by Julie Olivia
Lawrence shakes his wrist in mock pain. “Not according to Sarah,” he says, nodding his head over to the living room where Sarah’s head is in her hands. Other Sara strokes her back.
“Fruit of my loins!” Our dad comes around the corner, the thick sleeves of his cross-stitched sweater rolled up to his elbows and his hands raised in the air like a messiah ready to liberate his people.
“Gross,” Lawrence mumbles, scrunching his nose.
“Your mother wants to order pizza instead,” Dad says.
“She what?!” I throw out my hands. “No, I am not going to spend my first time as holiday host playing the role of a glorified pizza-ordering operator!”
“You won’t,” Dad says innocently, tossing his thumb over his shoulder. “The place down the road will.”
“Why pizza?” I groan. “It’s Thanksgiving. What about home-cooked food?”
“You’re starting to sound like Sarah,” Harry mumbles over his coffee, and I shoot him a glare.
“Which one?” This from Grant.
Harry moves his mug over his mouth to hide his laugh.
“Because…” My dad shuffles in, his hands still raised as if continuing to declare his presence. He pulls the oven door open and looks back to us. “The tofu looks gross and your saintly mother insists on pizza.”
“Father Grant,” Lawrence says, slinging his arm over our dad’s shoulders. “Please tell me we can have pineapples on this pizza.”
“That’s where we draw the line,” he replies, taking Lawrence’s face into his hands and tilting it down to kiss his forehead. “Nia, dear, will you call it in?”
I moan. “Sure.” One by one, the boys shuffle out into the living room, Grant taking another mug full of coffee, leaving only me and Harry.
“Just think,” Harry says, “it could be worse. Dad was just waiting for someone to call out Grant’s name so he could pretend he’s confused.” Harry’s eyes grow wide and he looks from side to side, pointing at his own chest, mimicking our father.
“Very true. He thinks that’s absolutely hilarious.”
“Hey, Nia?” he asks.
“Yeah?”
“You really should get back out there.”
“I’m studying—”
“I know,” he says. “After your test, I mean.”
It’s been a while—one year, really—since my last ex and I parted ways, and he was quite a doozy. Note to self: tattooed men are beautiful, but they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Well, at least that man was. No offense, beautiful, nice tattooed men of the world.
In any case, I spend too much time at work to focus on dating. The only eligible bachelor near me nowadays is that designer Gary who just sits in his corner desk eating junk food. Oh, and Ian Chambers.
Damn. Ian Chambers. He makes me want to punch a wall, and I don’t even think I’m a particularly angry person. He’s like Grant: egotistical, sarcastic, and thinks he’s much too clever for his own good.
“I’m not really into dating right now,” I say, pulling open a drawer that already contains a disproportionate amount of takeout menus considering the short time I’ve lived in this house.
“Just a thought,” Harry says.
“I’ll put myself out there, but only if you do the same. Or, even better, look into that lot nearby.” I rise up on my toes, poking at his chest. “I think you could get it for a steal right now. Your own shop? Finally?”
I want my brother to find a place for his dream mechanic shop much more than I desire a man in my life.
“Well, that’s the plan,” he says. “You get your certification in HR, gain all the employment knowledge in the process, and then I can just use you as a consultant for my business.”
“Was that the plan all along?”
“Of course.” He winks.
I smile and pick my phone up from the counter, tracing my finger across the menu for the number.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Harry says, lifting his coffee cup to me. I roll my eyes and dial the local pizza place. He laughs. “Remember: tofu, not pineapple.”
8
Ian
Present day
It’s been nine years since I met Nia Smith. Nine years of admiring from afar, keeping my distance because, as the in-house lawyer, I knew better than to pursue her. Nine years, and I’m finally not working for Treasuries Inc.
I go down to the lobby, taking in deep breaths, and step out to see Nia already waiting for me.
“Ready for a day of fun?” I ask.
“No funny business,” she says sharply. “We buy what we need, and we come back.”
“Nooo.” I exaggerate the word. “The entire point is for us to get along. Did you not hear the bride?”
She walks off, not acknowledging me. I’ll admit, I feel bad. I don’t mean to make her uncomfortable. I didn’t even think my comment was all that offensive.
I follow her, pulling out my phone to preemptively request a ride.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I ask. She shakes her head with pursed lips. “I saw some local place with a giant shark statue out front. Could be cool.”
“Whatever you want to do.”
The sentence makes my heart jump, but I keep myself composed for the time being, though it’s hard with her skirt flowing behind her. The wind is doing me favors because I see a slight peek of her black thong when the thin material pushes against her backside. Thank you, Florida breeze.
The rideshare service arrives and takes us down the street. Nia looks out the window the entire time. I can’t help but chuckle at her determination to have a horrible time.
The shark statue outside the souvenir shop is much bigger than I anticipated. I ask that she take my picture with it then stick my arm in the statue’s mouth and cringe, pretending the shark is biting me.
“Is that your new dating profile pic?” she asks, handing me my phone back.
“Nah, I don’t do dating apps,” I say. “Do you want a picture too? Maybe spruce up your profile?” I ask, hoping she says something to contradict the idea that she’s active with other men.
