite. “Tastes even better.”
Once we’ve finished our food, it’s my turn to teach him. I try to keep it clinical, but there is just no way. If I thought sandwiches were sexual, pottery is next level erotica.
“Pump faster,” I say, standing behind him, watching over his shoulder as he fondles the clay. “Keep your hands moving and glide them up and down.”
His clay collapses. “Damn,” he says. “I was so close.”
“Once more,” I say, doing my best to ignore what he said.
I put on my teacher persona and lean in a bit, peering over his shoulder. His pot forms but wobbles and without thinking I reach in and place my hands on his, guiding the wet clay. My breasts brush against his back, and it’s all very Ghost and all very wrong. My heart, stupid heart flips and flops. I sniff him and step away. “You did it,” I say.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “That was…amazing.”
Later, alone in my room, I try not to reminisce about our interaction and ignore the chemistry moments where, if we both weren’t seeing other people, I might call Moments with a capital M.
I’m fully aware this entire evening proves Charlotte’s suspicions right. I haven’t been trying hard enough to move on. Le sigh.
Fall Hard (Dating Season Book 3) Page 6
