Geek God (Forever Geek Trilogy Book 1)

by Victoria Barbour

  “This is not a misunderstanding,” I yell. “Please take me out of here.”

  “She’s feisty,” Clar says.

  I hate you, Clar. A curse on you and your truck.

  “Tell me about it. Have a good day, buddy.”

  You know, I’ve never been physically picked up by a man before. It’s not that I’m big or anything. It’s just never happened. There’s never been a reason for a man to lift me. But now Evan is picking me up and dragging me away from the truck. I spill the remainder of my tea. Where’s his mug?

  “This isn’t how we’re going to fix this,” he says, carrying me back towards the house.

  “Put me down.”

  “Not on your life. I didn’t realize you were a runner. I thought you’d stay and fight. Not give up.”

  “I’m not giving up. You just gave me up.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

  “Don’t swear at me.”

  “Oh, I’m going to say a whole lot more than that when we get inside.”

  “Please, put me down. I’m mortified. I’m never going to be able to show my face here again.”

  What does it say about me that I’m a little disappointed when he does put me down.

  “Do you think you’ll have reason to be back here?”

  “I don’t know. I like your mom. Maybe I’ll come visit her sometime when you’re not here. Maybe some day I’ll bring my fictional kids from another marriage here and tell them about the one who got away.”

  “I’m not going away. You’re just a wingnut. A loose cannon. Christ, you don’t give a man a chance to think. You just blurt things out and expect me to react before I get a chance to process anything. Getting pissed with me because of something that’s not even happening? Because of a ‘what if’ scenario? You know what your problem is, Jillian Katherine Carew?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Too bad. You’re going to listen to me for a second. You want to be the boss of your own life so badly that you can’t imagine anyone’s opinion being on par with yours. The idea of being told what to do drives you mad. I get it. That’s how you’ve lived your whole life, having to prove your independence and fight for what you want. But you don’t need to fight me on this. I don’t want to tell you what to do. How to act. What to be. I just want to be able to talk things through.”

  His eyes are piercing mine. The blue seems deeper, like a stormy sky.

  “You want my answer to your stupid question? Yes. Yes, I’d give it a go. And not a long-distance thing either. If you left tomorrow, I’d have no choice but to go after you. You think I do this with every woman I’ve had a relationship with? Spend nearly every friggin’ minute of my day with her? Crave her voice? Want to tell her the littlest things that happened in my day? No. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be a single man. Because I wouldn’t let her go, even if she was willing to travel on a fish truck to get away from me. If you don’t love me, if you don’t want to be with me and see where this goes, if you can’t imagine a future with me where what I say matters, then maybe you should leave. But I’m not letting you go until you answer me this one question. Do you love me? Because I sure as hell am in love with you.”

  “Do I love you? Why do you think I’m so pissed?”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Maybe I need to reflect on it a bit first. Maybe you need to give me a second to think.” Way to go, Jill. Way to be a brat at the wrong moment.

  “This isn’t a question you think about, and you bloody well know it.”

  “Of course it’s not. And you know the answer is yes. Why else would you be standing there with that smirk on your damn beautiful face if you didn’t know what I was going to say.”

  “Because this is the best fight we’ve ever had. I’m already picturing the making up that’s going to happen when we get inside.”

  “I’m not having sex in your parents’ house.”

  Damn. I hate being wrong.

  A couple of months or so later.

  “You wanna come watch the game tonight?”

  Ahhh. I remember once when Charlie Tucker asked me that in grade ten. He was going to play rugby. I had a huge crush on him. He was tall and blond with blue eyes. Come to think of it, he looked a bit like Evan. But Evan is better looking. Now, when I’m asked that question, I’m getting invited to watch him play Dungeons & Dragons.

  “Can’t. I have work to do. I have to grade these essays.”

  “Is that for 3288?”

  “No, 4400, so I really have to read them.”

  I love that he knows my course numbers and what the class is about. He’s even reading some of the books on the syllabus.

  “But you don’t have that till next week. Why don’t you come? Please?”

  This is different.

  Normally it’s a “Come if you like” request. He’s never specifically asked me to come. I’ve gone a handful of times. It was a lot of fun. And I look forward to hearing about the campaign after the fact. The amount of storytelling involved is impressive. Melanie really does her work to make the world they play in come alive.

  “Fine, but you have to let me roll all of your skill checks. And if your character is attacked by centaurs, I get to try talking your way out of it.”

  “It’s not likely to happen. The last time we fought those was a few months ago.”

  “Still, just in case.”

  Who am I to resist an evening out with him? I think it’s a great sign of how well this relationship is going when I still want to spend all my time with him after what, nearly six months together?

  We head to Mel and Sam’s, and the evening is more fun that I’d imagined. Not as much role-playing tonight as Melanie is weaving a story. Evan and his fellow adventurers have found their way into an audience with a king and are getting some sweet rewards for all the heroic deeds they’ve done over the campaign. In game-time, this group has been together for about a year. In real life, I learn they’ve been playing this particular game for about four years. Four years playing one game? I hadn’t realized.

