by Meghan Quinn
Leaning against the base of an oak tree, arms crossed over his chest, a beer in one hand pressing against his strong bicep is Tucker, the one boy I can’t seem to shake.
“Not feeling it tonight,” I say, still making my way to Emma’s car, hoping to avoid any interaction with Tucker, but from the rustling of grass behind me, he’s following closely behind.
“Need a lift home?”
“Not from you,” I answer, now leaning on Emma’s car, giving off serious stay-away vibes.
Rounding the hood of the car, he approaches me with such swagger in his step that I have to look at the overgrown grass to stop myself from staring. Easily, without even trying, he can hypnotize me. He’s done it more than once, leading me, once again, into another volatile, toxic relationship. Sometimes two broken souls can heal each other, but in our case, we nearly destroyed one another.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” His broad body stands directly in front of me now, one hand in a pocket, the other dangling at his side, holding his beer. His rough scruff is highlighted under the moonlight, and the loose-knit hat he wears on his head only previews a few strands of his dark hair.
He takes another step closer.
“Just a long day,” I answer, now looking at my clasped hands.
He moves in even closer. His body is almost pressing against mine, and a mix of our breaths dance between us. A sharp scent of his signature cologne spices my nose. Reaching out, he runs this thumb along my cheek, and I let him for only a second.
“Don’t,” I warn, but don’t pull away because my will isn’t strong. It never has been. But surely I’ve learned. Surely I can repel his charms . . .
Not listening, he steps even closer so our bodies are pressed against each other. “I miss you, Sadie.”
“Tucker,” I sigh, warning him.
“Come on, Sadie.” He leans forward and runs the tip of his nose along my jaw, his scruff occasionally scratching my skin. “Give us another chance.”
His voice, so primitive and needy, catches me straight in my heart. We’ve been through so much together. He knows my past. He knows what haunts me. He knows what buttons to push to turn me into mush. He’s addicting, yet fatal in every way. To me.
“No, Tucker.” With every ounce of strength I have, I place my hands on his chest and put distance between us. In response, he nods his head and sips his beer, looking out toward the bonfire.
“It’s not going to be that easy, Sadie, letting go.” Tell me about it. “You’re my best friend—”
“No, I’m not. Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I do mean it,” he replies, a little anger in his voice. “Growing up, you sheltered me, you gave me a home. You were my first, and you taught me what love is. You’re everything to me, Sadie.”
Not the first time I’ve heard him say those words, and it’s not the first time they’ve dug a deeper hole in my heart.
“We’re not good for each other, Tucker. We drag each other down rather than lift each other up.”
“It’s just because we have history.”
“No, it’s because we’re toxic to each other.”
“Are you ready?” Emma calls out, unlocking her car, making it beep a few times, probably trying to scare Tucker away. She’s not a fan of us, never has been.
“Yeah,” I answer, my eyes still on Tucker.
“We’re not done here,” he warns, taking another sip of his drink. And hell, I wish that wasn’t the truth, but for some reason, it feels like the pull between us will never cease to exist.
Not answering him, I get into the car and buckle up, clutching my bag to my stomach.
Emma, the quasi-older sister, starts clucking out her opinion.
“I don’t like him for you. He’s bad news, Sadie.”
“I know,” I sigh, looking out the window.
“He’s always been bad for you, and you deserve more than that. He just smells of trouble and divorce.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “Are you always thinking about marriage?”
“It’s okay to have family goals, you know.”
Large trees of the back country pass by as Emma drives down the winding road that I could drive with my eyes closed. “Not everyone is meant to have a family, Emma,” I answer her solemnly.
“You don’t know that,” she counters.
“I do,” I answer on a sigh. I know very well actually. “I don’t plan on ever having a family. No need to bring children into this fucked-up world.”
Emma pauses as the car comes to a halt at a stop sign; turning to me, she places her hand on mine and with kind eyes, she says, “You’re not your mom, Sadie. You know that, right? You would never do to your family what she did to yours.”
Gut churning, throat tightening, I decide to change the subject because I’m not ready to get into this deep conversation right now. “How about we talk about something else.”
Understanding, Emma returns to driving, handling the stick with precision. With a little more light in her voice, she says, “I heard you have a new nickname, sturdy tits.”
“Oh my God.” Softly pounding my head against the headrest, I try to escape the relentless, yet loving, teasing of my friends. Of course, Smilly would tell everyone about sturdy tits. And of course, everyone would follow suit by calling me it.
Stupid fountain training. Stupid—and slightly adorable—Adam . . . Andrew. It’s his fault. Sturdy. Tits.
Chapter Five
ANDREW
Bouncing back and forth from one foot to the other, I hold a bag close to my chest and look around behind me, swearing someone followed me. How long does it take them to open a damn door? I pound on the wood again.
Hurry up. Hurry up.
I go to knock again just as the door flies open, Jimmy on the other side, his glasses perched on his head. I don’t give him time to greet me. I burst through his door, shove the bag in his hands, close the door, and press an eye up against the peephole, looking for anyone who might have followed me from Friendly’s.
“Hey, psycho, what the hell are you doing?”
