by Ellie Hall
Skinny steps back. Zoe rolls her eyes.
“Karaoke anyone?” Lottie asks.
“I thought you didn’t sing,” Zoe says.
“On second thought, Rusty has gotten me to try a lot of new things.”
“Rusty?” Zoe and Skinny ask at the same time.
“Yep. And I’m Cupcake.” She lifts onto her toes and nuzzles my neck with her nose.
Gosh, I love this woman.
Blade...scratch.
Wait? What?
No. I didn’t mean that. It just skated through my brain. Must need some pain management for my arm. But I wouldn’t say no to spending time with her beyond the agreed-upon duration. But the L word? Es nesaprotu. That’s I don’t understand if you don’t speak Latvian.
Everyone stares at me for a long moment. I’m certain I didn’t say any of that out loud. “Karaoke.”
The coffee shop hosts the sing-along and I watch from the back as my ex-girlfriend and fake girlfriend belt out song after song. No one else signs up so they keep at it. Skinny watches, keeping his eyes on Lottie and I keep my eyes on him.
Granted, we’re not actually a couple, but if he makes a move... I crush the paper coffee cup in my hand. The cast will be off soon enough. I managed to get on the rink without too much trouble earlier even though lacing up was tricky.
They have the crowd singing along to a few tunes. Then Lottie’s gaze lingers on me when she belts out Olivia Newton-John’s solo in You’re the One that I Want from Grease. Even from across the room there’s crackling between us. Electricity. An undeniable vibration.
It follows us into the night when the coffee shop closes with a rendition of Closing Time by a nineties band. Zoe leaves with the greasy guy that stopped in that first day. I don’t see Skinny again.
Lottie and I walk along the beach. Well, she sashay-skips, still filled with excitement from the stage. I know the feeling, the thrill of being on the rink. My home rink even though for the last decade I’ve thought of Seaswell as anything but.
“And I hardly stumbled over the lyrics. Although I did stumble over the wires on the karaoke machine but caught myself on the microphone stand,” she says, giddy as she recounts her near-mishaps. “Maybe my luck is changing.”
I pause on the sand, finding her hand with mine. “Mine has.”
“Actually, I’ve looked it up on the internet and studies have been done, concluding that bad luck is not contagious. You’d probably know about that, being a doctor and all.”
“No, I’m lucky. Lucky to have met you, Cupcake.”
She squawks a laugh. “You must be getting me mixed up with another cupcake. Cookie, maybe?”
Shaking my head, I say, “No way. Cupcakes are my favorite and you’re my cupcake.” I neither planned nor intended to say any of that. It kind of fell out of my mouth. And despite the warmth tipping my ears, I don’t want to take it back.
She looks around at the dark, empty beach as if I could be speaking to someone else and then points at herself.
I nod and draw her close, folding her against me. Looking down, into her eyes, sparkly in the light. “I mean you, Liselotte Emilia Schweinswald. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I consider you good luck.”
Then I kiss her on the top of the head, breathing her buttercream and sunshine scent deep and we walk home with her tucked under my arm.
Late that night, unable to sleep with my brain racing with thoughts of Lottie, I log onto my blog using my phone data. The cheerful tinkle causes a little pang of guilt at having neglected it. Usually, I post a couple of times a week. Without a consistent internet connection, my readership will dwindle, rendering The Word Nerd Reads nothing more than a pixel among thousands, possibly millions, of book blogs.
Where in the World is the Word Nerd? I’m not sure.
For now, I open a fresh document, ready to write up a review of the book I just finished, but my fingers miss keys while a stilted and dry version of my inner voice trickles into the typed word.
Lottie’s comment about a new chapter returns. Maybe it is time for a change. Perhaps Where in the World is the Word Nerd was my last post for a while.
As the days pass, I make an effort to have more fun, starting every morning by bringing Lottie breakfast in bed.
On the first day, I bring her a bowl of strawberries with a note that says I like you berry much. The next morning, on an apple, I stick a Post-It that says You’re the apple of my eye. Today, on a banana, I add a sticky note that says I’m bananas for you.
