by Meghan Quinn
“You’re telling me if she came into her shop, completely naked and started thrusting her vagina at your dick, you wouldn’t shuck your pants and give her something to ride?”
God, I love Adalyn. Never holds back.
“I mean . . .” I weigh out my options. “If she falls and I happen to catch her with my dick, that wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
Adalyn laughs. “I knew it. You would so fuck her.”
“Yeah, I probably would.” I shrug. “But it would be a huge mistake, because I know it would do nothing but make the working environment awkward. It’s already awkward as is.”
“Sexual tension?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “It’s just weird between us. Like I said, there is the whole class thing there.”
“This isn’t the 1800s, Racer. You can date someone who makes more money than you. You can talk to someone who has gold bars sitting in a bank. You can be in the same room as someone who uses hundred-dollar bills as toilet paper. You don’t have to segregate yourself.”
“I’m not segregating myself. I’m just understanding and acknowledging my place.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” I ask, even though I know where she’s going with this.
She sighs and sinks farther into the couch. “Why do you make yourself seem less than you are?”
Avoiding the question, I say, “I know you like to believe everything is cupcakes and rainbows—”
“I have to.” Her face turns somber. “I have to live in a far-off land because if I didn’t, the shit I see in the hospital on a daily basis would destroy me. I have to try to see the positive in everything.”
Shit.
“I’m sorry, Adalyn.”
She holds up her hand. “This isn’t about me. This is about you.”
Knowing I won’t be able to drop the topic, I say, “Not that I want there to be a chance with Georgiana, because I really don’t, but if there was a minor chance I did, I know I would be completely wrong for her. And before you get on your high horse and start blowing steam up my ass, I’ll tell you why.” Adalyn crosses her arms over her chest and waits for an answer. “She had a date tonight, or what I’m assuming was a date. She got dressed up and some guy came and picked her up.”
“A date, huh? How did that make you feel?”
A little weird . . .
“I couldn’t care less. Like I said, I’m not interested. But what I did learn is that her type is the farthest thing from me. You should have seen this guy, Addie. Looked like every high-society douche nugget you see hopping around in the Hamptons. His hair was slicked back, he wore a blazer with khakis, and he even spoke like he was trying to squeeze as tight as possible to the stick shoved up his ass. And to top it off, the guy is a total creep. Think of a skinnier version of Glenn Gulia from The Wedding Singer.”
“Ugh, that’s such a good movie.” Adalyn holds up her fingers and says, “Hey, wedding singer . . . aaarrooooo.” She plays out one of the best scenes in the movie when the drunk brother falls off the curb and drops his drink.
“We need to watch that again.”
Adalyn shakes her finger at me. “Don’t try to change the subject with a movie date. But yes, we will. You bring the chocolate-covered raisins, and I’ll bring the popcorn. But back to Glenn Gulia junior; you really think that’s her type? Maybe she was going out with him because she had to. I think you shouldn’t judge her from Glenn Gulia II. Who knows, she might be using him as a beard so she can forget about the hunky construction worker who’s occupying her every thought.”
I shake my head and answer sarcastically, “Yeah, that’s it. Glenn Gulia II is her beard. Nailed it, Adalyn.”
She clinks my glass with hers and gives herself a fist bump.
Ridiculous.
Chapter Eleven
GEORGIANA
“You gave him head, didn’t you? You puckered up and gave him road head as he drove you back to the shop.”
“God, no.”
Madison scans the empty shell of a space and shakes her head. “You’re lying.”
“I’m really not. I would never suck a guy’s dick for the hell of it while driving.”
“Did you see his dick at all? Did you pet it for a few seconds, maybe wink at it, get it riled up?”
