Two Wedding Crashers

by Meghan Quinn

  I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Fuck, it’s stifling in here. A little bit of AC wouldn’t hurt. I have a mini portable fan with me for instances just like this, but it’s doing shit right now to cool me down.

  Leaning back, I reposition my pants so they’re sitting on my hips again, and look over the mural, making sure I’ve touched up everything in the small section I’m currently working on. Working in small sections is the easiest way for me to get the job done and done right. Given my background, I want to make sure there is no second-guessing about whether the zoo or museum should have hired me.

  That doesn’t mean I don’t take breaks while working though, especially when they’re short little breaks to text Rylee.

  That girl is about killing me. I mean, tell me if I’m wrong here, but in my mind, it’s polite to text someone back when they’ve taken time out of their day to correspond with you. But nothing. A week of absolute nothing.

  Frustrated, I rake my hand through my hair and then decide to send her another picture, because why the hell not? I’ve already gone past stalker status with my frequent text messages, might as well send her one more.

  Turning the camera to face me, I take a picture with my paintbrush and part of the exhibit. Followed up by the little leaf I wrote her name in. Yeah, that was planned to try to get her to talk to me, because what kind of romantic gesture is that? One of a kind. Pulling out the big guns to talk to her.

  Standing back, I give the small section I was working on one more look through before I move onto the next section. The good thing about my work ethic is that even though I might take longer in assessing my work, I’m pretty damn fast with the paintbrush, and I have very accurate strokes.

  And the funny thing is, I didn’t discover painting until—

  My phone beeps, and my body stills. I don’t text many people other than Chris, and it’s rare when we do text. Because no one really wants to see another storm trooper gif.

  Reaching to my back pocket, I bring my phone forward and squint at the screen. A slow grin spreads across my face.

  She cracked.

  Thank you, baby red pandas.

  I open her text message and smile like an idiot.

  Rylee: Damn you, Beck Wilder. Using cute fluffy animals and sweet gestures is not playing by the rules.

  I bark out a loud laugh and type back a quick response.

  Beck: The minute you refused to reply to my text messages, all rules were thrown out the window. Sorry, Saucy.

  No one around, so I take a seat on one of the exhibit rocks, open my cooler, and pull out a water. As I wait for her response, I relish the cool water rushing down my throat, adjusting my body temperature. If only I could take my shirt off and douse myself with the water. Pretty sure the zookeepers wouldn’t enjoy that.

  My phone beeps and just like that, another smile pops up on my face.

  Rylee: I feel like you’ve never played by the rules. You’re always pushing the limit.

  She’s got me pegged.

  Beck: Someone has to push the limit in order to help people break through their comfort zone. Without people like me, the world would be pretty damn boring, don’t you think?

  Rylee: You’re a different kind of person, Beck.

  Beck: I hope that’s a good thing.

  Rylee: It’s a dangerous thing.

  Beck: You aren’t living if you don’t have at least a little danger in your life.

  The little dots appear, but then they disappear. She’s pausing. I feel like I can see her right now, that mind of hers working a mile a minute. That creative mind producing all different ways this little situation between us can work out.

  Not wanting her to shut down again, I type her a quick text.

  Beck: Are you in the sex chair right now?

  An immediate response.

  Rylee: It’s an INSPIRATION chair.

  Beck: Lol. Send me a picture.

  Rylee: No.

  Beck: Come one, I sent you a picture of my office. It’s your turn.

  Rylee: I don’t think you deserve a picture after your brutal tactics to get me to respond to you.

  Beck: Brutal tactics? I don’t consider sending you pictures of a red panda exhibit brutal. Dramatic much?

  Rylee: Drama is my life . . . so yes.

  Beck: Stop deferring and send me a picture.

  There is a pause in her text, and I hope she’s taking a selfie. Might sound weird, but fuck, I want to see her face again. Desperately I want to see her face again.

  A picture comes in, and I nearly fall off the rock I’m sitting on.

  What the hell?

  I look closer and start chuckling to myself while I shake my head.