I get the coffee ready and sip it while I keep my nose in my book, discretely watching and waiting for her to say something. So far, she’s kept quiet about my nerdy fruit pun messages.
Feet pound down the stairs as Lottie chases Magnolia with the banana in her mouth. I try to head the dog off, not sure if bananas are bad for them, and Lottie somehow slips on the peel.
Like at the coffee shop the other day, after assessing her for injuries and discovering none, she flops back on the living room floor. I imagine Oma will come in any moment and scold us for horsing around.
Lottie erupts in laughter, sending warmth through me. “They do say laughter is the best medicine.”
“Are you sick?” I ask, playing along, but then my memories sharpen.
Looking back it’s easy to connect the dots of my silence and see a clear picture emerge. It was like my mother took my two syllables, Iet, go, in Latvian as a directive.
Instead of the loneliness that usually comes when I get too close to these memories, an unfamiliar feeling replaces the typical tightening of the muscles in my chest.
The ninth stair creaks and Oma slowly makes her way downstairs.
I turn to Lottie who lies on the floor beside me. Our blue eyes float together and I take her hand in mine. For the first time in a long time, I glimpse freedom.
“Thank you for the fruit,” she whispers.
“Thank you for the reminder.”
“What reminder?”
“To have fun...” And for what it’s like to fall. Not on my backside or arm, causing a break. Rather, what it’s like to fall in love, to feel whole and free and happy.
Oma reaches the living room and shouts at me in Latvian about minding my manners and not lying on the floor like a lazy slob.
“Well, it was good while it lasted,” Lottie says as if she understood.
It was all in Oma’s delivery, the harsh tone.
“Latvian can be a beautiful language.” I blurt, “Es mīlu tevi.” Three precious words I’ve never said to anyone. Never felt for anyone. Not like this.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was struck by an arrow, lightening. Love struck.
I bark a laugh at the unexpectedness of it.
“What’s so funny?” Lottie pouts as if sore she was left out of a joke.
I turn my head to face her. “I guess I’m having fun.”
“On the floor?”
Then fear streaks through me just as quickly. I hope she doesn’t mean it was good while it lasted about us because I don’t want this to end. Not when I go back to work. Not ever.
11
A Crush by Any Other Name
Lottie
How much do I like Rusty? Let me count the ways.
He’s tall.
He’s handsome.
Those abs. They’re like a hidden treasure. Like a keepsake kept in a secret place and only taken out on special occasions.
Obsessed much? You would be too if you saw them, sis.
There’s also the way he checks up on me when I fall. Such a good doctor. The way he was all tough and protective when Skinny scanned me from head to toe, giving me the heebies and the jeebies. Sorry, buster. I have my own personal bodyguard. An enforcer at that. And a doctor. If he knows how to fix a broken bone, you’d better believe he knows how to break one.
Rusty also doesn’t laugh at my misfortune unless I laugh at myself first. Also, let’s not forget about the black and white photo
of teenage Rusty with a chipped tooth. When I was that age, I crushed hard on a soccer player with tattoos. The chipped front tooth is an equivalent in terms of bad boy status, right? Sixteen-year-old Lottie would’ve been smitten. But back then, I was different. Sheltered. Self-conscious. Scared. The fantasy of a bad boy meant liberation to my young mind.
Russell Koenig seemed different too back then. Almost the opposite of me at that age. Almost the opposite of how he is now. I wonder what happened? Maybe Zoe knows.
I was wrong about her. She’s not like Monica. After bonding over karaoke, we became besties. Though every once in a while, I get the sense that she regrets what she did on prom night. That if she had the opportunity, she’d take him back. Who wouldn’t? As he said, he’s a catch. But is he mine?
Is the tough guy turned refined doctor-gentleman who hides his soft and squishy teddy bear insides under those abs more than my fake boyfriend?
