Fox (Bodhi Beach Book 1)

by SM Lumetta

  Fox snorts then coughs. “Please stop doing that.”

  “What?”

  “The vagina nicknames. It’s awkward.”

  “No more awkward than your penis titles. I’m so proud of you for saying ‘vagina,’ by the way. Usually it’s pussy this, pussy that,” I say.

  “I’m a medical professional. It shouldn’t be shocking when I use the terminology.” He turns and sits down on the other lounger. Flower jumps out of her nap spot between my legs. She whines and barks at him before just going back in the house. “Anyway, I don’t know. Doc’s kind of always had a thing for you.”

  I snap my head in his direction, holding him with my gaze of death. “Are you kidding me?”

  His expression takes on one of contrition. “No. I always thought he just wanted to bag you, so I encouraged him elsewhere.”

  “By?”

  “By telling him you thought he was gross.”

  “What are you, thirteen? No, that’s too old. Eleven?” I don’t wait for a reply and get up. “Look, I gotta go. Hopefully I didn’t lose my keys along with my pants.”

  “Why don’t you hang out? I’ll make breakfast.”

  “I’m not helping you clean this shit up. I have work to do anyway,” I lie. I don’t. I finished up anything I had to send off to the production manager by Thursday. I just feel awkward and need to get home and in my own space for some recharging. “Not to mention, you don’t cook.”

  “Dammit.”

  And for a minute there, I thought he genuinely wanted me to stay.

  I’m a little caught up on the Doc thing. First he hits on me, then bags some other random in my wake. It doesn’t fit. Especially when Fox goes and confirms he liked me before.

  The more I think about it, the less I care to ponder. I love Doc as a friend, but that’s it. He’s gorgeous, hella smart, funny. But most importantly in this scenario, on Nora’s shit list. I still can’t get the full story on that, which is a shame since I think they’d fit together so well. Though, who’s to say Doc is a relationship kind of guy? He’s never had a girlfriend longer than a month since I’ve known him. He and Fox have that in common.

  A lead brick drops in my gut and I plant my suddenly heavy ass on my sofa. The silence in my place feels hella loud and staticky and I haven’t changed out of my clothes from the party. I did find my pants, by the way. In the refrigerator!

  Before I can start wallowing and overexamining my feelings, however, my phone rings. It’s Mom.

  “Hi, baby!” she trills. “Are you coming over today? I’m making brunch. Ruben is going to make café con leche and he made fresh pan cubano—that’s Cuban-style bread.”

  I adore my mom’s Spanish accent. It’s getting better, but it’s still pretty awful. “I know what it is, Mom. Sounds delicious. I’ll be there. I forgot.”

  “You’re hungover, aren’t you?” she says and I look around quickly, as if she has hidden cameras or spies in my house.

  “How the hell do you know?”

  She chortles. Really. That’s the best word for the sound she just made. “Because I’m your mother. I can hear the pain in your voice.”

  I groan and close my eyes, wishing I had time for a nap. “You’re evil.”

  “Also, I just talked to Fox to see if he was coming with you.”

  My stomach crawls into the tips of my big toes. “You called Fox before me?”

  “I thought you’d be there. Nora said you were going to his party last night. Was it fun?”

  I can hear all sorts of food prep in the background. Ruben turned on the music and is singing along to it. He’s got a great voice. Mom starts humming as she waits for me to answer.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, halfheartedly.

  “Oh, really?” She definitely heard me. “I look forward to hearing all about it. Take a shower before you come over. If you smell like I think you smell, you’re not coming in.”

  As soon as we hang up, Fox calls. He’s coming to pick me up in twenty.

  The audience laughs at me.

  “Remember when you two got fake married in the backyard?” Mom asks us.

  Fox and I are sitting at the breakfast bar eating the amazing brunch she and Ruben made. We look at each other, scoping one another for recognition of the story. I’m also looking for his reaction to it. I immediately stop myself.

  “No.” We answer in unison, which is a little creepy. Mom rolls right past it because it isn’t that unusual. Or at least it wasn’t when we were kids. Now, it’s a little disconcerting.

  “You don’t?” She’s genuinely surprised, so she rattles off details as she cleans up the pans and countertop. “Fox proposed with a blue leash string from his dad’s old surfboard and tied it around your finger.”