“I’m not on the apps anymore,” she says. Score.
“Why not?” I ask, trying to stay nonchalant. I see a small smile tug at the edge of her mouth, and my heart leaps. “Do you have a dirty little secret?”
Her smirk instantly disappears. “Let’s just say I’m a bit tired of stupid men.”
“Good thing I’m smart.”
I wink and she pushes past me into the shop.
We browse through, and while I’m having no luck with my bachelor party shopping, Nia is zooming through Ramona’s list, picking up items whose relevance to a bachelorette outing I can’t even imagine. We walk down another aisle where she picks up a wiggling hula girl and places it in her basket.
“What the hell does Ray have planned?” I ask.
“I honestly don’t want to know,” Nia says, exhaling.
I smile, looking at the rest of the aisle. There are bobblehead dogs in floral button-ups, a variety of seashells, and at the end, displayed across the entire wall, samples of airbrushed designs.
“We have to get one of these,” I say, walking up to the counter and flipping through the binder with sleeves of design pictures: stick figures in bikinis, stylized animals of every variety, surfboards, skateboards, boogie boards—you name it, they have your board of choice.
“That’s silly,” Nia says. “Those shirts are a total waste of money. You wear them during the trip then they never see the light of day again.”
“Yes, but did you even go to Florida if you didn’t get a tacky airbrushed shirt?” I say with a grin. She seems less than amused.
“I’m not wasting cash on that.”
“Oh well, I guess I’ll just buy yours then.” I shrug, flipping through the book again.
The man at the counter approaches, splaying out both hands. “Whatcha lookin’ for?” he asks, his accent thick and gritty.
“We’ll have the two
girls in a bikini,” I say. “One with a yellow top and the other in pink. Short black hair on one, long blonde on the other. What size do you wear, Nia? Small?” I turn to look at her, scanning up and down. Her arms are crossed with one leg stuck out and the weight in her hips fully distributed to the other side. Yet, with all of that, she actually has a hint of a smile on her face.
“You’re putting yourself in a bikini?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Only fair since you’re in one,” I respond, raising mine in response.
She waits a moment then exhales. “I wear a small.”
My chest rises at the satisfaction. I crave more of that—the participation, the secret enjoyment tugging at her lips.
“You heard the lady.” I slam my hand down on the counter then point my other index finger at her and squint. “You’re having fun, Nia.”
“I am not,” she insists, turning on her heel to walk back down the aisle. With every swing of her hips, I’m convinced each movement contains a little less contempt for me. And, maybe I’m dreaming, but is she showing off her backside on purpose?
Twenty minutes later we receive our shirts and they are everything I had hoped for. Our names are scrawled across the top in gaudy airbrushed cursive—hot pink and ready to take on the day. I tug off my shirt in the store, making Nia’s face flush a deep crimson. I relish it before pulling on the new shirt.
“Aren’t you going to wear yours?” I ask, holding her tee out. I can tell she’s considering it, but all I get is her snatching the shirt and knotting it around her crossbody purse securely.
“In your dreams,” she says.
“Suit yourself.”
I throw my old shirt over my shoulder and continue walking through aisles with her. She somehow hasn’t found all the stuff on her list, and I’m wondering what we could possibly be missing. Once we’re stopped, having walked across the entire store at least three times—and these souvenir stores are far from small—I peek over her shoulder and scan the piece of paper. A slow smirk spreads across my face when I read the rest.
Penis popsicles, tiny silicone dildos, streamers with dicks…the list goes on for a while.
She moves her shoulder to shrug me off, and I flash her a grin that she does not return.
“That’s some risqué stuff you’re avoiding,” I say.
“I’ll buy it another time,” she says, shaking her head and pocketing the list. “Let’s head out.”
“But we’re still pseudo-fighting, and what the bride says goes, so what better time than now to finish up that list?” She narrows her eyes at me. “There’s only one place to get all of that.”
“I am not going to a sex shop with you, if that’s what you’re implying,” she says.
“But look, I’m already searching.” My hands deftly swipe across my screen as I browse the area looking for any store with a title containing dirty, secret, hideaway, or any combination of the three. And, much to my satisfaction, there is a shop within walking distance.
“A quarter of a mile away. Our lucky day,” I say, turning my phone to show her.
Her nose scrunches up.
I can’t tell where her mind is, but I try my luck. “Think of it this way: if you get all your shopping done for Ray, you don’t have to hang out with me tomorrow.”
She looks away from me, eyeing some random spot on the wall, no doubt considering the pros and cons of this situation before meeting my gaze once more and muttering, “Fine, but we get what we need then we leave.”
9
Nia
I have never been to a sex shop, head shop, or adult store. This week was not the time I expected to change that, but here I stand, facing a storefront conspicuously placed at the end of a run-down, grungy shopping center. The sign above the front doors looks weather-worn, paint peeling off every edge. Its faded hot pink logo and the black—now almost gray—halo circling the first letter gives it the feel of a joy once hoped for but now long forgotten, probably just like my image of this wedding party vacation.
