We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1)

by Daisy Prescott

  When I asked her about any romantic affairs, she said it had been more Casablanca than Sabrina. I reminded her Bogart had been a love interest in both films, to which she replied something about the beginning and end of a beautiful friendship. We often communicated in the language of film quotes. Easiest way to get our point across was to use the perfect line, even if it belonged to someone else.

  Labor Day rolled around and classes lurked on the calendar when Maggie was finally due to return from France. No one had seen or spoken to her in months. She sent a couple postcards from the South of France and Barcelona.

  Lizzy filled us in on the details of the grand romance. It sounded passionate and whirlwind, the exact thing a girl—or boy—dreams of having while living abroad. I couldn’t get a clear read from Lizzy if she liked the guy or not. If anything, she seemed a little envious and a smidge overprotective.

  Even though Mags had stayed in Europe longer than originally planned, she had committed to live with all of us for senior year. We’d saved her one of the bedrooms in the old Victorian house Jo and Ben found. Six bedrooms and three bathrooms, it was a big improvement over the crazy apartment we rented last summer. No one had to sleep in the dining room or on a porch. Plus, compared to the dorms, it was a palace.

  The kitchen had an eating area where we hung out most nights. Surrounded by ancient pale green linoleum flooring, minty cabinets and avocado-colored appliances, the room provided an institutionally calm gathering place.

  Above the enamel topped kitchen table hung Jo’s chore wheel, a leftover from last summer. Looking like a bossy, demonic roulette wheel, each slice of the pie contained some form of domestic torture: vacuuming, dishes, kitchen, dusting, bathroom one, bathroom two. Jo and Ben had the master and were in charge of their own bathroom. Even so, odds were heavily stacked on someone having to clean a toilet once a week.

  Jo had a real thing about messes. Leave a dish or ten in the sink and suffer her wrath. That’s why I locked the cupboards with padlocks, and set out paper plates and plastic utensils during my week of dish duty.

  I stared at the wheel, plotting to burn it after graduation. Let Jo be someone else’s house mother. I imagined the flames curling up around the edges of the wheel and bursting through the center like the opening credits of Bonanza.

  I loved that show as a kid. Michael Landon was incredibly dreamy. Then he grew up to be Pa Ingalls. The sexiest homesteader there ever was in high-waisted pants and suspenders, holding those reins like he meant business.

  Humming the theme from Little House on the Prairie, I made a shopping list for the party.

  “Fantasizing about Mr. Ingalls again?” Selah stole one of my double-stuff Oreos.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You were humming the song. It’s your tell.” She opened a cookie, licked out the center, and set the two empty halves on the table. Like anyone else would eat them without their delicious cream filling.

  I moved the package out of her reach. “I can’t help it. He was my first crush as a kid.”

  “Really? I can’t remember mine.” She jumped up on the counter and thumped the lower cabinets with her feet. “I think it was probably Christopher Plummer as the Captain in Sound of Music. My entire family watched it every year when it came on TV. We were allowed to stay up late and my mother would make Jiffy-Pop.”

  “No crush on Rolf, the cute but soulless Nazi?”

  “Too blond and too virginal. Couldn’t think for himself, but bossy at the same time. All talk, no action. I need a man willing to stand up for what he believes in. Plus, blonds have never done it for me. Too Ken. I’m definitely not Barbie.”

  “You’re more like an evil Tinkerbell.” She’d cut her hair shorter and gone darker a la Winona Ryder.

  She ignored my pixie reference. “Who carries a riding crop around for no reason? Did you see him on a horse in the movie?”

  “Never. Not a single horse.” Of any of us, my money had always been on Selah to be kinky. This conversation proved it.

  “Why do you think I loved him? The authority rolled off of him in waves.” Sighing, she jumped off the counter and stole another cookie.

  Tucking the package closer to me on the bench, I scowled at her. “How do you think Gil is going to take Maggie showing up with Julien?”

  Selah cringed. “He’s been super stoic ever since she left last summer. He’s either excellent about masking his emotions, or it’s not a big deal.”

  We made eye contact for a beat.

  “Exactly. I think the former, too.”