I don’t even bother to look up at my friend as I go through my checklist on my iPad. “I did nothing to his dick last night. I didn’t even look in the general direction of where his dick rested.” That’s a lie but Madison doesn’t need to know that. I looked at his crotch when he first came to pick me up. And the only reason I did was because of Racer. He just had to bet on Chauncey having a pencil dick. It was all I could think of for the rest of the night. I’m surprised Chauncey wanted a second date after our rather drab conversation. I wasn’t fully present. Instead of listening to Chauncey, my mind kept going back to Racer and his shirtless, muscly self.
God, he ruins everything.
“Okay, so if no dicking was involved whatsoever, then why are there”—she starts counting with her finger—“ten bouquets? There are ten bouquets of red roses in this empty space. No man has ten bouquets of red roses delivered to a woman’s place of work without thanking her for something. So what is it? What did you do? If you say anal I’m walking out this door right now.”
I’m somewhat tempted to tell her it was anal only to get her to leave so I can get my work done, but I’m not that desperate for peace and quiet.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “He came to pick me up, took me to a fancy-ish restaurant, told me all about his job, which was . . . boring. And then he brought me back here, kissed me and—”
“You kissed him?”
“Yeah.” I turn my eyes to my iPad so my friend can’t read my face.
“What kind of kiss? Was it a cheek kiss or lips?”
“Lips.”
“You kissed Chauncey on the lips?”
“Why do you sound so disgusted? He’s a very attractive, smart, and well-rounded man. Plus he had nice lips.”
“Good God,” Madison scoffs. “How long did you kiss him for?”
“Not very long. It was just a goodnight kiss. You know, a thank you for dinner, I had a nice time kiss.”
“What does that even mean?” Madison starts to pace, as if the end of the world is coming. “Did you use tongue? Was there groping? Did he cup your ass?”
“No, nothing like that. Just you know, a fusion.”
Madison seizes her pacing. She looks up at me with her head in her hand, bewilderment on her face. “A fusion?” She pauses and repeats. “A fusion? Well, if that isn’t the least sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.” Striking her hand across her neck, she continues, “He’s done. If all you can say about his kiss is it was a fusion, then clearly this man isn’t worth your time.”
“Not all of us put out on the first night like you, Madison.”
“I don’t anymore. That was when I was young and flirty. I’m old and serious now.”
“You’re twenty-six,” I deadpan.
“Yeah, almost halfway to fifty, I should just start digging my grave now.” She sighs and sits on a five-gallon bucket of primer we still won’t be using for a while. “I’m kind of disappointed. When I walked in to see all these roses, I would have guessed you at least got some last night. Nope, you just had a . . . fusion.” Madison uses air quotes and rolls her eyes, clearly not hiding her disappointment in me.
“At least I got out there. That’s more I can say for you. When was the last time you went on a date?”
Madison shakes her head and waves her hand at me. “Oh no, you don’t. This isn’t about me. This is about you. I get my jollies when I need them, don’t you worry about me.”
“Are you still seeing your parents’ pool boy?”
Madison bites on her fingernail and looks to the side. “Trevor gets horny in the afternoons. I can’t help it. He’s all bronzy with muscles.”
“He’s twenty, Madison. You have to buy him bee
r with his pool-cleaning money.”
Madison points her finger at me. “Don’t you dare knock his pool money. He works hard for that. Do you know how hard it is to direct those pool-cleaning barracudas with those long sticks? It’s not that easy. Believe me, I fell in the pool trying.”
“You were naked, drunk, and had a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in hand.”
“Erroneous,” Madison shouts and stands again, pacing the room. “So are you going to see this guy again or not?”
“Yeah,” I answer casually. “I mean, I didn’t have a terrible time. He was sweet and pleasant.” Not to mention boring. Well, not the entire time. When we talked about our favorite Nirchi’s pizza, I enjoyed that conversation and was surprised he was so passionate about it. “He did say he likes half-moon cookies.”
Madison stops her pacing and turns toward me. “Chocolate or vanilla base?”
“Chocolate.”
Madison winces and looks up at the ceiling. “Fiiiiiiine, you can go out with him again. But be sure to have him buy you a bouquet of half-moon cookies next time, especially if he wants to win me over.”
