by Fields, MJ
What the hell?
I pick them up and smell them. They smell like laundry detergent that isn’t mine.
There’s a note.
Clothes are clean, come down and chill when you’ve done whatever it is Savvys do to start the day.
X
Tricks
Feeling like a slug for not being up before whatever time it is, for him doing my freaking laundry, including my underwear, as I take in my surroundings, I feel like I’m betraying the sisterhood and hatred of “the man” by being here.
In the few weeks I’ve known him, it’s been obvious he’s not like they were. Even more obvious since our hours of conversation last night.
I also realize that I haven’t grown a penis or turned to stone because I’m in a house like this, with a bathroom … like this. And I still feel a little bit like freaking out about the whole cleaning-my-undies thing, while secretly high-fiving myself for splurging on new ones.
I hurriedly shower, in a shower that could be used for at the very least two. I wonder if he’s showered with anyone as I’m using his razor. I know that’s intrusive, but still.
Brushing my teeth, I’m wondering why I’m still wondering how many Chloes he’s showered with, but I’m also enjoying the hell out of how easily his brush glides through my hair. The water is soft, the conditioner obviously expensive, and my hair is almost tangle-free. It’s also almost down to my ass, and it dawns on me that I haven’t had a haircut in like a year.
Dressed, I grab the clothes he loaned me, the very comfortable clothes, and hurry out of his room, down the hall, past two doors, wondering what may be behind them. But why? Like seriously, Savvy, get your shit together. And then I am down the stairs.
He’s nowhere to be found, but there are three reusable bags—good job, Steel family—on the counter, and another note.
Savvy,
If you wake up and find this note, head downstairs, basement level. Turn left. Follow the music.
X
Tricks
After reading the note, I look at the clock. “It’s one in the afternoon! Oh my God, you’re such a bum,” I scold myself as I look for the stairs that lead down.
As soon as I turn left at the bottom of the stairs, I hear music, loud music, and a raspy, female voice. I consider turning and going back upstairs, just wait for him there, but he left a note and, like, seriously, we’re buds, friends. Hell, we are Netflix and chilling, but in a nonsexual way. Next thing you know, he’ll be asking me to play freaking video games.
No. Fuck that. That’s crossing a major line.
I push open the heavy door and gasp when I see the bright room, filled with machines, benches, weights, cardio, all the things I avoid for numerous reasons. And then I hear a grunt and the sound of something heavy clanking to the floor.
I look around the door, see him, and think, Oh, come on. I know it’s him, but … dear God …
His back is spectacular. I don’t know all the names of the muscles, but every one of them seems to work in perfect unity, defined, very … very defined. From his narrow waist to his insanely structured shoulders, he’s ripped.
He bends over, hands on his knees, and I watch his already broad back expand and contract as he inhales and exhales, obviously trying to catch his breath. If I were an ass girl, his ass … seriously.
He squats down, inhales, and then grunts as he lifts one of those things with big weights on either end high above his head, kicking one of his legs out, and then squats.
I should back out and let the door close, and as I do just that, I hear him chuckle then the barbell weight thingy hit the floor.
“Savvy, that you? Or do we have an intruder?”
Hiding behind the door, my back pressed against it, I answer, “Just me. Didn’t know you were busy. I’ll be up there, somewhere, trying to find a phonebook and a pho—”
I fall back as he obviously opens the door, and he catches me.
“Great,” he huffs as he lifts me up and rights me on my feet, effortlessly. “I find one girl who’s dope, and now she’s getting all—”
I turn around and shove him, jokingly. My hand hits abs that are even more defined than his back, and I quickly pull it away.
“Hurt your hand?” he asks, and then his man boobs begin to pop, one then the other.
“Oh my God, you’re so—”
“So what, Savvy?” he asks in a playful manner.
“I don’t know,” I say, hugging the dirty clothes tight against my body.
“Look, I’ve admitted I think you’re fun to look at. You could do the same, or you could just stand there, turning red and making this awkward.”
I look up at him quickly. “Fine. I’m worried about you.”
“Yeah?” he asks, clearly amused.
“Yeah, at some point, you’re going to have to decide if this is all worth it.”
He waves his hand in front of himself. “I think it’s worth it.”
“Yeah, well, when you come asking for me to help find your neck, I’m going to say I told you so.”
He laughs, and I have to bite my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling.
“It’s shoulder day.”
“Obviously.” I step around him, needing some space, still feeling his hand splayed across my belly.
“Big plans today, Savvy Sutton. Had to work out before you and I hit the kitchen and bust out some Christmas cookies.”
“What?” I ask, trying not to get overly excited.
“The ’rents won’t be home in time to make them, and I’m not planning to disappoint Santa this year.”
“Oh, please, I’m thinking, when you fucked Chloe, you hit the naughty list, and I’m gonna bet it wasn’t the first time this year.”
“You ever gonna forgive me for banging your roommate?” he asks, walking over to the weights, lifting them and putting them on a rack.
“You don’t need my forgiveness, little dude. That’s between you and Santa.”