“Checking to see if anyone followed me.” Who invented the peephole? They did a terrible job. They should have made them significantly bigger. They should have made them for spying, not just peeping.
“Do you really think you’re that important?” Jimmy asks from behind me.
Giving the parking lot to the apartment complex another once-over—or perhaps it should be called a twice-over—I declare the space clear and turn toward my brother. “Call me paranoid, but I’ve never stolen ice cream before.”
I’ve never felt so nervous or scared in my entire life while I scooped up some sundaes to take to Jimmy’s apartment. Everyone does it, takes a sundae home on occasion, but doing it my first week, that’s just risky. I had no choice. I was forced to listen to Jimmy beg and plead for some ice cream, so I caved.
“You’re fine,” he says condescendingly, taking the stolen frozen treats into the living room where Mae is playing Super Mario on the Nintendo NES she’s had since middle school. “Did you get me extra peanut butter sauce?”
“Yes.” I roll my eyes and sit on one of the stools at the kitchen bar that looks over the living space. “World seven. Nice, Mae, I’m impressed.”
“Don’t talk to her,” Jimmy says. “She knife-handed me in the throat earlier for throwing off her concentration.”
Without taking her eyes off their little thirteen-inch tube TV, she says, “When you come over to the TV and start dancing naked with only a washcloth over your dick, I’m going to knife-hand you.”
Chuckling, I say, “Sounds like you deserved it, man.”
“Not when I was giving her some of my best moves. It’s not easy dancing, your dick twerking on its own, and having to keep a washcloth from falling off your rod. She should have praised me.”
“No one wants a dick twerking in their face.” Mae presses pause on the game and turns toward me with a smile.
“Hey Andrew, how’s sturdy tits?”
“Come on,” I groan, my hands scrubbing my face.
Laughing, Mae comes up to me and pats me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been dying to ask you ever since Jimmy told me about your first day.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
A mouthful of ice cream, he answers, “Hey, I hold nothing back from my lady.”
“Is this mine?” Mae asks, popping the top off a soft serve sundae with chocolate syrup and brownie bites.
“Yup, mine is the strawberry one with fudge.” She hands me my cup and I dig in with the both of them.
“So, have you had any other instances with sturdy tits?” Jimmy asks.
“Her name is Sadie, and no. She was supposed to train me all week but she switched her shift somehow, so I’ve been working with some guy named Blaine. I’m sure he’s the president of the douche committee and unfortunately, I know he’s trying to recruit me.”
Yeah, the switch in training partners was a bit of a surprise to me, especially since I knew Stuart was adamant about Sadie training me. The next day when I saw Blaine in the fountain area instead of Sadie, I started sweating profusely. I feared Sadie told Stuart about my little slip into her bosom, and that I’d be fired, but as the day went on, Stuart never approached me. Even after four days, he hasn’t approached me. And it’s not like she quit. No, I get to see her every day working the main dining area, acting all sweet and cute with her customers. Too bad I never got that Sadie. She’s almost as cold to me as ice cream.
Instead, I get douche-canoe Blaine, who prefers to tell me endless stories about his fraternity than teach me anything about the fountain area.
And I know what you’re thinking. Don’t you have to make Sadie’s sundaes when they come in as a ticket? You would think. But before I can even grab the slip from the printer, she’s pulling the ticket herself and making her own desserts.
“Do you miss her?” Mae teases.
I shrug. “Not really. I would prefer her cold shoulder to Blaine’s endless high fives though.” Imitating his douche voice, I hold up my hand and say, “Soft serve ice cream refill. Yeah, bro.”
Laughing and shaking his head, Jimmy says, “There is no way he high-fives over soft serve ice cream.”
Mouth full of soft serve, Mae adds, “Hell, I want to high five right now over this creamy delight, so I don’t blame him.”
I mean, if Blaine wasn’t such an annoying douche, I really might have high-fived him with enthusiasm because I agree with Mae, soft serve is the shit.
“So sturdy tits isn’t giving you the time of day?” Jimmy asks.
“Sadie is in her own little world, and honestly, I have no plans to get to know her.” That could be a partial lie. I can’t deny the attraction; it’s there in full force every time I see her, but Jimmy and Mae don’t need to know that.
“Then why have you been harping about her in text messages? All I here is Sadie this and Sadie that. Dude, you have something for her.”
Did I really mention her that much? Note to self: tone down the Sadie talk around Jimmy.
“You know Dad will have an aneurism if he finds out you’re getting frisky with someone—”
“I know. I don’t need to be reminded, and I don’t plan on dating her or getting frisky as you so immaturely put it.” Sighing, I stir my ice cream carefully, making a bit of an ice cream soup. “I just don’t like it when someone doesn’t like me. You know that. And it’s clear as day she doesn’t like me.”
It’s true. I have some sick obsession of needing everyone to like me. It’s not healthy, not even in the slightest. But I’ve come to realize and accept my faults. So, *twiddles fingers together* how do I get Sadie to like me?
“Why do you want to please everyone?” Jimmy wiggles his eyebrows at me.