“And winning me over has nothing to do with this?”
Madison shakes her head. “It’s more important to win over the best friend, everyone knows that.” She rubs her hands together and asks, “What can I help you with today?”
“Nothing. Racer is coming later tonight to put up the drywall and patch.”
“I can help with that. When is he going to get here?”
“He’s bringing his friend to help him. Pretty sure Racer doesn’t want us to do anything when it comes to construction.”
Madison’s ear perks up. “A friend, huh? Is he hot like Racer?”
“No idea. I was just told to stay out of their way since Racer wants to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
“More the reason to help them.” Madison walks back to the bathroom and stops when she reaches the door. Her incessant walking around is starting to get on my nerves. “Whoa, what happened in here?”
“What do you mean? Racer tore everything out, we’re going to re-tile, make it more chic and less scary-dungeon bathroom.”
“Scary dungeon bathroom is the farthest thing from what I’m seeing. More like a weird . . . playful dream.”
“What?” I look up from my iPad. Is she drunk again? “What are you talking about?”
“Come look.”
“I’ve seen the bathroom, Madison. It’s stripped down walls with holes in the floor for a toilet and plumbing.”
“What does petrichor mean?”
My ears perk up from a word I have written in my special book, a word that’s been in my book since high school. It’s the second word I wrote down, right behind limerence.
Petrichor.
I can remember like it was yesterday. Being the youngest in my family, it was the first summer all my siblings were off living their lives, and I was left behind spending the summer with my society-enriched mother and workaholic father. It was quiet, a somber summer with an empty house of fading memories. It was the wettest summer we’ve ever had since I can remember and a part of me liked to believe it was the skies crying for me, setting the mood for what was to come: a consuming loneliness. Madison was in the Hamptons, my mom kept up her “best mom in the world” façade when in front of her friends. It was all about appearances.
But that summer . . . it gave me time to think, to think about the future I wanted to create for myself and how to find the pathway to achieve it. It helped me appreciate the small things, the things that matter like bringing out the happiness in your life, and it helped me appreciate the small things.
The small things like petrichor.
Have you ever sat back right before a rainstorm and watched the rain roll in, like a curtain closing over the sun?
Those first drops lighting up the ground with a fresh awakening.
The plants soaking up earth’s moisture, drinking their share of nourishment.
And that smell of crisply fallen precipitation hitting the scorched summer terrain: petrichor.
Rising from my seat, I set my iPad down and meet Madison in the corner. When I turn the corner, the sight in front of me amazes me.
Splattered across the soon-to-be-tiled wall, which will be above the pedestal sink, is light blue paint in the form of rain, streaking down from the ceiling where it pools over the word petrichor, followed by a comment that says, “Can you smell anew?”
Stunned, I stand there, taking in the symbolism in front of me.
He did this.
“Please tell me this isn’t some bad potty humor. That would kill it for me,” Madison says, interrupting my thoughts. “I don’t think you should ever write something on the bathroom wall about if you can smell something.”
Ignoring Madison, I step up to the wall and trace the word with my finger. I can smell the anew, I can feel the awakening within me; I can feel the impact of his words.
But my question is, why?
Why would he write this?
“I can,” I whisper under my breath, tracing the letters one more time.
Leaning over my shoulder and whispering in my ear, Madison asks, “You can what?”
I chuckle and take a deep breath. “Petrichor is a way to describe the smell of freshly fallen rain. I don’t know how he knows, but it’s one of my favorite words, and it’s the perfect way to describe the next step in this journey.”
Knowing about my book, Madison nods. “Is it me, or does it make him that much hotter that he knows beautiful words?”
Like a hundred times hotter, which puts him at lethal levels. Chauncey might need another phone call. Another attempt at being the man I need to relieve the Racer-induced desperation.