  “What?” I say, wondering if she’s made this whole thing up to torture me. “I don’t remember this.”

  “That’s what mothers are for, Puddin’,” she says, continuing. “He told me, ‘Margit’—do you remember you used to call me ‘Margit,’ Fox?”

  He shakes his head but offers, “Now I just call you ‘Hot Mama.’ ”

  Mom laughs, but I look at him and make something akin to a “did you fart” expression.

  “So full of shit,” she says, continuing with the details of a fake wedding that I’m not totally convinced actually happened, yet she’s treating the facts of the case like it was a real, legit ceremony. “Sophie stole my best lacy slip, cinched it with a red patent leather belt. Fox stole some ridiculous black heels from Roz’s closet, and then Soph made a crown and veil out of a broken, yellow plastic bowl and some old Christmas napkins.”

  Fox’s lower lip juts out as he nods a mock approval and gives me a thumbs-up. “Classy choice.”

  I flip him off. “You wore your mother’s shoes.”

  “No,” Mom says, delighted. “The shoes were for you. He wore her fluffy red robe as a suit.”

  I guffaw. “Even better. Please say it had flowers on it.”

  “You guys honestly don’t remember? I have to have a picture somewhere,” she continues, musing to herself where said photo evidence may be. She looks around the kitchen as though it might give her a clue. I follow her intently with my eyes as I’ll need to burn the pictures later, should they truly exist. “I was hired as the official photographer. ‘Polaroids only, Mommy,’ you’d said. Directing my style choices even then.”

  “No, I don’t remember,” I say honestly. “Did we ever get fake divorced? Can I ask for fake alimony? I get fake half of everything you fake have, dude.”

  Mom takes the question as a hilariously serious inquiry, answering, “No.”

  Fox sighs theatrically. “I guess we’re not committing any mortal sins, then.”

  My entire face dilates and my mouth opens like a dying fish. My eyes damn near pop out as my brows hide behind my ears. My pupils? The size of the moon. I smack his thigh. He jumps and looks at me finally, his expression clear. He has no idea what he said.

  “Your filter is for shit,” I hiss under my breath.

  “Wait, what does that mean?” I’m so glad Mom did not let that one slip by. And by “that one,” I very clearly mean the mortal sins slip by Prince Idiot von Dumbass.

  “Nothing, Mom,” I say through my teeth. “Way to go, bumblefuck,” I growl at him. He’s still in the lap of gorge-himself-on-other’s-food luxury, while I know Mom’s going to piece this crap together all too easily.

  “Hold on,” she declares with a tilt to her lips. Here we go. “Is Fox the sperm donor? Why didn’t you tell me?!” She has a look of hurt on her face.

  I sigh and feel a weight settle on me. Fox, however, wastes no time in making it as bad as he possibly can.

  “Well, in the biblical sense, yes. I’m not sure why she didn’t tell you.”

  Mom gasps, but I see her eyes twinkling. She’s going to give me such shit. I can tell she’s pissed I didn’t disclose, but now that she knows there’s actual real live sex involved, she’s got other ideas. Wedding bell ideas.


  “Asshat,” I snap. Fox makes a doltish face, far too at ease with all this. I may have to kill him. After I get pregnant, of course. Then he dies.

  “So is this more than—”

  “Mom,” I snap, my voice a warning. “This is business.”

  Fox adds, “Frisky business.”

  I don’t even bother to turn and look at him. “He’s basically doing me a favor. Sort of. It’s—”

  “I’m doing you as a favor,” he says because the motherfucker can’t keep his mouth shut for the life of him. I briefly entertain the idea of becoming a monk in Nepal. Maybe a permanent house sitter in Antarctica.

  “Fox Adam Monkhouse,” Mom hisses, hitting him with her rolled up Entertainment Weekly magazine. “I will call your mother.”

  Bizarrely, that gets his attention. “Sorry, Margaret,” he says, giving her the puppy dog eyes. “I got a little carried away.”

  “You two,” Mom murmurs.

  “Seriously? You lump me in with this freak?” I say before shoving a hunk of warm, buttered pan cubana in my mouth.