  “You ever find out what happened there?” Of course I’d asked Gil after Maggie and Lizzy left for France. His black mood had been impossible to ignore for the rest of the summer. Then the whole goat incident happened in October with him and Ben in the gym. Luckily, no one could prove it had been either of them and the goat owner didn’t pursue charges. In the spring, he acted almost normal after he started dating random girls when we returned from winter break.

  “Maggie was bummed Gil didn’t come over with us. I didn’t really have an explanation for why, so I avoided the subject.”

  “I still think something went down. And by something going down, I mean blow job at the least.”

  “Quinn!”

  “Okay, okay. He hoed her lady garden.”

  “That’s worse!” She giggled. “Are you calling him a ho?”

  “If the label fits.”

  Calming down from her laughing fit, she played with her long, silver chain. “In all honesty, something happened last summer. I’m a little nervous how it’s going to be all living together this year. Aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. I think everyone will be fine as long as the Frenchie doesn’t stay. What’s French for awkward?” She lunged for my side and stole the cookies before scampering out of the kitchen.

  To celebrate the return of our traveling friend, Ben agreed to fire up the hibachi for a cookout the Friday following her triumphant return. It was a rare night when everyone had time off or didn’t have other plans.

  We lit the tiki torches in the yard and threw an old Indian cotton bedspread over the table to fancy things up. However, I was on dish duty according to Mother Jo’s chore chart. We set the table with paper plates, plastic forks, and plastic cups.

  “If we burn everything, we’re saving it from the landfills.” I proudly declared from my lawn chair.

  “I don’t think you can burn plastic. It gives off some sort of toxic fumes or something.” Gil stabbed a bite of macaroni salad.

  I took away Gil’s fork and staked it into the ground. “Then you can use your fingers, Mr. Smartass.”

  He could manage macaroni salad with his fingers. Luckily, the rest of the menu included finger friendly burgers and corn.

  Glancing toward the table, I watched as Julien sniffed the bowl of macaroni salad. He bent over and gave it a big inhale.

  I silently asked Selah a question with my eyes. Who sniffs their food?

  How rude. Her expression replied.

  “It hasn’t gone bad. Try it.” Maggie took the spoon and dumped some on her plate. “It’s delicious. A classic American cookout food.”

  Julien frowned at her large serving and scooped two noodles, a slice of pickle, and a sliver of hard boiled egg on his plate.

  “Maybe he thinks we’re trying to poison him?” Gil kicked my shin. “Death by mayonnaise?”

  “Ouch.” I rubbed my leg. “Isn’t mayonnaise French?” I whispered to Lizzy on my other side.

  She shrugged. “He’s very picky about food. Whatever you do, don’t mention cheese.”

  “What are his thoughts about Velveeta?” I stage-whispered back at her.

  Her hand pinched my bicep hard enough I knew it would leave a mark.

  “Stop! The two of you are going to leave bruises.” In defense, I made a kung fu gesture with my arms. “Fine, no one said it was real cheese.”

  Frenchie shot me a look from the corner of his eye. Lizzy
hadn’t been kidding about him. So serious. So stern.

  Nothing like Gerard Depardieu.

  Which, in all honesty, was a huge relief.

  I’d worried he wanted a green card more than he wanted an American girlfriend. But from all the love eyes he kept giving Maggie, and the not-so-quiet love sounds coming from her room earlier today, this was definitely more Last Tango in Paris than Green Card.

  If true, we should probably hide the margarine. I’d have to talk to Maggie about the love that dare not speak its name. I could recommend some water based lubricants.

  So much for the night not being awkward.

  Immediately after eating, Gil excused himself to go to rehearsal. I wanted to point out the band never rehearsed on Fridays because Mark worked. However, I figured from his sour expression all night, he needed an excuse to escape.

  I couldn’t blame him. The Frenchman had stolen his puppy. It hurt to watch him around Maggie.

  For the past nine months, I’d optimistically hoped once they were back in the same space, they’d fall into their old platonic, barely suppressed sexual tension selves. For once, I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  The Berlin Wall may have come down, but a new wall had been built between the two of them. Sure, they were polite and even gave each other a hello hug, but a cloud of awkwardness hung over them like Pigpen’s dust cloud.

