Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  She sniffs. “I’m twenty-seven, I know what foods I like, and there are plenty of those on my list already. I don’t see any reason to go around putting weird, random stuff in my mouth just for variety’s sake.”

  I know she’s kidding, trying to deflect with a joke, but I’m too busy thinking about all the things I’d like to feel in her mouth—my fingers, my tongue, other parts I refuse to even imagine—to come up with a witty comeback.

  Instead, as we cross the street, I say, “It’s about expanding your mind, exploring new possibilities, pushing past your limits. Think about all the potentially amazing foods you’re missing out on by sticking to what’s easy and familiar.”

  “Think about all the potentially gross things I’m not allowing past my lips because I’m smart enough to stay on the path and not go wandering into the woods where the poisonous mushrooms grow.”

  I snap my fingers as inspiration strikes. “Great idea. I know a place that specializes in mushrooms. I’ll make us a reservation for tomorrow night.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Oh God, no. Not mushrooms. You know I hate them.”

  “You’ve never tried them.”

  “Because I know I’ll hate them. They’re so slimy and spongy and alien looking. Like . . . raw fish bellies or something.”

  “Also good, if it’s the right fish belly in the hands of a skilled sushi chef.”

  She sticks out her tongue. “Ew. Stop. I’m going to be sick.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re going to be great.” We linger in front of her building and I reach out, squeezing her shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

  She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she says, “Be proud when I don’t stand you up tomorrow night, mushroom man.”

  “You wouldn’t stand me up,” I say. “You wouldn’t even think about it.”

  She meets my gaze, holding it for a long beat that makes my pulse spike again before she whispers, “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll text you the location and meet you at eight,” I say in a soft voice. “Wear something black and slinky.”

  She frowns. “The mushroom restaurant is fancy?”

  “Not in the least. It’s Brooklyn casual. I just enjoy you in clothing that’s black . . . and slinky.”

  Her lips curve into a sneaky grin. “In that case, why don’t you wear those jeans that make your butt look good?”

  On that note, she spins around, heads up her steps, and goes into her building.

  And I do something I rarely do.

  I start thinking about what I’m going to wear the next day.

  7

  Ruby

  This is probably a mission for Gigi.

  I stand in front of my closet the next day, swiping through the options, yanking T-shirt after T-shirt from their hangers and then sticking my tongue out at my clothes.

  It’s not like I’m going to find a lot of black and slinky in here.

  Hell, my wardrobe lately consists of—let’s see—yoga pants, yoga pants, yoga pants, and the occasional pair of jogging shorts.

  Still, I try one more time, just in case I missed some sexy number that would be perfect for . . . mushroom tasting.

  What the hell does one even wear to go mushroom tasting at Forage and Fox?

  Also, who names a café Forage and Fox? What’s appetizing about digging through the dirt or . . . foxes?

  Doesn’t matter.

  Clothes matter.

  Greatly.

  After the triumph in the store yesterday, I’m inclined to bring a level of slink guaranteed to make him drool. Yes, we’re just friends, but there aren’t any rules against friends making friends salivate.

  Especially when Jesse flat-out asked for it.

  But I won’t find anything drool-worthy here.

  I grab my cell phone from the coffee table in my tiny studio, spotting a text from my mom that I’ll check in a few. First, I fire off a quick message to my cousin.

  * * *

  Ruby: Fashion emergency.

  * * *

  I add a firetruck for effect.

  Her reply is instantaneous, but I’m not surprised. I’ve used her two favorite words.

  * * *

  Gigi: At your service! What would you like?

  A. A swimsuit guaranteed to make your breasts perky and your stomach flat?

  B. A pair of skinny jeans to emphasize that bootilicious backside of yours?

  C. To go shopping with your favorite cousin?

  Please say C please. Please say C. Please say C.

  * * *

  After that kind of masterful begging, I fully intend to take pity on her.

  But not immediately.

