Fox (Bodhi Beach Book 1)

by SM Lumetta

  All the color drains from his face. I knew that would get him, even though my clear disapproval of said collection flies right over his head. No amount of gay jokes deter him from his love of ABBA. Even Cameron, my drag queen brother, teases him about it—though Cam detests ABBA for an entirely different host of reasons I don’t quite understand. It seems illegal for a drag queen to hate them, but there it is. In any case, Fox will jam to “Waterloo” with the queeniest of the queens as he is blissfully confident in his sexuality. It’s actually one of his best qualities. And worst.

  “Think ‘Godzilla Does Dominoes’ with a barf tsunami chaser,” I add, highly enjoying his look of extreme unease and queasiness. It feels like payback for his Tinder contributions.

  “For serious?”

  “Dog Star Sirius.”

  Fox shoves the beer into my free hand—the very same bottle he’d used to attempt a violation of my back door—and hurries into the house. He trips over the track of the sliding doors, and I cackle. My aim is to make sure he feels like an ass. Especially since he flashes the entire deck his red lace thong when he falls. For my trouble, I get a middle finger flung behind his back as he scrambles toward his “office.” I am a little scarred by the thong.

  Fox leaves the door open, but Cameron takes care of it on his way out.

  “I see his ass is on fire,” he notes. “Who lit it? You? Please say it was you, Sophie. You know I love you like a sister.”

  I nod. “I am your sister.”

  “My older sister.”

  “Unnecessary and rude, but yes, I did light his ass on fire. Because I live for these moments.” I pause to take a sip of my foster beer, and then ask for the bottom line. “So Hamilton? Yay or nay?”

  Cameron sucks his teeth and shakes his head. His long brown hair swirls, a curtain swinging in front of his face. Sometimes people think we’re twins despite the lack of identical features. I have blue eyes, he has brown. I have mom’s nose, he has dad’s. I tan easily. He fries like bacon.

  “No! Really? I had high hopes for him,” I say. My brother has had a string of failed relationships lately—all of which seem to start with such promise, but end with spectacularly horrible results. I’m not sure what’s going on with him these days, but I’m happy to see him out again. He’s usually a fixture at Fox’s parties and in our circles, but over the last month or two he’s been a no-show.

  “You liked him because you could sing the musical soundtrack at him instead of greet him by his actual name—which was actually Hamilton and not Alexander Hamilton,” he notes. He’s not wrong. “He hated it, by the way.”

  “Who hates Hamilton the musical?! That’s un-American,” I declare jokingly and guzzle more of my beer.

  “Hamilton the Boyfriend, that’s who. He is British, by the way.”

  “And yet is also an American citizen,” I argue in the same tone of voice. Fox’s dog Flower bumps my free hip with her head. I hand Cameron my foster drinks to give my girl some love. “Am I right, baby girl? Yes. Yes, I am. Good baby puppy girl. We’re always right.”

  My animal cooing increases in pitch and volume and quickly attracts others of my ilk—read: nutjobs who go googly-eyed over cute pets no matter where they are. Flower soon gets her share of belly rubs.

  “In any case,” Cam says loud enough to regain my attention, “it’s over. He wants to move to Seattle or something grungy.”

  “He knows Kurt Cobain died, right?” I say as I stand, leaving Flower to her next nap.

  Cam shrugs, handing me back my alcoholic charges. “I’m not sure. He wasn’t the brightest.”

  “Absolutely did not live up to the name, did he?”

  “No.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “Except for the cheating part.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “Stand down,” he teases. “You know, you’re like a sailor with that mouth. Anyway, it’s nothing worth mentioning. And it’s moot.”

  I finally notice how uncomfortable my brother looks right now. He keeps shifting foot to foot and his eyes are constantly scanning everyone around us. He doesn’t have a problem discussing this kind of thing usually.

  “Are you okay, Cam? Like, for real, not just bullshit conversation. You look almost queasy. Is something else going on aside from the Ham thing?”

  He mumbles something I don’t understand, but the odd expression that had me questioning crumbles and disappears from his face like a landslide. I make a note to stop by unannounced and see if he’ll open up privately. In the meantime, I make sure he knows the door is open.