The front door of the shop opens and male laughter filters in. I step outside the bathroom where Racer and, who I’m assuming is his friend, fill the entryway, broad shoulders making the space feel smaller than it is.
“She totally put out.” Racer laughs and shakes his head.
“Roses are douchey,” his friend adds and stretches his python-sized arms over his head. God, he’s big.
Stepping into the main area of the shop, I feel like I need to defend Chauncey. “Roses aren’t douchey, they’re sweet.”
Racer whips his head toward me and a lazy smile falls over his lips. For a second, an urge to run up and kiss him passes over me, but it’s quickly washed away when he opens his mouth. “Roses are total douche-canoe status, Princess.”
I put my hands on my hips now, ready for a fight. “Roses are romantic, but I guess you would never know that with the swill you drink and the lard you eat on a daily basis.”
Racer squares up to me and crosses his bulging arms over his chest. “That lard I eat does me well. And I know romance, Georgie, don’t question my ability to woo by what I eat and drink. Although, I guess the way you present yourself is more important to you than what rests in the heart.”
I step closer, anger starting to boil inside me, all previous warming thoughts I had of Racer vanished. “It is about the heart for me. That’s why sending a woman roses after a date—and that’s all it was, a date—is romantic. He’s telling me he appreciated my company. That’s romantic.”
Racer takes another step forward, closing the space between us to only inches. “No, what he sent you was a showboat, not romance. He was giving you a subtle reminder of what he can offer you materialistically, not what he can offer you intellectually.”
I cross my arms now, a jut to my hip as I question him. “Yeah? You think you’re so romantic? Fine, what would you have sent after a date? A text that barely spells out the word thanks? Maybe a coupon for a pony ride on your lap? Or an offer to get a front-row seat to the gun show?” I roll my eyes and shake my head, as if to say, “this guy.”
Racer closes any space between us and leans forward so he’s looking me directly in my eyes. I’m guessing his friend and Madison are watching with avid attention, waiting to see how thi
s tête-à-tête will end. “You think so little of me.” His eyes challenge me, looking past the surface, almost into my soul. Glancing past me for a second, his eyes land on the bathroom, and in that moment, I know he’s questioning if I saw what he did.
“Prove me wrong.” He already has in a way, but then he shows up, arrogance dripping off him in droves, and I can’t help but rethink every kind thing he does.
“You really want to know what I would have done the day after I took you on a date?”
“Yeah, I really do.”
He searches my eyes. There is a small squint to them, almost as if he’s angry, but I don’t break. I hold strong and wait for his answer.
Growing even more serious, Racer speaks in a quiet tone, so quiet I’m certain I’m the only one who will hear him.
“If I took you out on a date, Princess, I wouldn’t send you roses the next day. You don’t deserve them—”
“That’s rude,” I scoff.
“Let me fucking finish,” he grits out. “You don’t deserve them because they are a scapegoat flower. They’re the type of flower men use because they know nothing about the person they’re sending them to. Lover boy clearly doesn’t know anything about you, because if it was me, I would have sent you a handful of variegated tulips.”
“Variegated tulips? The multi-colored ones?”
He nods confidently. “Exactly.”
“Those are like two cents,” Madison chimes in.
Leaning past me, Racer says, “It’s not about the money, sweetheart.” Turning back to me, he adds, “It’s about the meaning behind them.” He tips my chin up with his fingers, his stare blazing a trail of heat down my spine. “Variegated tulips represent beautiful eyes, and if I took you out on a date, I know that’s all I would be able to think about after I said good night.”
A tingling awareness erupts across my skin as a cool mist of sweat coats me from his compliment. He leans forward another inch, his minty breath tickling my mouth. I subconsciously lick my lips, preparing for what’s to come as my mind races; do I want this?
This thumb rubs across my lips and his head leans forward for a brief moment only for him to step away. Space and air, and everything heavy that’s been hanging on our shoulders floats between us, reminding me that I’m in my shop, with my friend next to me, staring at my every move.
