by Everly Lucas
“Hell yeah, we’re arguing a case. And you’re about to lose,” he says, unaware of my growing guilt. “The slayer chick and her vamp had a major on-off thing going. Nowhere near committed. They only boned because they almost lost each other, or some shit.”
“So? Bella and Edward were married, and you think they should’ve used condoms, too.”
Oh my God, why am I still talking about this? Why can’t I just give it up and let him have this one?
“Yeah, and they only got hitched because Bella couldn’t keep her ragin' libido in check, and the twink wouldn’t do her until she let him put a ring on it. That’s one hell of an ultimatum. What the fuck kind of messed up relationship is that?”
There’s a pause as he waits for my response, but I refuse to play along anymore. Biting my tongue and keeping my lips clamped shut, I fight the urge to one-up him. No good would come of it. It certainly wouldn’t make me feel better. Instead, I head back to the kitchen and start wiping down the spotless countertop.
“Holy fuckin’ shit,” Andy says out of nowhere. “I just thought of somethin’.”
“What’s that?”
“Twink was seventeen for, what, like, a hundred years?”
“Something like that.” Actually, it was under ninety, but no need to get technical.
“And he kept his frozen load in his nuts all that time?” He gives me a meaningful look, as if I’m supposed to be following his train of thought. I’m not. “That means he never jerked off. What sex-deprived teenager can keep his hand off his own prick for a hundred fuckin’ years?”
Claire chokes on her soda, nearly spilling it as she tries to set the bottle on the table before covering her nose and mouth with her hands.
“Shit, shit,” she says between coughs. “Fuck, that hurts!”
“You okay, babe?” Andy holds out a napkin for her, and she snatches it with one hand while keeping her face concealed with the other. Her eyes are an angry red and watering like crazy.
Rushing to her side, I skid to a stop a full foot away from her. It kills me. I should be patting her back, rubbing her neck, or brushing the hair from her face. Not being able to touch her is hard enough when she’s turning me on—it’s damn near torture when she’s hurting and I could easily help her.
My hands curl into fists, angry at themselves for their uselessness. Andy and I share a frustrated look, and I can see he’s dealing with the same struggle.
As much as I hate the thought of him laying a finger on Claire, I almost wish he’d do what I can’t. Andy is a man without boundaries—physical, emotional, or otherwise. So why is he holding back now, when he obviously wants to soothe her as much as I do?
Her thumb and forefinger pinch the bridge of her nose, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Her voice is cute and nasally when she speaks. “I hereby enact Law of Claire Number Seventeen: No laughing while taking a drink.” Her hand drops to her lap, exposing the scene of the crime.
“Fuck, babe. Did soda just shoot out your nose?” Andy asks, sounding almost impressed.
“Yes, and it was the worst thing that’s ever happened in the whole of my existence. You guys are not allowed to have absurd conversations while I’m mid-sip.” A stiff finger points at Andy and then at me, her stern expression properly putting us on notice.
I hand her some tissues when she sniffles, finally doing something to help her. “Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Now, to make it up to me, you’re going to tell me why the hell you know so much about Twilight.”
Andy and I share a conspiratorial glance, silently debating whether or not to share the embarrassing story. In the end, I decide that telling the truth is better than letting her believe we read the series of our own volition.
“My sister, Leah, was a huge fan. It was more of an obsession, really. So when she was fourteen and Andy and I were in our twenties, she came to us with a dare.”
Claire’s interest in the story has her leaning forward, inadvertently giving me a glimpse of her cleavage. Fuck food and water—I could live off these glimpses alone.
“The dare was to let her make up our faces—blush, mascara, lipstick, the works—and keep it on for an entire day.”
“Let me guess,” Claire chimes in, looking over at Andy. “Your macho pride wouldn’t let you go out in public looking like a girl?”
“Ha! Guess again, Peach. Me and my macho pride would never back down from a dare.” He puffs out his chest and beats his fist against it.