  She smiles crookedly, lifting her mug to her lips. As she sips, I realize it says “#1 Grandma” and I choke on the bite I just tried to inhale.

  A minor flurry of activity swirls around me including a too-hard thump on the back and Mom screaming in my ear that I need to breathe. Ruben is chattering in Spanish somewhere in the background, but maybe he’s talking to Mona, their dog. My arms flail out and around until I hit someone and the fuss subsides. I cough and manage to clear my own airway. “It’s like you guys were trying to kill me instead of help.”

  “Your airway was blocked,” Fox says. “We were trying to help.”

  “You know if—” Mom starts, but I cut her off.

  “Just stop, you guys. Thanks, I’m alive. So, Mom,” I retort, barely or not at all hiding my irritation. “Number one grandma, huh? Seriously?”

  She turns to look at the mug she left on the counter. “What? It’s positive thinking.”

  I point the mug out to Fox.

  He chortles and sips his coffee. “Classic.”

  I smack him on the back of the head and he flips me the bird.

  “Am I the only one who sees this as a sort of jinx? Pregnancy harassment, even?” My pitch has gone squeaky in the face of my ire. I sound like a fucking squirrel. Fox laughs like the evil bastard he is.

  “Oh, get over yourself,” Mom says with a groan. She goes back to drink her coffee. “It’s your grandmother’s mug. She left it when she visited last weekend.”

  The “bullshit” glare I level at her is countered with the mother of all mothers’ laser-beam death-match eye daggers. I know I’m going to lose that battle, so I grab the mug from her hands and lift it so I can see the bottom. The name “Jean” is written in a flowery script in blue marker. It’s a little smudged and worn on the edges.

  “Okay, fine,” I say, sheepish as I hand it back. “I never pictured Gram as someone who travels with her own mugs other than to boozy bingo, but the woman has her quirks.”

  “Don’t she, though?” Mom agrees, smug.

  Were she not my mother, I would want to slap the smirk off her face. Since she is my mom, I just try to look contrite.

  She leans over and smacks me on the back of the head. And again with the “you two.”

  My bread and eggs soon disappear and I unleash a flood of maple syrup on my bacon. Fox groans when he sees this. It’s a groan of pleasure and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t spark a series of dirty thoughts and ideas, which come to a screeching halt the moment I remember my mother is standing right in front of us. Sophie’s beachfront property dries up like a magic trick.

  Fox clears his throat and I snap my eyes to his. He’s holding up a strip of his own bacon that he just doused in syrup. I roll my eyes, but his smile is contagious. “Cheers,” we say in unison, “clinking” our bacon together.

  This time Mom just smiles knowingly, sips her coffee, and side-eyes the both of us.

  Fox nearly convinces me to have sex in my childhood bedroom while my mom and Ruben are out in the yard. I remind him that after Ruben moved in, Margaret had repurposed the room into his “man cave.” If I ever stay over with them, I sleep in the guest room. Fox is visibly disappointed and I’m a little relieved. He tells me I’m “in for it” tonight.

  “After the karaoke showdown?” I ask.

  “Oh, shit, yeah!” he yells, gunning the engine of his truck. “Just wait until you see my costume.”

  “Oh, good,” I say drily, narrowing my eyes at Fox. “Now I can be afraid.”

  His grin confirms it.

  Costumes were never required when Nora and I started the showdown. Nora’s cousin owned a karaoke bar at the time, and let us take it over. It was originally a graduation party-slash-farewell to everyone going off to college. Every summer, we’d get talked into doing it again as a pre-semester blowout. Obviously, college students need a reason to party until they lose valuable brain cells. By the time we started graduating university, it was deemed an annual tradition for a core group of us.

  Being that this year is the ten-year anniversary, the showdown is special, so a bunch of our old classmates used the opportunity to come in from out of town for the only class reunion most of us are interested in. Since the ante on performances is upped with every year, costumes became expected. A big anniversary like this is basically code for: dress up or go home.

  I arrive at The Post around eight thirty, and it’s already packed. When Fox comes in about twenty minutes later, I automatically smile. He’s dressed in the most ridiculous costume. This idiot simply cannot resist the urge to go all out. You gotta love that about him. Today, he’s dressed as Elvis. If there’s one outfit I did not want to see on Fox, it’s that white jumpsuit. At least he’s not dressed as Britney Spears, which he did threaten to do.