  I didn’t know if Julien picked up on it, but the rest of us did. So many silent conversations had taken place in the last twenty-four hours using only our facial expressions and hand gestures, we could’ve all become a troupe of mimes. Ironic, oui?

  Two weeks after the dinner, Maggie returned from SeaTac, red-nosed and puffy-eyed after saying au revoir to Frenchie. Later in the afternoon, the girls took over the living room with multiple pints of ice cream and sad movies from Blockbuster.

  “Do you really think Beaches is the best thing to watch right now?” I walked through the living room on my way to the kitchen for snacks. A box of Cheez-Its called my name.

  Four tear-stained faces greeted me. I flinched at the emotional messes sprawled on the couch and floor.

  “It’s cathartic.” Maggie resembled a lab rat with her beady pink eyes swollen from hours of crying.

  “You’re all insane.” I took another step closer to the safe zone of the kitchen.

  Lizzy blew her nose. “We’re watching Steel Magnolias next.”

  I paused. “I do love a snappy Dolly Parton quote.” I squeezed next to Selah on the couch and picked up Jo’s pint of Cherry Garcia.

  “You can stay, but you cannot mock, and you have to get your own spoon.” Jo snatched her spoon away from me.

  By the time the funeral scene came on, they were all laughing through their tears, promising they’d always be friends. Girls.

  I’d been distracted by Tom Skerritt’s mustache every scene he appeared in. I liked his uptight demeanor and snarky banter with Ouiser. She reminded me of what I imagined Selah to be when she got old.

  No way I’d ever tell her. Although, which would be worse? Mrs. Roper? Or Ouiser?

  “Enough of the emo girl time. We should go out and listen to some live music. Dance away your blues.” I threw Lizzy’s old afghan over Maggie’s head.

  “Are Inflammable Flannel playing this week?” Selah asked, always the instigator.

  “I could use some angry rock music.” Maggie poked her head out from the tangled pile of pink and purple yarn.

  “Speaking of music, Nirvana is playing the Paramount on Halloween. We should get tickets,” Selah suggested.

  “With the cute new drummer?” Lizzy’s interest in most bands fell in direct relationship to the level of her crushes.

  “Mmm . . . he’s very cute.” Selah’s sleeping with musicians phase had been in full force since last summer. First, Mark, and then two guys from a four piece out of Seattle. Not at the same time. Or maybe she had. After I accused her of being a groupie and she stopped speaking to me for a week, I didn’t ask. She didn’t share.

  “What about San Francisco and Castro?” I’d talked about this for three years, ever since the road trip freshman year.

  Seeing my pout, Lizzy crawled over to me. “I’ll go with you, Q. Maybe we can get cheap tickets and fly.”

  “You’re the Wendy to my Peter.” I kissed the top of her head.

  “Freedom! ’90” ~ George Michael

  LIZZY STUMBLED OFF the curb next to me.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I tripped over my flames.”

  For her Joan of Arc costume, I’d sewn lamé and starch-stiffened cotton flames to her shoes. If she stood still, she looked like a woman in a white dress. When she walked, she appeared to be on fire. It was brilliant, if I said so myself.

  Next to her, my costume was a cliché.

  “Nice Wendy and Peter Pan,” a drunk girl shouted at us. “Where’s the pixie dust?”

  The man next to her threw glitter into the air. “I’ve got it right here!”

  “I’m not Wendy.” Lizzy pouted. “Everyone thinks I’m Wendy.”

  “Martyrs and saints aren’t the typical San Francisco costumes, my dear.” I pointed at the two girls standing next to us with shaved heads. “Sinead O’Conner, yes. Patron saint, no.”

  As soon as we got closer to Market Street, crowds filled the road and sidewalks. The heart of Castro sat a few blocks to the west, but the Halloween festivities spiraled out from there. Everyone dressed in costume, including several massive groups. We passed through an entire deck of cards and the cast of Wizard of Oz, including dozens of flying monkeys.