“Yeah, you’re a real manly man, Mr. Monthly Eyebrow Wax.”
This earns me two middle fingers before he shrugs, playing it off. “What can I say? Chicks dig two brows, and I aim to please.”
Claire giggles at him, and I find myself considering the calling-dibs-by-licking option again. All I can think is that all of her laughter—the soft, sweet giggles and the full-on belly laughs—belongs to me. My territorial side, a side I never knew I had before Claire, doesn’t want to share.
“I’ll admit it.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I couldn’t go through with it.” Andy coughs twice into his fist, slipping the word “pussy” in between. I flip him off before defending myself. “It wasn’t fair, and you know it. You’re an artist. Your kind can get away with weird shit like that. I’d just landed a position at the top architectural firm in the city, and I had work that day.”
And there it is—Claire’s laugh—and I’m the one who brought it out of her. That laughter is one-hundred-percent mine. I bask in it.
“So you lost the bet,” she guesses. “How exactly did this lead to your extensive knowledge of all things Twilight?”
“Losing the bet meant we both had to read the whole series. Leah gave us a pop quiz after each book to make sure we kept up with our end of the bargain.”
“I think I’m in love with your sister,” Claire says.
It’s a welcome thought, Claire and Leah getting along. I’d love for them to meet each other. The idea fills my chest with warmth…for all of two seconds.
That’s when Andy announces, “I’ve gotta take a piss,” the same time as Claire says, “I need to use the bathroom.” As they stand, their bodies come within an inch of each other, and they both freeze. Their gazes lock for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds. The muscles in Andy’s forearms twitch, and his lips part. Claire’s chest rises and falls at a quickened pace, each breath bringing the peaks of her breasts closer to him.
And all I can do is watch and try to hold my heart together.
I wait for her to flinch away from him, but it’s Andy who moves first, taking a gallant step back. It’s like I’ve spotted Bigfoot or a double rainbow or something else I never expected to witness. The Andy I know would’ve tested her limits, leaned into her to elicit a reaction. Any reaction.
This Andy is a stranger to me.
That’s when I know. More than anything he’s said or done—more than when he flat-out told me he likes her—that simple step back shows me what I never wanted to see.
For the first time ever, Andy and I are after the same woman.
Eleven
Claire
“What would you have to be angry with yourself about?” I ask.
He takes my hand from his face and moves it to his bare chest, pressing my palm over his heart. Its beat is strong but fast. So fast. Mine speeds up to match its frantic rhythm. My knees part—all on their own, I swear—just the tiniest bit. When he groans at my body’s reaction, I can feel the deep vibrations.
“Oh,” I breathe, “I see.”
“Do you—
“Can I help you?” I ask the guy seated next to me, whose grubby little eyes are glued to my screen. His pimply face jerks back, giving me my privacy. Or, at least, the illusion of my privacy.
That’s the trade-off of coming here. Sure, the café has the very attractive qualities of cold air, free wi-fi, and those adorable retro glass bottles of Dr. Pepper. But it also has its drawbacks, like the prying eyes of whoever happens t
o be sitting next to me.
My favorite spot in here is the long bench that lines the back wall, just under the AC vents, but the small tables are practically on top of each other. It never fails that as soon as my bench neighbors spot words like “vigorous thrusts” or “wet heat” or “throbbing cock” on my laptop, they can’t seem to look away.
And then they start looking at me funny.
And then I want to put about fifty feet of space between us.
Which is why I’ve perfected the resting bitch face. It tells people, “Approach me for any reason, and I will literally rip you a new one.” So far, the threatening expression has worked like a freaking charm. No one’s ever hit on me here, so it remains a safe space, only infringed upon by the occasional nosy parker.
Another drawback? People who don’t know how to speak at acceptable indoor decibel levels, like the two douchebags sitting at a table across the room.