  I’m so caught up in listening to all the things the group has done that I don’t notice at first when Evan slides a small, worn leather bag about the size of a coin purse across the table to me.

  He nudges it towards me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  It’s tied shut with a thin leather cord.

  Inside is a set of dice in various shapes. There’s a pyramid-shaped one numbered one to four. A twenty-sided die. And all the others that make up a set of gaming dice. They’re opaque with swirls of blue and pink and purple.

  “Are these mine?”

  Of course they’re mine. I know they’re not his. They’re the dice I’d seen at the local gaming store about two months ago and said how pretty they were. Evan had just laughed at me and said he preferred his dice nice and simple. His red clear dice had done him for years and he had no need to invest in more.

  “The campaign is over. We’re taking a couple of weeks off and then we’re going to start fresh with a new world and new characters. There’s an opening if you want to play with us.”

  Around the table, I notice Evan’s friends smiling.

  “We used to have a no girlfriends policy,” Tony says.

  I can’t tell if his tone is mock-grumpiness or the genuine disgruntlement of someone who’s seen every one of his friends find a girlfriend while he remains single. Maybe I should try setting him up with the geography prof I see wandering the halls of the Science building. Something tells me they might be made for each other.

  “Yea, way back before you had the best DM in the universe,” Mel says. “The day Sam invited me to play, I thought these guys were going to hyperventilate. Now, I have them doing my bidding once a week.”

  Once a week. For possibly years to come. The implications are starting to set in. Evan wouldn’t be asking me to play, and his friends wouldn’t be happy about it, unless they a
ll figured I’d be around for a while.

  You know how some women need a ring or a house key to feel like they’re getting a sign of commitment from a guy? Turns out what I need is a set of dice and an invitation to play Dungeons & Dragons. Don’t you hate it when you find out something about yourself that you never thought possible?

  Some more months later.

  “Why won’t you move in with me? I’ll evict the whole load of them, if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t want to have this argument again. We can’t live together.”

  “We do live together. I haven’t slept home in nearly a month. And this house is too small for your stuff, let alone mine.”

  “Sleeping over doesn’t mean you live here.”

  “Really?” He starts pulling open dresser drawers. “’Cause this drawer is full of socks and underwear I’d hate to see you wear. And this one here has a lot of very masculine-looking pants and shirts.”

  “That’s just some clothes. You still have your own place.”

  “No, what we have are two mortgages, two sets of bills, and two beds, one of which is vacant ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  I don’t want to have this conversation with him, because the answer makes no sense to me.

  “Jill, my place is so much bigger. You could sell and make money on this place with the work we’ve put into it. Do you hate my house?”

  “No! I love your house. When it’s not being used for gaming marathons. I love it more than this house. But I can’t move in with you. Not unless . . .”

  No. I refuse to say it. I’m not telling him that my mother has somehow convinced me not to live with him unless we’re married. There’s no way I’m going to make him think I’m pressuring him to propose to me. And I still haven’t wrapped my brain around why Mom’s suggestion seems to have resonated with me so well. But it makes sense.

  Already there are little things he does that bug me. Like the way he hangs a damp dish cloth over the kitchen faucet after washing up, letting it air dry into a crusty sheet full of germs. Right now I can grab it and toss it into the laundry, and he can only give me a look. He has no right to bicker with me.

  Bickering is what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that we’ll move in together and we will bicker each other to the point of irritability and we’ll break up. I’m afraid to live with him because I’m afraid he’ll hate living with me. Mom is right. If we’re married, he can’t leave me so easily.

  Argh. When did I become this person? This woman afraid of losing her man? This woman afraid to move forward in fear of the future?

  “Jillian, talk to me. I can see the signs of an internal monologue written all over your face. Tell me what’s going on. It can’t be nearly as bad as you think it is.”

  “I can’t. I can’t tell you what I’m thinking because you’ll think I’m nuts.”

  “I already think you’re nuts. I love it.”

  “You’ll think I’m saying things to force your hand, and that’s not what I’d be doing. We just can’t talk about it, Evan, because it’ll turn into something it’s not supposed to.”

  I’m crying and yelling and pacing, and he’s just standing there, a look of total patience on his face. I hate that. I hate how calm he is when I’m having a meltdown. As if he’s perfectly fine just waiting around while I have my momentary freak-out and then resume the conversation.

  “I know what’s going on. Your father told me.”

  “Told you what?” I’m going to kill my father if he dared pressure Evan to propose to me.

  “That you’re hoping they’ll move into a condo and give you their house.”

  “Are they insane? I don’t want that house.”

  “You don’t want a swanky mansion?” His laugh is too mocking for my satisfaction.

  “No. I want your house, you nincompoop. I’ve always wanted a house like yours.”

  “Then why in seven hells won’t you live there now? That makes no sense.”

  “I’ll live there when I’m ready.”

  “Well, I live there now. And it’s where I’m going tonight.”

  “I can’t stay there tonight. I have work to do here.”