  When he walks up to me, I none-too-subtlely gesture to his crotch. “You’re kind of showing everyone the goods,” I say. “Are you even wearing underwear? I assume that’s rented.”

  He barely blinks. “So? No. And yes, but it’s a replica.” He makes an Elvis impersonator face as if somehow all this information is now sexier.

  “Well, you just lost your deposit.”

  “It’s not like I didn’t have it cleaned first,” he argues.

  “How about after?” I ask.

  “That’s their problem.”

  “Oh God,” I groan, my head falling back and off my shoulders. Sort of. Yeah, not really, but I let it hang there for a moment. “You’re adorable,” I say, reaching up to pinch his cheek. Then I slap it.

  “Don’t get me excited in this suit,” he hisses. I’m at once excited myself, but also entertained. I hug him. He hugs me back. I pull away quickly because if I don’t, I fear I’ll linger too long.

  I grab a beer out of the communal ice buckets and hand him one as well. We twist off the caps in unison and smile at each other. I lick the neck of the bottle before throwing back a huge gulp. I wink after I swallow.

  His face falls slack. That means I got him. I smirk.

  “So, ‘Blue Hawaii’?” I ask. Actually, I kind of shout the question because the preshow playlist is cranked up to eleven.

  It takes him a second to get his upper brain back from the lower one, but a quick adjustment-slash-wrestling match fixes the issue. Finally he just looks at me as if to say, “What are you on about?”

  “Your song choice,” I say, leaning forward toward his ear. Hopefully, my tone makes him feel like this should have been obvious.

  “No, no,” he says, waving me off and adjusting himself one more time. Dudes. “It’s a surprise.”

  “ ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ is not a surprise, Fox,” I tell him. His eyes go wide—too wide and his mouth drops open in mock shock. “Well, that’s good because that’s not it either.” His grin is contagious.

  “ ‘My Way.’ ”

  “No.”

  “ ‘Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love.’ ” />
  “Will you stop?”

  “ ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’ ” I’ve got my game face on, so he starts laughing. “You’re seriously not going to tell me?”

  “I don’t even know if I’m on your team!” he shouts. Three people passing us startle like he yelled “Gun!” in a crowded bank. They very nearly drop to the floor. In fairness, Fox did manage to pick the lull in music to make the exclamation.

  I give him the hairy eyeball in response.

  “Who says it has to be one of his songs, which you know a disturbing number of, by the way?” He sips his beer and scans the room.

  “Everyone knows those songs, Fox.”

  “Not telling you.” He legit gets in my face like a seven-year-old.

  “Asshole.” I make a hissing sound, but I clearly don’t mean it.

  “You love me.”

  “It’s a default setting,” I say, winking. Why did I wink? It’s a tic. Yeah, that’s right. A tic.

  The audience titters.

  Sooner or later, we finally get our increasingly drunk act together and separate into two huge teams. Fox and I are, in fact, on the same team, though he’s somewhere by the actual bar when I decide to take one for the team and go first. I, too, have a costume but it’s super easy.

  I have acid wash cutoffs I dug up in my mom’s costume trunk—they were hers and I will never stop laughing about that—high-top Converse, and a denim vest I pinched from the lost and found just as I walked in—pure luck, that one. Before running up on stage, I rip off my sweatshirt to reveal a vintage Def Leppard T-shirt and slap on some faux leather stud cuffs and bright red lipstick. I’m so ready to rock the shit out of this.

  The pièce de résistance is a blond mullet wig I pull on just before I run up the stairs onto the stage. Naturally I get lots of wolf whistles. Because mullets. Am I right?

  I hear Nora hooting at the back of the room, and instantly know she is shoving her way up front to get pictures. I’m surprised but flooded with joy when I see Cameron is with her. Cam is dressed as Madonna. I almost cry with how happy it makes me. I vogue at him after strutting up to the front of the stage, and he gives me the “rock on” bullhorns. The mic stand has a Steven Tyler-approved number of scarves attached to it and I wonder who added them. Or who will be blessing us with some Aerosmith today. I steal the white one off the stand and add it to my outfit.