They’re University of Pennsylvania students, for sure—they’ve got that Ivy League look about them. The one on the left has chin length, dirty blond hair and is rocking the overpriced urban hippie vibe. His friend is more of a pretty boy, with close-cropped dark hair and deep brown eyes. His snug polo shirt lets the world know he spends just enough time at the campus gym to stave off the doughy frat boy physique.
I never look at men for longer than three seconds. That’s not a rule, just a point of fact. Although, lately, there have been a couple notable exceptions to that not-rule. But, for some reason, I can’t take my eyes off the two undergrads by the window. They’re not especially good-looking. Nothing sets them apart from all the other students who overpopulate my neighborhood. They’re nothing special, at all.
Except, they remind me of them.
I can’t help but wonder if this is what Ben and Andy looked like when they were in college together. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and baby-faced. That’s hard to wrap my head around. I can picture them as little kids, no problem—sweet, geeky Ben, and Andy, the rough-and-tumble little charmer. But those awkward teenage and newly adult years? No way. My boys had to have skipped right over all that to become the chiseled, disturbingly handsome men they are today.
What’s funny is that, even though I can’t be more than four or five years older than the guys across the room, it feels more like fifty. It’s hard to remember what it was like to be their age. Most of my memories from that period of my life are fuzzy and hard to retrieve, but I vaguely recall feeling carefree and full of possibility. At least, at first.
It’s amazing how much a person can change in five short years. How one bad choice—like picking the wrong person to love—can completely derail your life as you once knew it.
Mini Andy notices my eyes on him and winks, thinking I’m checking him out instead of staring off into the empty space between us. My eyes dart around the room and down to my computer, trying to refocus on my main characters’ impending professions of love and keep my cheeks from turning red.
Thankful for the distracting bloop sound that lets me know I’ve got mail, I open that baby right up. My chest gets all tight and warm when I read the message.
Dear Peach,
You are cordially invited to attend the grand…Ah, fuck it. Wanna come to an unveiling? There’ll be free wine, all-you-can-eat bruschetta, and some other fancy shit like that.
Then, tacked on the end, as if meant to be an afterthought,
Ben will be there.
Andy
A link at the end of the message takes me to an online invitation. It seems that what I’ve been cordially invited to is the unveiling of a new mural in the Northern Liberties section of the city. And the artist is…Andy DelVecchio.
I let out a squeal of pure pride and excitement, attracting the attention of just about everyone in the café. Time to make my exit.
While packing up my laptop and all through the trek to my place, a massive smile is fixed on my face. I’m surprised I don’t light up the whole neighborhood with how much I’m beaming.
Back at the apartment, just as I’m stripping off my shirt—because, holy fuck, it’s hot in here—my phone whistles from inside my bag.
You’ll come, right?
How could I have forgotten to respond to Andy’s invite with an immediate and resounding “YES!”? Then again, fewer than fifteen minutes have passed since he sent it. Knowing he couldn’t wait any longer to find out if I’d be there, a not-unpleasant heat simmers deep in my stomach.
Ugh. Don’t I have enough heat outside my body? Does it need to attack from the inside, too?
Within seconds, I send off my response.
are you kidding? i got an invite from the artist himself! how can i pass that up?
plus, you know, free bruschetta.
Don’t forget about the wine.
how could i?
And Ben.
The corners of my lips take a nosedive, and cold unease replaces the warmth in my belly. Does he really think I wouldn’t be there to support him if Ben weren’t going, too? The writing between the lines is pretty damn legible, and there’s no stopping my heart from hurting for Andy.
But now that I think about it…would I go? Aside from our very first encounter, I’ve never been alone with Andy. Ben’s been with us both times—after the museum and when we were binge-watching Buffy the other night. Hanging out with just Ben is one thing. From day one, I’ve trusted him to read and respect the signals I send him. Much as I’d love to, I don’t have that same trust in Andy.