“Little dude?” he asks, his eyebrow arched as he flexes his man boobs and makes them bounce again.
“Educated guess, using the equation drawn up by scholars all over when trying to figure out why men like to pick things up and put them down.” I hold up my pinky.
“You got three—”
“What?” I ask as he steps toward me and I step back.
“Two …”
I plant my hands on my hips. “And what are you gonna do?”
“You better run.” He narrows his eyes. “One.”
Squealing like a little kid being chased by the neighbor’s dog, I run, and I run hard. Right before I hit the bottom of the stairs, he grabs me, tosses me around like a rag doll, and runs up the stairs.
“Oh my God, you’re all nasty!” I yell. “Sweaty and nasty!”
Laughing, he pulls me up and sets my ass on something hard.
“I told you to run,” he says as he steps back, smiling.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, wiping the pretend sweat off my body. “Ew, you got me all nasty.”
He plants his hand over his chest, above his heart. “Forgive me?”
I shrug and pretend to ponder the thought as he looks down then smirks.
Only then do I realize I’m swinging my feet, like some smitten girly girl.
I push myself off the kitchen countertop. “I really need to get my van. Marcy’s probably worried I’m back in the woods, lost somewhere, and she’ll have to work more eighty-hour weeks.”
“I’m going to shower,” he says, turning around. “Your ride’s here, parked in the garage. Battery was dead, and it needed oil.”
“What?!”
He doesn’t stop, taking the stairs two at a time. “Do me a favor and look in the cabinets under the island for a recipe book. Cover looks handmade.” His voice fades slightly as he walks past the opening and down the hallway. “Says Forever Steel Christmas.”
Unbelievable.
* * *
Opening cupboard after cupboa
rd, each organized perfectly and nothing falling out onto the floor, like all my homes from my last life, I laugh out loud for even thinking it. It’s like comparing diamonds to dildos, and that thought makes me snort.
“Savvy, you okay down there?” Patrick calls from somewhere.
“I’m just peachy.” Actually pervy, I correct myself.
“It’s always the last cupboard.”
He startles me.
Still crouching, I turn and look up. “Don’t be a creeper.”
When my ankle turns the wrong way, and I start to fall back into the cupboard, I do what any sensible person would do—I grab something to steady me. That something happens to be gray material—his sweats. When they start to come down, I let go.
“Jesus, Savvy.” He laughs as he once again hefts me up. “Not sure what the hell has you off balance.” He laughs as I slap at his hands then sidestep. “You’re either falling for me, or you want to know the answer to the question all girls want to know.”
“Well, it’s not the former,” I say, hurrying around the island.
“Then the answer is boxers, but you already knew that from the little—”
“So?” My voice screeches. “You literally washed my undies.”
“Boy shorts. Cotton. Cute.”
“Okay.” I feel my face turn red. “Moving on to cookies.”
“Perfect.” He snickers as he squats down, giving me a reprieve from his … his … him.
I feel like I’m losing my damn mind, and I am, I totally am.
He stands up, plain white tee stretching across his insanely chiseled body, producing the book. “Found it.” He pushes it across the island where I am sitting in the same place I was last night, which is several feet away from him, thankfully. Then he pulls his phone from the pocket of the sweats and looks at it. “Shit.”
“Hot date?” I ask, pushing the book back across the countertop and standing. “Perfect. The two of you can make cookies.”
He answers the call as he leans across the counter and grabs my wrist as I start to walk away, stopping me. “What’s up, Brand?”
Brand? I think as I turn around, step back to the stool, and sit.
Patrick cocks his head and looks at me oddly. “Yeah, sure, I’m here. Just text me, and I’ll come grab the stuff.” He pauses and nods. “You know my word is good.” He rolls his neck and turns around, using his free hand to grip his neck then rubs it. “No, man, I’m not gonna give you another black eye. You deserved that shit, so quit bringing it up.”
Oh my God. He punched Brand Falcon.
“Treat her right, and you’ll live.”
Her?
“Yeah, love back to you. See you soon.” He shoves his phone back in his pocket, rolls his neck, inhales and exhales a few times slowly, and then turns back around.
“So?” His eyebrow raises.
“So …?” I raise both of mine.
“You a Brand fan?” he asks, or accuses, or …
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, until I said his name, you were trying to jet.”
“I mean …” I shrug. “No, I’m by no means starstruck. I’ve never been into country music, and although I’m not one of those girls, nor will I ever be craving that kind of attention, I’d rather just be left alone. But also, I do get a bit of joy out of knowing how jealous those bitches back at MacArthur would be.”
His head jerks back slightly, as if he’s been slapped or something. “You think, if they knew you were here, they wouldn’t be feeling the same thing?”
I can’t help but laugh a bit.
He scowls, pulls his phone out of his pocket, hits a few apps or whatever, and then slides it across the counter. “Trust me, Savvy; they’d be all sorts of jealous.”
I glance down, see messages, and shrug. “So?”
“Hit any one of those messages.”
“Okay.” I roll my eyes and do so. A nude pops up. “Ew, gross.” I shove the phone back at him.
“So, yeah.” He shrugs.