  She sent me a picture all right. She sent me a picture of her damn feet up on a chair in the coffee shop. Not exactly what I was looking for. Then I read her comment with the photo.

  Rylee: You wanted a picture of my office. So here you go. Enjoy, big guy.

  Foolishly I grin and adjust the beanie on my head.

  Beck: Can’t wait to submit this to foot fettish dot com. *rubs hands together* here come the big bucks. Famous author, Rylee Ryan. I can see all the money already.

  Rylee: DON’T YOU DARE!

  I laugh even harder, the sound echoing in the little exhibit, reminding how long it’s been since I’ve actually felt this light, this carefree.

  It’s been a long fucking time.

  A week to be exact.

  This is beautiful, Beck. It looks so fresh and clean in here. The blues you added to the sky are amazing, and it gives the exhibit so much more dimension.”

  “Yeah, I thought the plain blue was looking a little dull so I added some things. I’m glad you like it, Aly.”

  “Absolutely spectacular. Such a wonderful place for these little babies until they can be transferred into the outdoor exhibit. This will be perfect.”

  “Good, I’m glad.” I pull on the back of my neck and ask, “Do you see anything you want me to touch up? I went through twice to make sure everything was okay.”

  Aly, the zookeeper for the red pandas, takes a look, closely inspecting every inch of the wall. She shakes her head. “No, it looks great.” Turning toward me, a gentle look in her eyes, she asks, “Would you like to meet them?”

  “Seriously?” My brow shoots up in surprise.

  “Yeah, I feel like it would be nice for them to meet the guy who painted them such a beautiful nursery.”

  Excited because well, baby animals, I say, “Hell yeah, I want to meet them.”

  Chuckling, she opens the small door to the back of the facility where all the behind-the-scenes work takes place. “Come on, I think it’s feeding time. I might be able to get you to hold a bottle.”

  She doesn’t have to twist my fucking arm.

  And this isn’t the first time I’ve gotten some one-on-one time with the animals—naturally, under the watchful eyes of the zookeepers. My first encounter was with a boa constrictor, and that was a bit scary. But hell, those snakes are badass. Ever since then, whenever they ask, I always say yes. My least favorite? The monkey who shit on my shoulder, the little fucker. I swear to God, he leaped off me and then laughed, hand over his mouth and everything. Later that day, I painted a middle finger of leaves in his exhibit. You wouldn’t be able to tell as a zoo visitor, but I know, and I think that punk of a monkey knows too, because when I walk by him, he eyes me, pretty sure wanting to make my shoulder his toilet again.

  I’m led down the hallway into a quiet zone where there is a makeshift sign on the door that reads: Baby Panda Nursery.

  Quietly, Aly opens the door and guides me in. There are two zookeepers sitting in chairs each with a fluffy little red panda in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  Fuck me.

  I’m a pretty strong guy, you know, masculine and all that shit. I work out and do all the male things, but I’m a fucking fool when it comes to animals. Like melt in a puddle, drop to my knees, and worship the damn things if giv
en the chance.

  One look and I’m melting inside.

  “Would you like to hold her?” one of the ladies asks.

  “Fuck yeah,” I answer, not caring that I’m swearing in front of the babies . . . or women.

  I spend the next half hour holding, feeding, and playing with the little guys while the ladies educate me on red pandas and their risk of becoming extinct. I take pictures with plans for them later and then thank the ladies for one of the best half hours of my life.

  Returning to the exhibit, I clean my paintbrushes, making sure to wash out all the paint, put my supplies away, and pack them into the provided locker. Unhooking my motorcycle helmet from inside the locker, I tuck it under my arm, and take my phone from my back pocket. Using every lethal weapon I have, I send Rylee a text.

  Beck: Guess who I got to hang out with today?

  I attach a picture of me feeding Daly, one of the baby pandas.

  I don’t have to wait very long for a response and the response is fucking amazing.

  Rylee: You bastard! Why would you rub that in my face? OMG, she’s so cute.

  Chuckling, I text her back on my way to my bike.

  Beck: Her name is Daly, and she fucking loved snuggling on me. Jealous?

  Rylee: Clearly, I want to hold a baby red panda.