  “If you need to unload anything,” I say, my hand on his arm, “I’ve got an ear. Two, even. You can talk to me. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving me off. “I’m okay right now, but thanks.”

  “Okay,” I reply, probably examining the poor guy a little too closely. He’s not had it easy since coming out in high school. Dad was not the most understanding. He made a late effort, but his initial reactions significantly colored their relationship after that. They only just recently patched things up to the point that holidays and family time with him and Dad’s second wife, Kristin, aren’t super awkward and charged. They even occasionally talk unscheduled.

  At that moment, Iris reemerges from the house with a look of defeat on her face. She runs her fingers through her short blond crop, gripping her locks tightly before dropping her arms to her sides and groaning.

  “And? Daniel and the den of the one tiny, baby, toothless lion?” I ask, not at all hopeful.

  Iris tries to enjoy the joke, but it’s forced and sounds more like a dying seal. “He’s coming.”

  “Like, in his pants?” I hand her back her drink.

  Cameron titters at my joke—sounds just like Mom. Good sign.

  She rolls her eyes, annoyed. “No, Sophie. Jesus.”

  “Jesus is coming?” I can’t help myself now. I’ve barely sipped my new ass-beer, and it’s technically my first drink. Cameron doubles over, but tries to stifle his noise. It just makes it worse.

  “Ugh.” She’s clearly deciding to treat me like her husband, so she explains slowly and ignores Cameron altogether. “Daniel. Is bringing. The baby. To the barbecue.”

  A look of horror spreads across my face—it’s sarcastic horror because it wouldn’t bother me, necessarily, but as pissed as she looks, I’m feigning support. Badly.

  “Wow. That’s gorgeous. Put that on your Tinder profile,” she snarks, slightly amused.

  I feel a stab in the side. Tinder. Never again. Maybe when someone creates an app for “Meet Your Ideal Sperm Donors.”

  Cameron catches the slip in expression. His eyebrows pinch together and he raises one at me, questioning. I shake my head to indicate I will tell him later and he nods. Iris, however, is silently fuming. I sense a potential spontaneous combustion so I snatch the phone from her hands and pull up the call log.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice jumping octaves like a teenage boy in the midst of the change. She grabs at me, trying to get the phone back, but I’m much taller and block her easily.

  “I am taking care of this shit,” I say. The surge of power comes from the inability to control my own life, I’m sure, but if it makes me feel like I can do something, let’s do it.

  The phone rings once before Daniel picks up. “I’m on my way! I just have to find the car seat adaptor!” He sounds panicked like “the house is burning down around me” panicked. I can hear Will screaming in the background.

  “Daniel?” I say, loud as I can without alerting everyone at the barbecue that I’m going to lay down the law. I pace away from Iris a little. Cam wraps an arm around her to keep her still. “Daniel!”

  “What? Who—? Sophie? What are you doing?”

  “I’m telling you to stay home,” I say firmly. “Your wife is not going to stay super late and get shitfaced. You can handle another two hours on your own.”

  “You don’t understand, Sophie,” he begins and it sounds
like he’s going to cry. “Will hates me. He doesn’t like anything I do. I’ve changed his diaper four times in the last hour!”

  “I get it, but Will does not hate you. I promise. Now, I’m guessing you tried feeding him and burping and all that?” Iris gets free and palms at the phone. I slap her hands away again. Daniel confirms he did. I’m no expert, despite the books I’ve started reading—I’ve never had more than some babysitting experience and a baby brother. That said, babies feed off others’ energies sometimes. “Okay, okay. Listen, if you freak out, he’s going to freak out. Babies learn how to react to things from us.” Holy ball sack, I sound supersmart right now. I could pass for a doctor. Fine, not at all. “Not to mention I can practically feel the vibrations of anxiety through the phone. Two things: distract and relax. Keep that in mind and Iris will see you in a couple. Okay?”

  “Um.”

  I look at Iris. “Daniel, I’m serious. This is parenting… from what I’ve heard. I mean, you figure it out as you go, because you’re all getting to know each other. Right? Now I’m going to give you over to Iris, who’s going to also calm the fuck down and tell you some things he likes and what works to chill him out. Right?” I glare back at Iris’s cold stare.