“Are you ready to go inside?” Ian asks. His eyebrows bounce up and down.
“Not really,” I say. He gives me a slight nudge to my upper arm with his elbow, and it seems my life is an odd tragedy where I’m doomed to always shudder under Ian’s casual touch while also being angry that it happened to begin with.
“We’ll get deep in there,” he says, and I groan. I try to pass it off as annoyed, but I think my ovaries just collapsed. I overcome my apprehension of being alone in this shop in favor of walking away from him so he can’t see me blush.
I open the heavily tinted door and find that the inside is much the same as the outside. The carpet (Who the heck would put carpet in here?) is matted down from years of use, the walls look like the inside of an old convenience store with slots running along them to hang hooks for merchandise, and the lights seem much too bright for an atmosphere where I would rather be shopping with a baseball cap and a hood over my head, maybe even sunglasses.
Then I notice the items for sale. There are two walls of DVDs that easily rival the stock of a closed video rental store. God, I hope these can’t be rented out… They have movie titles ranging from silly puns to…well, lots of questionable sex poses.
“At least they don’t beat around the bush,” Ian says.
Hardy har har, Ian.
One wall displays an array of rubber circle things and vibrators. There are different speeds, colors, and sizes. There’s even a mold of the penis of some famous porn star I’ve never heard of. My eyes drift over to the section with a purple painted wall, and I’m overwhelmed by handcuffs, leather suits, and whips. I feel my face grow hot and am suddenly very unsure if I can follow through with this.
“So, what’s on your list?” Ian asks, making me jump a little. He grins at my skittishness, and I throw him a glare in return before pulling the piece of paper out of my pocket once more. I feel like I’m in some alternate universe. One time there was a shop with Ian Chambers and cock rings… It’s like the start of a bad joke, or a fantasy.
I hold the list out to him and look both ways before stepping forward as if trying to cross the street without getting hit by a car—or getting pelted in the face by a floppy dildo.
“Don’t be shy,” Ian says. “Just think: if you see someone you know, you get the satisfaction of seeing they’re just as dirty as you.”
I flush once more. At this rate, I’m bound to look like I did receive a horrific sunburn.
“This is way beyond my comfort zone,” I admit in a whisper, but he smiles, walking backward with his hands in his pockets. I would rather he stay close to the walls, but of course he walks through the center of the store where everyone and their poor, nasty grandmother can see him.
“Don’t leave me!” I hiss louder, instantly covering my mouth with my hand when Ian holds a finger to his lips. I power walk to him using a mix of running and ever-careful tiptoeing.
He scans the DVDs a bit before pulling one down from the wall.
“Backdoor Babes?”
I choke and start coughing, and Ian lightly slaps me on the back. I look around and see nobody notices a thing. They’re all too wrapped up in their own purchases. There’s a man with long hair wearing a bandana, an old woman with a cane and her wild, gray hair tied into a bun poking through magazines, and then another couple like Ian and me, perusing condoms in the corner.
A couple like Ian and me. I shove the thought from my mind. We are not a couple, this is uncomfortable, and, damn it, I just want to go back to my hotel room and curl into a ball in the shower.
“Put it back,” I whisper, grabbing the DVD from him and shoving it back onto the shelf. I take a deep breath and stalk over to another aisle, desperately looking for bachelorette party items in the hopes we can leave as soon as possible.
I find the section nestled in the back corner of the store, filled with more niche items than even Ramona probably could have dreamed of. I start to blindly grab things, hoping for the best.
She’ll be happy with whatever I bring, I’m sure of it, and she’s definitely paying me back for every bit of it, or at least splitting the cost.
The faint scent of woodsy cologne wafts around me and Ian reappears, rummaging through a box of tiny rubber penis erasers. “Do you want pink or blue?” he asks.
“Blue,” I say, mostly because I really need him to stop talking this instant. We’re drawing attention to ourselves. I swear that old woman keeps flashing us a grin.
Ian hands me a blue eraser and narrows his eyes then looks away with a nod as if deciding on something.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just not surprising you like blue balls.”
I scoff, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. Makes sense. You seem like a tease.” He shrugs, starting to walk away. “Like you enjoy the control of it all.”
Why I oughta…
I choke out a laugh. “I absolutely do not.”
“Come on, Nia. Knowing you have that kind of power over a man? Imagining he’s sitting in front of you, so turned on and just begging you for release?”
My temperature rises and my heart thumps louder in my chest. I’m hoping my face doesn’t give me away, but once I feel the heat creep up my neck and into my cheeks, I know it’s beyond obvious. This afternoon is too much.
“What am I supposed to say to that?”
“That it’s true,” he says, “because I know it is.”
“You don’t know me,” I insist, following him down the aisle with my hands full of an assortment of trinkets.
“Weirdly enough, I think I do,” he responds. It’s that same confidence that both turns me on and also makes me want to punch him in the face about ninety-nine percent of the time. “I’ve worked with you for almost a decade,” he says. “Did you know that? You’re Apollonia Smith. Organized, controlling, Type A, secretive. When are you going to open up to me? In another decade?”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I say, trying to keep my voice down. I almost feel bad.