  Beck: No, I’m not asking if you’re jealous of me holding a baby red panda. I’m asking if you’re jealous that Daly is snuggling up on your territory.

  Rylee: My territory? Pretty sure I didn’t lay claim on you.

  Smiling, I straddle my bike and send her one more text before I take off.

  Beck: The minute you came all over my cock, moaning my name, you laid claim. Just waiting for you to reclaim it.

  I put on my helmet and I’m about to put my phone in my pocket when she responds. I laugh in my helmet, fogging up the shield.

  Rylee: You’re going to be waiting a long time, Wilder.

  Beck: What are you wearing?

  Rylee: Such a lame way to open a text conversation. You can do better than that.

  Beck: You think so? I thought that was a good starter, but how would you open a text conversation?

  Rylee: Maybe something like, how was your day?

  Beck: That’s far too common. I wanted something different, intriguing.

  Rylee: So you went with what are you wearing?

  Beck: Well I mean, you’re talking to me now, so it seems like it’s working.

  Rylee: . . .

  Beck: Does that mean you’re naked?

  Rylee: That means I’m wearing a Snuggie.

  Beck: . . . with nothing on underneath?

  Rylee: You’re absurd.

  Beck: I had a California burrito today that I’m pretty sure I would have married it if it were legal.

  Rylee: California burrito? What’s that?

  Beck: Ryyyyleeeeee! Fuck, it’s so good, but not better than your taco, so no worries.

  Rylee: OMG, don’t say that.

  Beck: It’s true . . .

  Rylee: Just tell me what’s in the burrito, Wilder.

  Beck: Carne asada, sour cream, cheese, and French fries with a side of guac. So damn good.

  Rylee: French fries?

  Beck: Yes.

  Rylee: I hate you.

  Beck: Because you want one, don’t you?

  Rylee: Desperately.

  Beck: Had a dream last night that your hunk souvenir was thrusting its box in my face.

  Rylee: That’s concerning. Did you like it?

  Beck: I mean, I couldn’t turn away.

  Rylee: Very concerning.

  Beck: The bow was flopping around, all red and glittery.

  Rylee: Extremely concerned.

  Beck: Glad to see that you still have feelings for me. Couldn’t bear to see me bat for the other team? I see right through you, Saucy.

  Rylee: That’s not what . . . damn you.

  Beck: Caught red-handed. Want me to send you some shirtless pictures of me to curb your appetite.

  Rylee: Our correspondence is done for the day.

  Beck: [Picture sent]

  Beck: Look at those abs.

  Beck: [Picture sent]

  Beck: That smile, come on, tell me you think I’m hot.

  Rylee: You’re . . . God, you’re so hot.

  Beck: Bingo Bango

  Rylee: Annnd that just ruined it.

  Beck: Yeah, the minute I sent that text, I knew.

  Rylee: LOL, at least you can admit to your faults.

  Beck: Honest always. Especially with you, Saucy.

  Come on in,” Justine says, sounding more formal than our usual casual relationship. “We are so glad you joined us, Beck. Can I take your helmet?”

  Eyeing her suspiciously, I hand her my helmet and leather jacket. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re so happy you could make it to dinner.”

  Looking over her shoulder, I see Chris talking to a nervous-looking woman who’s sitting up straight, hands in her lap. Glancing back at Justine, I hide behind their entryway wall and say, “What the hell are you up to, Justine?”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she leans in and whispers, “That’s Sierra. She works with me and get this, she’s single.”

  “Shocking,” I mock. “And what the hell is Sierra doing here, in your living room, dressed nicely, and looking nervous as hell.”

  “Ah, you think she’s dressed nicely? Why don’t you go tell her?” Justine tries to drag me toward the living room by my arm, but I stand firmly in place.

  “Why are you trying to set me up with a coworker?”

  Giving up on her attempt to move me, she puts her hands on her hips and huffs. “Because, Beck, it’s been three weeks since we got back from Key West, and you’re all grumpy and whatnot, chasing after Rylee. At first, I was gung-ho about making it work, but you can’t keep texting her and get no response. It’s time to move on. Sierra is perfect for you. She likes art . . . children’s book kind of art, but art nonetheless, and she’s ridden a bike before, not a motorcycle, but an actual bicycle, but close enough. And hey, she has boobs, so there’s a plus.”