I explore all of this in my journal—a habit I started after the attack to help process emotions big and small, confusing and flabbergasting. It’s also a record of my bad luck, cataloging every unfortunate incident, including the fruit puns which started sweet, then turned dangerous when I slipped on the banana peel with no thanks to Magnolia.
My phone pings with an email from my mother, requesting an update on progress with Oma. I’m supposed to write daily reports. I’m failing all around, mutter.
I have the urge to tell my mother that Rusty properly pronounced my full name. Only my parents have ever succeeded at that. Also that he called me his cupcake.
He kissed me on the top of the head like in my office fantasy. Did that count as a first kiss? Not quite, but close. I drop back on the bed and fall asleep feeling warm all over.
It turns out the Roasted Rudder has Wi-Fi so Rusty can follow up on some patient files. I have to fill out the dreaded reports for Magnolia’s progress. She sits at my feet like my companion animal. I should be concerned that she’s not bonding with anyone but me. I should also start doing a job search for my return to Manhattan.
It’s midafternoon, midweek and the coffee shop is dead. If I don’t get some caffeine soon, I feel like I might soon be horizontal.
I wait by the counter for Zoe to come prancing out from the back with a tray of her test-cookies in hand, but she has music turned up, and probably didn’t hear the bells to the front door jingle when we came in.
The display case contains a batch of mint chocolate chip cookies that look delish, a giant oatmeal raisin cookie as big as my face, and I think I smell peanut butter. Just before I nudge the swinging door to the kitchen open, a male voice shouts angrily—Zoe’s boyfriend Jared—the greasy, sleazy guy with over-sized clothing?
Zoe says, “I have to get these cookies out or they’ll burn.”
More shouting. Magnolia rushes to my side with her ears pricked. Engrossed in his work, Rusty doesn’t hear.
A pan clatters.
“Leave and don’t come back until you apologize.” That would be Zoe.
They’re quiet for a long moment and I slowly back away, hoping a squeak in the floor doesn’t betray my eavesdropping.
A few minutes later, Zoe comes out, flushed, carrying a tray of cookies from the oven. “Oh, didn’t know you were here.” Her eyes dart from side to side.
“No worries. We just got here,” I say to spare her any embarrassment.
Zoe’s boyfriend comes out of the kitchen in a huff. His hat is askew, but he doesn’t straighten it. Oh, wait. That’s a style.
“Have you guys met?” Zoe says absently, but she doesn’t introduce us.
“Baby, I’ll see you later,” he says, kissing her before parading out the door.
Her face puckers but not for a kiss. “No you won’t,” she whispers and then busies herself with the cookies.
With Jared gone, I meet her at the counter.
“Do you guys want iced coffees? It’s warm out today.”
“Sure,” I answer and tilt my head in concern. “Everything okay back there?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t mind us. He and I are hot and—” She puts the cup in my hand. “Cold. We’ve been dating on and off for three years. On and off. And off and on. Whatever.” She eyes Rusty seated at a table. “Please don’t mention anything about Jared. My boy-whatever.”
I want to ask why, to find out why she’d let an idiot like him treat her like that or what it has to do with Rusty, but he closes his laptop and takes his cup of coffee.
“Thanks, Zo.” Then to me, he says, “Come on, I have someplace I want to show you.”
I give her a wave and promise myself to check in on her. Maybe she needs some girl time. Catherine, Hazel, Colette, and Minnie would lasso her into our group no problem.
With Magnolia’s leash in hand, we wander into the touristy area of town with cobbled streets and quaint shops selling paintings of the harbor and local crafts. Homemade waffle cones sweeten the air. We chat about Rusty’s hockey history. I want to ask him about his history with “Zo,” as he called her and Jared too, but he slows his walking and talking pace as though we’re both tourists enjoying a day in the seaside town. I don’t want to spoil it with silly jealousy because our fake dating arrangement is temporary. Then, as he said, “We never have to see each other again.” The thought makes my throat tighten.
