by Virna DePaul
“If it's a dick pick, Lee, you need to show that to a doctor.”
I laugh. “What?”
“I thought you wanted me to see something?”
“Right, right.”
I pull the page up on my phone and hand it over. She squints at the screen and looks up at me.
“You wanted me to see your Tinder account?”
“My Tinder? What, no. That's not what I wanted to – Here, let me see.”
She pulls back the phone with a maniacal laugh and starts to look through my profile.
“Let's make some edits, shall we? Six-five?”
She runs her suspicious eyes from my feet to my head. I sigh. I guess we're playing this game.
“Five-nine, I'd say.”
“Jenna.”
“Let's see,” she says aloud as she starts to type. “My passion is serving up hot food and even hotter sex. How's that?”
I lunge for my phone, but she's faster.
“I'm into girls with especially hairy mustaches and one of those bumps on her neck and scratchy hands.”
“You described a man!”
She smiles. “Oh, did I?”
Before she can make further edits, my phone beeps.
“Bryce is at the airport about to get on a plane, but he wants to know if you saw the blog,” she says, frowning in confusion. “What blog? What is he talking about?”
When I stick out my hand, she hands over the phone. I click on what I thought I clicked on in the first place: the blog. The one that lampooned my restaurant and, more specifically, lampooned me. The writer was brutal. Those words speared me right through the gut and left me to bleed out. It was harsh, damning, and personal.
Very personal.
“Here.” I pass the phone back to Jenna. “This is what I came to show you.”
What makes me even angrier is that some of the criticism was valid. I have been distracted with the lifestyle of a critically acclaimed chef. I have spent less and less time in the actual kitchen. And the time I do spend in the kitchen is usually with a model and, um, zucchini. But that doesn’t mean my food is subpar. I will say though, that the explicit descriptions of my body are one-hundred percent accurate. When I demand the retraction, all of that can stay.
“This is what I need you for, Jenna.”
She sets the phone down on the table in front of her. “Do you, um, know who wrote it?”
“That's the thing. I don’t. It's an anonymous blog. We need to trace this monster and I want you to sue them. Sue them for all they're worth.”
She stares at the phone with a dead expression. I'm slightly worried something is wrong, because I expected her to laugh at the blog. Maybe memorize it, print it out as a memento, or even tattoo part of it on her body. Maybe on her lower back right above her curvy, delicious–
No, Lee. Focus.
“How do we hunt them down?” I ask her. “I mean, I've seen Law and Order and CSI:Miami so I have some ideas.”
Jenna shakes her head.
“I know, I know,” I say. “They're just shows, but we can trace the internet footprint or whatever it is. Right?”
She holds up a finger.
“What?”
She turns pale and says, “I'm going to be sick.”
“I know. It makes me sick, too.”
But then she covers her mouth and runs out of the living room and into her bedroom. She tries to close the door, but in her haste, it remains open.
“Um, Jenna?”
When I hear no response, I follow after her. There’s an empty wine bottle on her bed and noises coming from the bathroom. Even an idiot like myself can put that math together. I wince in sympathy when I hear her retch, followed by a miserable moan.
Hangovers suck. I should have realized what state she was in when she looked so disheveled. That also must be why she didn't find the blog hilarious. Another nasty noise slips from the direction of the bathroom.
Well, there's only one thing to do in cases like this.
I backtrack through Jenna's room, step around the mess in the living room, and quietly close the front door behind me.
4
Jenna
I'm honestly not sure if I'm throwing up because of my massive hangover or my massive embarrassment.
I lay my head against the cold tile in my bathroom and groan. Snippets of last night flash behind my closed eyelids. Each one is worse than the last. I stuck my tongue down William’s throat just to make Lee, the guy with a supermodel on his arm, jealous. Someone at Harvard made a serious mistake handing over that diploma. It’s just a matter of time before I'll be disbarred.