  I’d stumbled into another world. Sure, I’d gone to clubs and gay bars in Seattle, but San Francisco was the mothership, gay heaven. I could have been on the planet of Transexual Transylvania with all the Dr. Frakenfurters from Rocky Horror parading around.

  I wanted to stand still, absorbing everything around me. I wanted to run through the streets. I didn’t want to miss a single thing. I barely resisted clapping my hands in glee.

  I couldn’t believe the rest of my friends weren’t here with me. They’d stayed in Seattle to go to the Nirvana show at the Paramount.

  I could’ve gone with them, but I’d dreamed of coming here for Halloween for years. Probably since high school. I’d imagined Castro like a rainbow Oz at the end of a multi-colored brick road.

  Lizzy had been a good sport and ditched her dream of seducing the long-haired drummer to join me. She would always be up for an adventure.

  I think the club we went to sophomore year really opened her mind to the fun of hanging with the gay boys. She made a fabulous hag—a high compliment.

  Everywhere I looked were half-dressed men. October in San Francisco wasn’t exactly warm, but they didn’t seem to mind. Apparently, leather—even ass-less leather chaps—really held in the body heat. I wondered if body paint and glitter had similar insulating properties.

  “So many leather boys.” Lizzy spun in a circle as she took in the crowd around us.

  “So little time.”

  “They don’t seem your type. I thought you liked preppy guys.” She pointed out a guy dressed as a nerd, complete with thick black frames and a cardigan. He was adorable.

  “Now we’re talking.” Unfortunately, he held hands with another guy dressed as a nerd, too.

  My fantasy of locking eyes with someone across a crowded space, the world falling silent around us as we recognized each other as soulmates began to fade.

  Music pulsed from the doorways of bars and clubs along Market and Castro as we wandered the streets. The crowd surged around us, continually erupting into whoops and blowing whistles while dancing.

  Hands grabbed my waist and spun me around. Before I could register the face, someone’s tongue thrust into my mouth. The hands moved from my torso down to my ass and squeezed.

  Well, howdy.

  My kissing stranger’s fingers stopped squeezing and his tongue slipped from my mouth. Opening my lids, a shocked expression in a pair of unfamilia
r brown eyes greeted me.

  He jumped back. I could see he’d dressed like Captain Hook, complete with wig and a very large hook.

  You know what they say about pirates with large hooks, right?

  He was cute. Very cute. Not much older than me.

  “You’re not Darren.”

  I licked my bottom lip where the tingle of his breath spray still lingered. “Not even close.”

  “I could die.” He blushed despite his makeup. I could see the red slide down his neck to his exposed chest. “You’re in the same costume.”

  “I won’t tell Darren if you don’t.”

  “I—” The crowd pushed us apart and he yelled the rest of his sentence, “I’m sorry. You’re a great kisser.”

  “Did you just make out with a complete stranger?” Lizzy sounded awed beside me. “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Strange and completely random, but totally cool. A man kissing another man in the middle of the street, and no one cared. I’d never kissed a stranger before.

  At least I usually got a name first. By usually, I meant the two other times I’d kissed random guys at clubs.

  “The night certainly has become more interesting. Come on, Peter, let’s go have an adventure.” Lizzy tucked her arm under mine and pulled me up the hill, dancing her way through the crowd.

  After too few hours of sleep, we decided to revisit the Castro for a late morning Bloody Mary before catching our flight back to Seattle. Like Stonewall in the Village in New York City, Twin Peaks was a must visit stop on the gay pilgrimage route. Inside the funky old bar, a group of even funkier old queens sat at several tables shoved together.

  They welcomed us with a cheer and a shot of whiskey. “We’re toasting to Aaron. Everyone who comes in has to have a shot.”

  “Which one of you is Aaron?” I raised the shot glass to toast to our generous host.

  An older, very thin man pointed to the beautiful wooden box on the table.

  “Oh.” I gulped down the burning liquid. I nudged Lizzy to drink hers. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You have no idea. He’s our sixth friend to die since summer.” Tears spilled down his face and the guy next to him slung his arm over his shoulder in a hug. I immediately recognized the dark spots on the exposed skin.