Instead, I say, “I’ve been thinking about what I’ll do when I return to Manhattan.” I pause, giving him a chance to interject. When he doesn’t, I say, “Zoe inspired me with her cookie side hustle. There are a million cupcakeries in the city, but I have so many ideas. For example, I had the idea for a S’mores cupcake. Those are always a summer favorite, but imagine them as a cake.”
“I wouldn’t object to taste testing. By the way, I get this cast off tomorrow and will just have a soft one on. Should be good to head back early. I’m itching to get back to work.”
It’s like the undertow warnings along the beach pull me under even though I’m fifty feet away. I stop in front of a window showcasing an old-fashioned taffy pulling machine. My insides churn and stretch along with it.
I bite my lip. “Maybe it’ll be easier to help Magnolia bond with your grandmother without you here.” I’ve been trying not to worry about how that’s going to work out. So far, the progress report is poor.
Rusty plants his hand on the brick wall next to the window frame, caging me halfway in from behind. He smells fresh like winter ice. “Are you saying I distract you?” His breath tickles my ear.
“My lips are sealed.”
Rusty spins me around so we switch places and face each other. His eyes lift to mine and then flutter to my lips. I clear my throat.
He leans closer.
Then a child runs past with a bouquet of balloons and they thump, bump, thump, bump against my head.
I blink a few times, dumbstruck. Magnolia growls. I signal to her that I’m alright.
As though abruptly torn from a dream, he watches the floating orbs disappear down the sidewalk and turns to me. “You okay?”
“Don’t worry. I’m fine.” Well, my head is, but my heart? I’m not so sure. The almost-intense moment between us passed and we continue walking.
“It’s cool that you grew up here.”
“Definitely cool in the winter.”
“Do you like ice cream or baked items better?” I ask.
“Tough call. Probably baked goods. Cupcakes especially.” His hand lands in mine.
I stand a little taller. Squeeze a little tighter. Should I read into that or did I happen to come across a doctor with a sweet tooth and abs? The total package?
“I wonder if I could pull off a cupcake with waffle cones in it somehow. They smell so good. I could cut the cake into discs and spread caramel or regular frosting in between. What about a cookie sandwich? Or a sundae-style cupcake? So many possibilities.”
“I like the way you’re thinking. Probably better to dream big than to waste away in a job you hate.”
“Yeah.
But rent in Manhattan isn’t cheap.” I sigh, fluttering a piece of my hair out of my face. I feel like I’m at a crossroads. Is it too soon to tell him I’m interested in what happens to us when we go back to real life instead of fake dating? Or is this real life?
Rusty turns the corner and directs me into an ice cream shop. “You’re right about rent. But the ice cream here is very affordable and very delicious. To continue with our spring break fun, I dare you to try the weirdest flavors they have.”
Maybe he does know how to have a little fun.
I stick out my tongue when he points to lobster-flavored ice cream. “No way. I draw the line.”
“Okay. I’ll dial it back. I dare you to try the Grapenut,” he says, browsing the flavors.
“Like the crunchy, hippy cereal that contains neither grapes nor nuts?” I wrinkle my nose. “Only if you do.”
“Challenge accepted.”
He orders us each a cone filled with Grapenut ice cream—one of them with three scoops.
“No way, I can’t eat that much.”
“It’s for me. I figure since I’m bigger, the dare should be proportionate.”
While we wait, I tell him about my friend’s Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare, all of Catherine’s mishaps, and her happily ever after.
“What about truths?”
“At our annual Galentine’s Day party, it turned out Hazel’s truth pertained to her true love.” I sigh.
“And what about you?” Rusty asks.
I bite my lip, glancing at him. Feelings flutter and float inside like those balloons. I take a deep breath and just as I’m about to confess, the girl at the counter calls out our order.
Taking a careful nibble, I say, “It’s not half bad. Kind of nutty.”
Rusty takes a bite. “It’s my favorite. I didn’t know how else to get you to try it. You haven’t lived on the seacoast until you’ve tried Grapenut ice cream and lived to tell the tale.”