I gag and hug the toilet bowl. The one moment I can't seem to pull from the grey and hazy memories is pushing the “Publish” button on my blog. Maybe when I passed out, my forehead hit the “Enter” key. Or, I spilled wine and it fried the keyboard. A glitch sent it out into the unsuspecting world.
One thing I know for sure is: I did not publish that blog post on purpose. My stomach churns at the thought. Words scroll across my mind and I can't stop them.
If only Lee's prime rib was as juicy as his ass.
I think I'm going to be sick again.
If we can't taste Lee's signature 'It' dish of the week, at least we can all be comforted that he is tasting his 'It' girl of the week.
Why? Why, oh, why, why?
I don't know the last time Lee actually picked up a knife in his kitchen. Unless we're using the word knife as code for penis. If so, that was probably just hours ago.
I pull myself up using the vanity counter and stand on wobbly legs in front of the mirror. Mascara smudges across my face and lipstick smears over my lips, making me look like a celebrity mug shot before rehab.
All I had to do was not press “Publish”. Why didn't I just look at porn or do some online shopping? Even stalking Lee online would have been less devastating.
And Bryce knows. My brother, Lee’s best friend—the only person in the world who knows I’m the anonymous blogger behind that blog—now knows how I feel about Lee.
What if Bryce tells him I’m the blogger?
But no, he might have asked Lee if he’d seen the blog, but Bryce would never betray me by saying anything to Lee without checking with me first. Without giving me the chance to tell Lee myself.
Oh God, I have to tell Lee.
With a groan, I turn on the faucet. I rinse out my mouth before brushing my teeth. No matter how hard I scrub, I can't get the shame off. Washing my face doesn't help, either. I pull my hair into a tight bun and press down the flyaways, so I at least feel slightly more in control. But, I'm not.
The blog post is out there, and there's no way I can undo that. Everyone will read it. Everyone will pass it on. I wouldn't be surprised if it's trending. I bet Lee is freak —
Lee.
At that moment, I totally get why cartoon eyes pop out of their sockets when someone is surprised, because I swear I just saw mine do that in the mirror. Lee. Oh, shit. Lee is out there, in my apartment.
Panicked, I take a few deep breaths to steady my racing heart and wrap my robe more closely across my chest. I tip-toe to the bathroom door and press my ear against it. I don't hear any plates smashing or chairs being overturned. I crack the door open and wince as it creaks. Closing one eye, I squint into my bedroom.
There are the wine bottles as evidence of my crime. And a stain of red wine on the carpet I didn't notice earlier. Girl, we've been over this before: when you're wasted and drinking in bed, always grab a white. Never red. I shake my head. Clearly, I didn’t learn.
There’s no sign of Lee standing there glaring with arms crossed and toe tapping, so I slip out of the bathroom. He must not know what I did … I’ll make damn sure he never knows. But first, I have to know if he knows.
I poke my head into the living room and expect to see him sitting there on the couch or standing by the window. But no one is there.
“Lee?”
I wander the apartment long after
I’ve realized he’s not here, searching places I know he isn't. I didn't need to check the laundry room three times. Lee's allergic to washing machines. I sink down onto the couch and accept the truth.
He knows – and he left.
A terrible thought hits me, and I prepare to run right back to the bathroom. Lee knowing that I wrote a damning and personal review of his restaurant is bad. This new thought is a thousand times worse. My palms grow clammy, and my face feels really hot all of a sudden.
Forget Bryce telling him anything. What if Lee already knows the pathetic, miserable crush I have on him?
It's obvious based on my post. That's the only reason to mention someone's ass seventeen times in six-hundred words. He'll know I've wanted to be with him ever since we were kids and he convinced me to skip school with him to go drink by the lake. It's the one and only time I've ever missed class in my entire life. And it was only because of him.
He'll know I've always loved his mischievous dimples and that glint of danger in his eyes. He'll know I adore the way he flies through life with such passion - and how all I want is to fly with him.