  I roll my eyes. Boobs are always a plus, but not in this instance; I don’t want to hang out with Sierra. She’s probably a nice girl, but it wouldn’t be fair to her. And maybe I should have told Justine and Chris about how Rylee and I have been texting every day, but I wanted to kind of keep it in the dark . . . for reasons like this. She’d want to butt in, and I don’t think I’m ready for the inquisition that comes along with wanting to be a part of my love life.

  “Did you hear me, Beck? Boobs, she has boobs.”

  “Well aware, Justine.” I pass my hand over my hair, the short strands tickling my palm. “I’m not into blind dates, okay?” Not anymore. I reach for my helmet, but she swats my hand away.

  “You can’t leave. She knows you’re here. It would be rude to leave, especially after I told her she’s here to see you. Do you want her to feel bad about herself?”

  Ughhh.

  Note to all you married people out there trying to hook your friends up: don’t, okay? Just don’t. Unless they ask for it. Because then shit like this happens and we, the daters, are put in awkward situations.

  “Well, that’s not my damn fault. That’s yours. You shouldn’t have set this up without asking me first,” I whisper-yell at her.

  “What’s your problem? I’m doing you a favor here. You need to move on.”

  “Why would I want to move on when Rylee is talking to me now?” Yup, the cat’s out of the bag, but kind of had to go there. I don’t want to end up on any other blind dates thanks to Justine.

  Standing tall, a little shocked, she asks, “What? Rylee’s texting you back?”

  “Yeah, for two weeks now.”

  “Eeep! Really?” Justine encases my hands and jumps up and down. “That’s amazing. Does she love you? Are you going to go see her? Are you dating? Oh my GOD. Have you had phone sex yet? Please tell me you have. I need all the detail
s. When you come on phone sex, do you show her? I’ve never had phone sex before.”

  For fuck’s sake.

  I drag my hand over my face. “It’s only talking right now, Justine. No need to shriek.” I press on my ear. “How does Chris deal with that?”

  She doesn’t answer me, instead she says, “So, no phone sex?”

  “No, no phone sex. Sorry to disappoint. We’re just, you know”—I swallow hard, hating this word—“flirting.”

  Why do I hate that word, because . . .

  Justine squeals and runs in place, head turned down, her hair falling over her face as she shakes it. Can you tell she’s a bit of a crazy romantic?

  “Oh my God, a love story for the digital era. Have you texted her today?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug casually, not mentioning how I text Rylee good morning and good night every day. I can keep that to myself.

  “Can I see?” She intrusively reaches for my back pocket, but I sidestep her. “Let me see.”

  “No. That’s private, Justine.”

  She curls her lip to the side. “Then how do I know you’re telling me the truth and not just trying to avoid meeting Sierra? Because she’s a really nice girl, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings because you’re being a dick.”

  Sighing, I reach for my phone and unlock it. “I’m not being a dick.” I open up our message chain and hold it far enough away that she can see we’ve been talking but not close enough that she can read our messages. I honestly don’t care too much about privacy at this point in my life, but what I really don’t want is for Justine to see how Rylee turns me down on a daily basis. If it was any other guy, I’m pretty sure they would get a complex. But me, I know she’s playing incredibly hard to get.

  “Can I read them?”

  “No.” I pocket my phone and then wave my hand at Sierra. “Now what are you going to do about her?”

  “What?” Justine shouts. “You’re kidding. Ugh,” she grunts.

  What is happening right now?

  “Beck, but you promised,” she shouts again. And then says, “Chris! Beck can’t stay for dinner. He came by to say he has to work extra hours at the zoo tonight.”

  “What?” Chris asks, standing from his seat and excusing himself. When he reaches the entryway, he looks me square in the eyes and says, “Run, man. Run the fuck out of here. The girl has been collecting clipped toenails since she was twelve. Get the fuck out of here right now.”