Rolling my eyes, I get up from my stool and toss my ice cream in the trash can, as it’s melted to shit. “There is no reason for Sadie to hate me. I did nothing wrong—”
“She fell victim to your motorboating within the first few hours of meeting you,” Jimmy points out, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“She hated me before that, dickhead. Falling into her was just the nail in my coffin.”
“So why care?” Mae asks, licking her spoon. “I say just be done with it.”
Easier said than done.
“Because,” I sigh, “there is something dark in her eyes, something that has hardened her to become the person she is today. I can see the pain, and I don’t know, I just want to figure out why she’s so angry, why she can’t genuinely smile at a stranger. And maybe, just maybe, I can help her learn to smile again.”
“You do like her.” Jimmy points at me.
“Christ, can’t I just be a good guy?”
“With your history, there is no way you can just be friends with this girl.”
“He’s right,” Mae adds. “I love you, Andrew, but you’ve never been able to be just friends with a girl. You always hand over your heart.”
“That’s not true. What about Stephanie? She’s my friend.”
“She’s a lesbian,” Jimmy deadpans. “She doesn’t count, there is no romance blossoming there, no matter how much you think you’re capable of helping her cross over.”
“It’s not a choice,” I chastise my brother, supporting my rainbow flag for my friend. “It’s what’s in their heart.”
“Dude, I was kidding. Step down from your soapbox. Jeeze.” Tossing his ice cream in the trash as well, he wipes his mouth with a napkin. “All I’m saying is there is no chance you’re not going to fall for this girl. You should see your face when we talk about her.”
“Only because she’s new and interesting. Just watch; not only am I going to make her smile again, but I will do it by being one of her best friends. Anything between us will be strictly platonic. Mark my words.”
***
Shit, why does she have to be so damn hot?
Friends. We are going to be friends. Do not watch her bend over. Do not stare at her ass. Do not envision her naked. Nope, not happening.
Think about computers. Computers, computers, computers . . .
Recite the seven layers of the OSI model. Go!
Physical Layer.
Datalink Layer.
Sadie’s eyes are pretty.
Network Layer.
Transport Layer.
I wonder what her lips would feel like on mine.
Session Layer.
I bet her skin is soft.
Presentation Layer.
I really like those pants on her.
And of course, the Application Layer.
There, I did it.
“Did what?”
Sadie’s voice breaks my thoughts. Standing in front of me, putting on a fountain apron, she studies me, looking for an answer.
“Uh, the seven layers of the OSI model.”
“What?” Her brows knit together in confusion.
Really winning points here, Andrew. Get your shit together.
“It’s on my nerd bucket list. It’s actually on all nerds’ bucket lists, to program all seven layers by yourself. What an accomplishment that would be.”
Leaning forward, bringing her girly scent closer—God, she smells like a fucking dream—she sniffs me. “Are you drunk right now? I asked you what needs to be stocked, and you start stammering like you’re having a stroke.”
“Do you find it endearing?” I ask, for some self-deprecating reason.
Studying me for a second, an odd look on her face, she shakes her head. “Not even in the slightest.”
Shit, there goes being cute. Focus on being friends.
“Uh, what are you doing over here? I thought you were working the dining room today.”
“Blaine called in sick. You didn’t answer me.” She finishes tying her apron and is now putting her luscious locks under a hat. “Is everything stocked?”
“Uh, yup,” I answer like a doof.
“Good.” She huffs and
looks around. “I don’t know why Stuart puts me on fountain when it’s this slow.”
Lamely, I answer, “Me either.”
Silence falls between us as we awkwardly stand in the middle of ice cream and toppings, not knowing what to say to each other. Literally, nothing is coming to my mind right now. I never have this much trouble coming up with something to say; I’m always the person who can’t seem to shut up. But Sadie is so different. She doesn’t follow the unspoken social etiquette that forces us all to make small talk and pretend we’re enjoying it. Sadie doesn’t fuck around, as she wears her feelings on her face. You can tell when she wants nothing to do with you.
Right about now, that’s the vibe I’m feeling.
I go to open my mouth to ask how her night was, because I honestly can’t think of anything else, when Stuart comes into the fountain area and plops an economy-size squirt bottle of bleach on the counter. Nodding to the corner, he says, “It’s slow, clean the milkshake wall.”
In horror, both Sadie and I turn toward the corner where the two milkshake mixers rest against a plastic, milk-encrusted wall.
Why is there something called a milkshake wall in the restaurant, you ask?
When I first saw it, I was caught off guard—maybe dry-heaved a bit—unsure why there would be a section in the fountain area that looked like little Smurfs came and jizzed all over the area. But then I made a milkshake for the first time.
There is a certain technique to get down when making a milkshake. Not too much milk and if you have to make one with soft serve ice cream—also known as a Fribble—be prepared to be splashed. I have yet to not spray milk all over the place when making one. And when you get busy, you forget to clean up, and the crusting process begins. And after a few crusted overspills, you start to develop a surface that milk continues to bounce off, reaching down the length of the wall until you coat the entire thing.
“Brushes are under the counter. Get to work.”
Stuart walks away and I’m about to ask Sadie how we should go about cleaning it when she puts her hand on her hip, looks at me and then down at the bleach bottle. Implying . . .