He'll laugh. He'll laugh at the idea that I love him. Me, the girl who considers mascara and blush a full face of makeup. Me, the girl who thinks a grey suit is risky and heels over two inches are fancy. Me, the girl who stays in Friday night, because I tell myself I have work.
Oh, how he'll laugh.
I throw a pillow over my face and am deciding which Adele song I'll cry to for the rest of my life, when I hear the door open. I fling off the pillow and instinctively throw the closest law book I can at the intruder … It's Lee.
“That's quite an arm, Jenna.” He studies the dent where the book slammed into the wall. “Manning could use a few pointers from you.”
“The Fourth Circuit judge of Florida?”
“What? Never mind.” Lee hoists a paper bag as he kicks closed my front door. “I come bearing gifts.”
I search his face for any hint of anger toward me but he’s just humming as he walks into my kitchen and starts unpacking the groceries. Maybe he doesn't know.
“Um, Lee?”
“What's up, Jenna?”
“What are you doing?”
He grabs my pink apron and ties it around his waist. How does he make even a woman's apron look good?
“I,” he says, pointing to his chiseled chest, “your hero, am making you my world-famous hangover cure.”
I stumble my way to the kitchen and sag into a bar stool as he starts to chop vegetables. He’s brought lots of stuff. Hot sauce. Fruity Pebbles. Coors Light. Limes. Bacon. Chicken broth.
“What about the blog post?” I ask.
“Where are your pots?” Lee flings open cabinets before I guide him to the right one. “And frying pans?”
“There.”
He sets water to boil in the pot and pours some liquid I don't recognize into the pan.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” He looks up from the chopping board.
“What about the blog post, Lee? What are you going to do about it?”
“Jenna, do you remember the last time I was hung over?”
I frown. Lee parties more than anyone I know and yet ... “No.”
He winks at me. “Exactly.”
I excuse myself to change into sweats, partially because of the blush that has hotly flooded my cheeks, and partially because I'm suddenly aware I'm still wearing just a robe and bra in front of him.
Alone in my bedroom, I try to get myself together. Play it cool, Jenna. Cool and casual, cool and casual.
Once dressed, I walk back to the kitchen. I lean over the pot Lee’s stirring with one hand while wafting the steam with the other hand.
“So, what gave away my plight?” I ask. He smells like ginger and citrus. He always smells like ginger and citrus, and he always smells so good.
“Well, if the vomiting wasn't a giveaway, I'd say it was your lack of witty retort to my continued stupidity.” He laughs.
“I don't think you're stupid, Lee.”
“See,” he says, pointing at me with a celery stalk and squinting his eyes. “Healthy Jenna would never, ever say that.”
He rests the back of his hand against my forehead and I resist leaning into him. For a moment, his touch lingers, and something in his expression makes my breath catch, but then he grins and pulls away. “Healthy Jenna also would have bit my finger if I touched her.”
“Am I really that scary?” I ask, grabbing a spoon.
“Yes.”
I pause with a steaming spoonful of soup over the pot and look at Lee.
“Yes,” he says again, his expression serious.
I sip the soup and flick him with the spoon. He winces and laughs. “One sip of my hangover miracle cure and mean, scary Jenna is back. I'm a genius.”
Yeah, he is a genius. I won't ever tell him, but he is.
“Throw some of those Fruity Pebbles into the pan with the bacon,” he instructs as he stirs the soup.
I frown at Fred grinning back at me on the box of cereal. “Are you sure? Have you done this before?”
“Nope.” Lee grabs the box and holds it out for me.
“But what if it screws it up?”
“How can you screw up bacon?”
I cross the kitchen and retrieve the bacon packaging from the trash bin. I show him Exhibit A.
“There is no mention of Fruity Pebbles on here.”
Lee opens the box of cereal. “Open your mouth.”
“No.”
“Jenna.”
“Lee.”