  “I didn’t invite you.”

  Woosh. Is he really leaving? He’s not going to sleep with me tonight?

  “Evan, don’t. Don’t be angry.”

  “I’m trying really hard not to be, Jill. But honestly. If you’re not going to talk to me about this, if you’re going to keep secrets and not tell me what’s going on in your head, it’s a little difficult to keep calm. So, it’s better that I go.”

  “Sit down. Please.”

  I try grabbing his bag but he’s stronger than I am. A fact I’m normally happy to live with.

  “Will you talk to me?”

  So I tell him everything. How Mom has somehow succeeded, for once in her life, at planting a suggestion in my head that just won’t go away. How I’m afraid now that he knows why I’m waiting to live with him, that he’ll propose just to get me to move in, and I’ll never know if he did it because it was what he truly wanted, or if it was a means to an end.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “A means to an end? You think I’d propose just so we’d live together? You think the only reason I’d want to ask you to be my wife would be so that we could shack up? There are a whole other host of reasons to get married. You don’t have to worry about forcing my hand, Jillian. I’m a pretty self-sure guy. When I propose to you, you should know it will have nothing to do with ultimatums from you, or your mother. It’ll be based on my heart and nothing more.”

  “When you propose?” I think I stopped listening after that.

  He pulls me onto his lap and smothers any further comment with his lips.

  Some time later, after we’ve both dozed and I’ve accomplished no work other than helping us both feel very good about ourselves, he smoothes my hair.

  “You’re a funny creature, you know. Life with you is never dull.”

  I’ve heard that from my parents my whole life. The only difference is they never made it seem like a compliment.

  Two days later.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really sure?”

  “Yes!”

  I take the For Sale sign that the real estate agent left behind and hang it in the window.

  “Because if your friend Nick is right, you could have this place sold in less than a week. Then that’s it. You’re stuck with me.”

  “I’m stuck with you no matter where I live,” I say, planting a kiss on his cheek. “What? Are you having second thoughts now about me living with you?”

  “No. And I’ll evict the guys in a heartbeat if you ask me.”

  “We can’t kick them out. Where would they go?”

  “They’re grown men, Jill. Not helpless puppies.”

  That might be the case, but I’ve gotten used to seeing their weirdness around the house. One of these days they might have to go, but not yet.

  “What are you going to do all day?” he asks as he pulls on his work boots. Business has picked up for him in this neighbourhood since he finished the work on my house, and he’s now working on some sort of heat conversion for the bakery.

  “I’m going to pack until the open house starts, and then Ingrid, Melanie, Liz and I are going to play a new scenario I found for Fiasco. It’s set in Rome.”

  Evan kisses my forehead, his trademark move. “Look at you, running a role-playing game and letting your friends play with you. Where’s my closet geek from last year?”

  “Selling her house and moving in with her hot geek lover.”

  I run my fingers through his hair and bring his lips to mine, nibbling on his lower lip, my trademark move I know turns him on.

  “Mmmmm. Maybe I should skip work this morning.”

  “Nope. This is just a reminder of what’s waiting for you at the end of the day.”

  “I’m going to miss your soak
er tub. Mine’s not nearly big enough for the two of us.”

  “We’ll figure something out. Now walk down the street nice and slowly so I can admire the view.”

  I swear to God he knows just how to walk to make his ass look extra appealing.

  Four hours later I’m in the middle of a game with the girls when Nick calls. There are four competing offers on the house.

  “Let me call Evan and we’ll meet you at the house to look at them.”

  When I hang up Ingrid is giving me a funny look.

  “What?”

  “You’re selling your house that you bought on your own, and yet you need to discuss the offers with Evan? Where’s my fiercely independent friend gone?” There’s nothing in her tone that sounds nasty. Instead, she’s laughing. “You’ve come a long way.”

  Don’t get me wrong. I know which offer to take. It’s a no brainer. The one with the most money and fewest strings attached. But I want to talk it over with him anyway, to see if my instincts match up with his. We’re going to be making a lot of decisions together in the future, and this seems like a good starting point.

  Later that night, after I’ve signed the agreement to sell, Evan and I are lying in my bed. I love the way he traces random shapes on my belly when we’re talking.

  “Will you miss this room?”

  “Not really. I’ll miss the memories that are here, but I like the bed at your place better.”

  “Our place.”

  “Our place. Sure. But it’s really yours. You bought it. You fixed it up.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s ours. You have all the keys. To the doors. The windows. The shed. My heart. I love you.”

  Evan doesn’t say it a lot, but when he does, he says it in a way that makes me want to cry from the sincerity of it. When he tells me he loves me, I know it’s not just words to say in the moment. When he utters those words, they come with the passion and conviction of a man taking an oath or making a pledge. That’s why I know I’m making the right decision moving in with him. Even if we fight over which slot the knives should go in the utensil drawer, or insist on having two brands of dish detergent because we can’t agree on one, at the end of the day, I love him and he loves me. Oh, how he loves me.