  It doesn’t take long before she caves and nods, sucking in a deep breath. She takes the phone roughly and goes back inside. Five minutes later, she emerges and says, “I’m getting a divorce.”

  My skin goes cold and my stomach twists uncomfortably. I would not make it as a therapist. “Stop it.”

  She breaks into a grin and winks, and I’m saved from vomiting. “Kidding. He’s got enough chutzpah for another hour or so. If he can’t make it past that, I’ll just leave.”

  “Good!” I say, patting her shoulder. “See?” Truth is I was talking out of my ass. I didn’t want Iris to leave before I ask her some pregnancy stuff.

  “I tell him things like you mentioned all the time, but for some reason it does not filter through. Anyway, let’s do a shot so it wears off before I have to drive or nurse Will later.”

  I wipe sweat from my brow and lead her to the booze spread for a refill. Just as I finish pouring, Fox pushes between us, picks up her glass, and proceeds to throw it back.

  “You have no idea what I’ve just been through,” he says, throwing a serious look to both of us. “I… I can’t even talk about it.”

  Iris and I eye each other, ready to enjoy his humiliation.

  “Were you inappropriately fondled by a patient?” I ask, scanning his nurse outfit.

  “Samson rubbed his boner on me,” he whispers and dissolves into a crying face, even though he is not, in fact, crying. “I felt it on my ass cheek… while he was groping my fake boobs!”

  Iris falls into the nearest chair in hysterics. Meanwhile, I laugh so hard I cry my mascara off. Since it ends up on my cheeks, I decide to tell anyone who asks that I’m dressing up for early Halloween in solidarity with the birthday boy.

  “I don’t even want to know why Samson has a boner,” I say.

  “He had a g—”

  “I said I do not want to know!” I remind him. “I’m sorry you’ve been violated. You want me to call the cops?” The dirty look he gives me is particularly pathetic. And hilarious. “That’s basically sexual assault, you know.”

  “Nah,” he says, blowing me off. He takes his backdoor-violator beer back and guzzles. He whisper-screams “ahh” before he confesses, “I gave him a bloody nose, so I’m good.”

  “Lucky girl,” Iris tells him with a wink.

  “Are you ready for annihilation?” I shout as I push my way through the door of Fox’s house, a pack of Abita in one arm and a pizza in the other. I should probably start eating a little healthier. I started hormones this past week in preparation for—ugh—sperm shopping. Nora claims I’ll find some “serious pedigreed anonymous spunk” in there, but I’m not convinced. Regardless, Dr. Beaufort insisted that shifting to a healthier diet now can only up my chances of getting knocked up… but clearly she did not mean on Mortal Kombat night.

  “I brought a Greek pizza. Fox? Guys?”

  I somewhat carefully toss the pizza on the breakfast bar and look around. The TV’s not even on and no one is ready to defend their asses from my gaming prowess. After setting the beer down, I follow my nose out to the patio overlooking the beach. There I find Fox, Flower—whose full name is Flowerkraut, since she is a rescued German shepherd, and his monkey bowl. By bowl, of course, I mean hash pipe.

  “Really?” I ask, hunching down to pet my girl. “How the hell are you going to get even close to a proper fatality if you’re stoned?”

  He looks up at me, his eyes only slightly glazed, and grins. “Baby, I could whoop your ass in my sleep.”

  I snort. Flower yips in support. “Get off! When was the last time you beat me?”

  “Last time was the last time!” he claims, standing up carefully, but tripping and nearly face-planting into my boobs. “Whoa! Damn, sorry. Wow. How have I missed how full your rack got since college? Did you buy a pair?”

  Flower hops up, circling his legs. “Good girl,” I coo. Well, it’s more of a subtle demonic-possession sort of voice, but my girl Flo enjoys it.

  Fox’s gaze is still stuck on my cleavage, and my eyes roll of their own accord. “Way to be creepy,” I say, slapping him lightly. He barely notices, but he blinks and looks up. “First, no. Second, no. And third, no more Hawaiian Kush for you.”