“Open your mouth.”
I relent with a sigh.
“And close your eyes.”
I hear the crunch of the cereal and then Lee's placing a Fruity Pebble on my tongue.
“What do you taste?”
“Nothing.”
“Keep your eyes closed.”
He gently picks up the Fruity Pebble from my tongue and moves it. “What about now?”
“Lee.”
“What about now?”
“Nothing.”
“Patience, Jenna Harrison.”
I shift from foot to foot and he places his hands on my shoulders.
“Patience,” he whispers.
Then he moves the Fruity Pebble again with one hand, while the other slides down to my waist. His breath tickles my ear, and the memory of last night comes back to me in a shudder.
“What about now?”
“It’s sweet,” I say suddenly, overcome by the realization.
I open my eyes and see him smiling at me. He's leaning down, eye to eye, and I catch his gaze slipping back down to my mouth. He licks his lips.
“Here's a tip for you,” he says, slow like sweet honey. “Make sure you don't neglect any part of the tongue.”
“In cooking you mean?”
I feel faint. He grins.
“Yeah, Jenna. In cooking.”
5
Lee
Other guys have complained to me about girls falling asleep in the crook of their arm, causing their arm to fall asleep. They’ve told me their different exit strategies for moving, as if they’re a Seal team extracting a prisoner from enemy territory. I didn’t pay attention at all. I've honestly never needed a plan to get my arm loose from the tangles of a lady's body. By the time it even gets to cuddling, I’m usually long gone.
But right now, I wish that I’d been listening to those guys instead of checking out some waitress's ass, because Jenna is dozing on my arm and I don't want to wake her.
With a quiet moan, she shifts, and I’m thinking this is my moment to try and get up, but then I feel her breath against my skin and I stop. It's frightening how intoxicating those gentle little breaths feel. I've seen the most gorgeous triple D tits with the perkiest nipples, and I wouldn't suffer through these pins and needles in my arm for them. I've run my hands along asses as round as beach balloons, and I'd pop them without hesitation to get away from how uncomfortable my
arm feels right now. Oh, and the legs I've placed on my shoulders, golden and long and toned. I'd rather deal with the pain of watching them walk away than the pain of stiffness and numbness in my arm.
My goodness, it hurts. But I keep telling myself I can handle it for a bit longer. Just another thirty seconds. And another thirty after that.
All for Jenna's tiny warm breaths against my arm.
Some television show is on, there’s a mess in the kitchen and a mess in the sink and a mess on the coffee table, and all I see is Jenna.
With the smudges of mascara and stains of lipstick she doesn't look as intimidating as she does in her lawyer get up, but her vulnerability, in a way, is even more frightening. The gentle curve of her eyelashes terrifies me. The red of her cheeks scare me. Her bottom lip makes me want to run away and never look back. Because what I really want to do is touch it all. Touch her eyelashes, touch her cheeks, touch her lips.
I should probably stop staring. How terrible it would be if at this exact moment, she stirred awake and opened her eyes to see me watching like a creep –
Oh, shit.
Her doe-like eyelashes flutter up and catch me staring. I freeze. I'm about to look away when I realize she isn’t.
I’ve stared at plenty of girls. I appreciate beauty and think it should be celebrated. But with other girls, when they caught me staring—mostly because I wanted them to catch me—they would always look away with a giggle, then sneak a bashful gaze back to check if I was still looking.
Never before has a girl stared back. Jenna does, and she doesn't flinch.
Her eyes entrap me. There’s colors in her eyes I’ve never seen before: little flecks of gold and amber and even what looks like a deep purple. Still, she doesn't look away. It's as if she's daring me. Challenging me.
I lean down just a hair to test the waters. She blinks slowly, seductively. I lower my head further. Her lips part and a quivering breath escapes. Goosebumps shoot up my arm and down my spine. Her eyes search mine. What is she looking for?
Closer ... closer ... closer ...