And it hits me. “You’re jealous that I got a little kick out of the mere thought of making them jealous because I was in the same room as my friend when he took a call? Something, by the way, I would never do.”
“Not jealous.” He nearly pouts.
“Well, good. Because a.), this is a hypothetical conversation.” I snicker at the inside thought. “And b.), jealousy is not pretty, not even on a boy like you.”
His lips twitch a bit in an almost grin, and he looks up at me. “Well, hypothetically, if I was a chick, and someone was sliding into my man’s DMs, I’d be returning fire.”
“Fire?” I laugh.
“Yeah, tit for tit.”
“Great idea. Then everyone could see them. And also, you’re a guy, and after that little morsel I overheard, I’m guessing you don’t need to slide a dick pic out there, because you just use your fists.”
“Gets the point across.” He shrugs. “And trust me, Savvy; even Gandhi would have given him a couple black eyes.”
He pushes the book back. “Let’s make some of your favorite cookies.”
I flip open the cover. “Isn’t this family recipes?”
“Some, but there’s also regular recipes that Momma Joe just added an ingredient, changed the flavor a bit more to her liking, or a tip to change the texture. Each are marked, so if you like just an average sugar cookie, you ignore the asterisk. I’ve no doubt you’ll find your favorites.”
I flip through the book slowly, looking over the pictures of what I assume are younger versions of Patrick’s uncles and father with a plate full of cookies, probably their favorites, and the recipe on the page beside it. The next pages are their wives, and then all of Patrick’s cousins. I pause on his the longest.
“You haven’t changed a bit, little dude.” I smile. “Peanut butter blossoms still your favorite?”
He reaches in one of the bags and pulls out a bag of Hershey kisses. “Gotta make those.” He pulls out some chocolate ice cream with peanut butter. “And we crumble them up and put them on this.”
My favorite ice cream.
Inhaling a deep breath, I push the book over to him. “So, I’ve been sitting here, trying to decide what to tell you. I’ve considered lying and letting you think I was raised in a family that celebrated by making Christmas cookies, but I wasn’t.”
“I get it.”
“My mom …” I pause to collect myself.
“Savvy, if it hurts, just wait until after the holidays, okay? Then you unleash. But—”
“There were countless men in and out of our lives,” I interrupt him, because I just want to get it over with. “Well, I guess we were in and out of theirs, maybe a bit of both. Every one of her relationships went from zero to eighty in a quarter mile. The last one, he crossed the one line I guess she had?” I shrug. “He didn’t just hit her; he hit me.”
“Fuck, babe, I’m so—”
“Don’t be sorry. Seriously, please don’t.”
He nods, and I stand up, beginning to unload one of the three bags, because sitting here feels too intimidating.
“I was like five, maybe seven?” I laugh. “Hell, until she died, I wasn’t even sure when my actual birthday was. I mean, I knew, but I never knew when we were going to celebrate.
“Anyway, we were living mostly at state parks with cabins we could rent. We loved to hike and go on adventures. We were on one to find ourselves. We weren’t ever going to be victims again.
“Denny—that was his name—showed up, a bag full of gifts, and a mouth full of promises that he would take care of his girls. He did this every few months. Most of the time, she’d call the police.
“The last time, we happened to be camping next to a woman named Liberty Smith, and when he got loud and his promises of happiness turned into threats of violence, she came out and used a cast iron frying pan to knock him out.
“From then on, it was us three girls, in a van, touring the country. It started with festival hopping,
progressed to spending sometimes months at a time camping at compounds with other women who worked the land together and homeschooled their kids. And it was fun. I learned a lot. I constantly read.
“Mom didn’t cry anymore, and when she finally told me that she and Liberty were going to get married under a full moon, I was so ecstatic for them. Soon after that, we moved to Pennsylvania, to a trailer park. We were going to settle there. We even built a raised bed community garden.
“I heard them at night, whispering, dreaming out loud about starting a community of women there, a place where men couldn’t try to control her ever again. She died before that happened.
“Liberty and I did a three-month tour around the country, spreading her ashes in her favorite places, and that tour ended here.” I look up at him.
He’s leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, in quiet observation.
“I haven’t talked to Liberty since. She left while I was taking my placement tests, at a place I know they stood firmly against.”
“What can I do to help, Savvy?” He uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on the counter. “I have resources. My uncles in Boston own a private security—”
“No.” I shake my head. “That was a different life. I don’t want to reopen it. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to see her, because she …” I stop and shake my head. “Patrick, promise me you won’t.”
He’s quiet for a few minutes, minutes that feel more like hours, and then he nods. “You have to promise me something first.”
I don’t react. I don’t agree. I just look at him.
I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking I’m attracted to him, and he’s thinking my past is what makes me choose to like girls. It may have started that way, but the more I experience being around men, the more I know that I can never get from them what I need, and I could never give them what they need, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
He smiles. It’s sweet, so sweet. “Promise me that, today, we find your favorite Christmas cookie.”
I nod. “I’m pretty sure I’m free, and I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t, I’d cancel whatever I had planned to do just that.”