  “It’s not Kush!” he says, like it was the silliest possible guess. “It’s oregano.”

  The ridiculousness that ensues stalls us for a minute as we enjoy the joke, but the hilarity follows us inside while he cleans up and packs his pipe away. I lean on a stool briefly as I regain my sense of balance. Oregano is an old inside joke. Once in high school, his mom caught us and a friend smoking pot outside the Shopper’s Mart she was working in at the time. A security guard walked by and when he asked, “What are those miscreants doing?”—God love Roz—she told him, “These idiots were toking up on my best oregano!” We both got grounded, though we bet dollars to donuts Roz and my mom smoked what was left that night.

  “Good times,” I murmur and open the pizza box. “Ohhh, sweet baby Jesus. Feta. Banana peppers. Black olives.”

  “Cheeeeese,” Fox adds.

  “I said feta.”

  “Yeah, and I said cheeeeese.” He picks up a slice and we both watch the mozzarella stretch.

  Drool leaks from the corner of my mouth. “How did I get a contact high?” I say, mostly to myself. “I am starving.”

  With a mouth full of ’za, he chomps his words. “Damn, are you pregnant? You look insane right now.”

  My eyes bulge. Or at least it feels like it. He can’t know about Operation Baby. How could he know? He couldn’t possibly. No. I told no one. Would Dr. B rat me out like that just because she knows we’re friends? No! She’d be fired. That’s a confidentiality breach!

  “What is?” His question breaks my panicked string of thoughts.

  I find his eyes with mine. “What’s what?”

  “A condifendiality breach.”

  “Holy hell, was that oregano laced? You got dumber out there.” And yeah, I must have unintentionally said some things out loud. “Anyway, so where the hell are Doc and Jonah? I thought we were teaming up tonight.” It’s usually at least four of us, sometimes a girlfriend joins—or Brett, when I was still an imbecile. I mean, attached to the psycho.

  “Jonah had to take Rae to her mom’s in Fresno. Won’t be back until Saturday,” Fox says, and I realize he’s already on his second piece.

  “And Doc?”

  Fox stops and turns to me and just glares. It takes me a second but it hits me: Doc’s getting laid.

  “He’s worse than you, man,” I declare. “Are you going to have your junk bronzed when you die? Or just taxidermied?”

  He’s still eating my pizza, so it may be a surprise to him when he chokes.

  I stand and slap him on the back. Hard.


  “Dammit,” he says after I dislodge his food. “How dare you talk about my sacred junk-bronzing ritual with such a callous and demeaning attitude! Not to mention, it’ll be gold-plated titanium, thank you very much.”

  “Whatever keeps the bugs from escaping,” I quip.

  He shakes his head, but he’s smothering giggles. “I hate you.”

  “If only. Shall we play?”

  He nods and grabs a beer, setting the rest of the pack, save one for me, in the fridge. “I WILL FINISH YOU!” he yells, perfectly imitating the Mortal Kombat voice.

  “Promises, promises,” I mutter, a smile in my voice. “Guys always say that.”

  “What about this one?” Nora points at yet another sperm donor option and my stomach dips. I scan his face and sneer.

  “No.”

  “You haven’t even read his profile!” Her voice is shrill with frustration.

  A deep breath and a loud sigh do nothing to calm me. I thought this yoga breathing shit was supposed to help stress. Hashtag fail.

  I look at the screen again and shrug. “At least fifty percent of this decision is based on looks, right? If I’m not—”

  “You’re not banging the guy, Soph,” she says. “This isn’t about attraction.”

  “It kind of is, really,” I argue. “I mean, think about it. At a base human level, we’re programmed to be attracted based on looks. Strong jaw, broad shoulders, whatever tricks your brain into thinking, ‘Hey. His DNA would create a superhero baby. Clearly we should mate.’ ”

  Nora’s resulting “HA!” is not only hazardous for the ears, but unexpected.

  “It wasn’t that funny.”

  “It was, actually,” she says. “Thank you for that. Okay, so that’s a no for Hans.”

  “His name is Hans?”

  “Yeah, he’s of Swedish descent.” Nora clicks back so we can examine his picture again.