Underneath all his recent politeness and general awareness of the dimensions of my bubble, I sense he’s still a live wire. I felt his electrical current Saturday night when his body was half a breath away from mine. I could practically hear it humming inside him and crackling on his skin.
No. I can’t be alone with him. He’s too unpredictable. I have this compulsive need to maintain control of any situation I’m in—especially situations involving gorgeous men and unwelcome lust—but there’s no controlling Andy.
I don’t tell him any of that, though. I’d rather lie than hurt his feelings.
take away all those things, and i’d still be there. :)
His instant reply lets me know I said the right thing, no matter how wrong it was.
Fuck, babe. You made me blush. I never blush.
Fair warning: I’ll be returning the favor when you least expect it.
Little does he know, that mission’s already accomplished.
Twelve
Claire
On any other day, I imagine this undeveloped plot of land just three blocks from the Piazza looks exactly like what it is, or what it used to be—nothing special. Just a bunch of patchy, half-dead grass, littered with bits of random trash. Maybe a couple of used condoms, if the hipsters got a little frisky the night before. Definitely a few of those toothpick-flosser hybrid things people somehow deem acceptable to leave all over the city.
Clean teeth? Important enough to gross everyone out with public acts of dental hygiene and the waste products thereof.
Clean city? Fuck that noise.
Every time I pass one on the sidewalk, I’m tempted to take a picture of it to post on an Instagram account dedicated to the damn things, which I fully intend to create one day. Just a little dream of mine. The only thing holding me back is the guaranteed neighborhood-crazy-lady status I’d gain from photographing trash on the ground. But that’s written in the stars for me, anyway. May as well embrace it now.
See, this is what happens when you spend most of your time by yourself. Your mind goes to all sorts of interesting places. And when it runs out of those, it goes to the boring and sometimes plain nutty ones. Which is why I’m so grateful to have Ben and Andy in my life, despite how uncomfortable I often feel when I’m with them. That trade-off is one I make with zero reservations.
And that brings me back to this ordinary, thousand-square-foot wasteland, which, tonight, looks anything but ordinary. It’s nestled between a refurbished bike shop and a farm-to-table c
afé—because, of course—with white lights strung between poles along three sides of the space and crisscrossing above us, like a fairyland canopy. The side left open is the exterior wall Andy spent the past six months working on.
Earlier, in the daylight, the colors popped off the white background. Greens, oranges, reds, purples, and more greens, echoing the community garden this land will become in the spring—bringing the farm a lot closer to the table. Instead of going literal, with actual vegetables and gardeners and whatnot, Andy created a breathtaking blend of soft watercolor shapes taking up the bottom half of the wall, with long drips of paint defying gravity by spilling upward.
Gorgeous.
Now, at the tail end of twilight, the fairy lights and the last hint of sunset cast a glow on the concrete, making the mural look brand new. In the two hours since I arrived, I’ve taken my eyes off that wall maybe four or five times, tops.
Andy is truly gifted. No one lucky enough to see his art would disagree. The arrogant jackass I met that Sunday morning at Ben’s is a part of who he is, no doubt. The loyal best friend is another. Loving pet owner, physical perfectionist, cocky bastard. Artist. He’s so many things, and he’s let me into his head-spinning, complex world. I feel corny for thinking this, but…it’s a privilege.
“Oh my God, I love your dress!”
The tinkling, high-pitched voice from behind me snaps me out of my Andy-centric reverie, and thank fuck for that. My thoughts were traveling down a glitter-paved road to Fluffy Cloud Town, with kittens and puppies leading the way…over Andy. Those are things that should never occupy the same brain space.
Taking a healthy sip of Riesling from my plastic wine glass, I turn to face my bubbly new admirer. In one hand, she carries a plate piled high with prosciutto and bruschetta topped with fresh mozzarella. At her side is a devastatingly handsome Ben, with his arm around her shoulders. Surely it’s acid reflux from the two-and-a-half drinks I’ve already consumed that’s creeping up my throat, because there’s no way it’s jealousy.