  * * *

  Ruby: Hmmm . . . well, that swimsuit sounds amazing. But borrowing it would mean I’d have to go swimming, and you know how I feel about bodies of water over two-feet deep. And I’m in the market for something slinkier than jeans.

  * * *

  Gigi: Then C is your only hope! Let’s go shopping.

  * * *

  She sends back approximately a million excited GIFs—the cast of Seinfeld dancing and screaming, Kermit the Frog cheering on a desk, and some random guy doing a happy punching dance in the cereal aisle in his tighty-whiteys.

  And on and on . . .

  As I wait for the explosion of GIFs to slow, I pop over to the text from my mom.

  * * *

  Mom: Dinner last night was so much fun! Here’s the pic the waiter took for us. Is it coming through? I can’t see it on my end. Do you see it? Is my phone broken? Will I ever learn to use this stupid thing before your dad makes me upgrade again next year?

  * * *

  Ruby: You ask a lot of REALLY good questions, LOL. And yes, I can see it. It’s so cute! Thanks, Mom. And thanks for dinner.

  * * *

  Mom: No problemo, baby. Maybe next time we’ll do just the two of us. Have some girl talk.

  * * *

  Ruby: I’d love that. What are you up to on your first day of vacation?

  * * *

  Mom: Oh! I’m working on a new crumble topping. I know I swore I tweaked the recipe perfectly last summer, but this year, I’m really bringing the thunder. This crumble is going to tear the house down when we ship out the caramel apple pies this fall!

  * * *

  Ruby: So, you’re working while not working? Sounds like you. Speaking of girl talk, gotta go. I think Gigi has finally stopped GIF-bombing me so I can read where I’m meeting her.

  * * *

  Mom: GIF-bombing? *groans* Is that another phone thing? Please tell me I don’t need to learn how to do it.

  * * *

  Ruby: You are excused from this knowledge, dear mother. Xoxo

  * * *

  Mom: Love you bunches. Give Gigi a hug for me when you see her!

  * * *

  I return to the Gigi thread, but my estimates were off. She sent so many GIFs that I scroll for a solid minute to get to the part where she tells me where we’re meeting.

  Finally, just as my thumb wails and throws a text-thumb tantrum, I find the location and the time at the bottom of the thread.

  A cute boutique a few blocks away, and we’re meeting in thirty minutes.

  I grin, surprised to find I’m excited. Who would have thought?

  I’m not a shopper by nature. I’m a run-into-Target-and-grab-ten-of-the-same-V-neck tees kind of girl. But I learned at a young age to tolerate it, mostly because of Claire.

  Claire, with her effortlessly perfect wavy brown hair, freckled nose, and playful green eyes, wasn’t a clothes horse. She was a thing horse. Shiny bracelets, tiny ceramic animals, antique dance cards she framed with pressed flowers, retro clutch purses like Audrey Hepburn carried in Breakfast at Tiffany’s—they had Claire’s name written all over them.

  She was a self-declared pretty shiny thing omnivore.

  On our last road trip, we pulled off a winding country road into a picturesque town in Vermont with one main drag named, of course, Main
Street. With a wink and a watch my prowess, Claire parallel-parked her red Ford Thunderbird between a beat-up blue pickup truck and a Prius like only a born New Yorker could.

  Our goal was to replenish our dangerously low caffeine levels with iced vanilla lattes at Bertha’s Café, the top-rated coffee shop within a hundred-mile radius.

  But before we made it halfway down the block, Claire spotted a tchotchke store. Her kryptonite. She thrust her arms out in front of her, take-me-to-your-leader style, and her voice turned hypnotic. “Must shop. Must. Shop. Am helpless to resist.”

  Laughing, I grabbed her arm, dug my Chuck Taylors into the sidewalk, and pretended to hold her back. “No. Fight it. I’m not giving up on you, Hendrix. No soldier left behind!”

  But it was already too late. She was trapped in the clutches of the store’s tractor beam. I let go of her and we stumbled through the door, laughing the way I only ever laughed with her.

  Inside, she was first drawn to a teapot that looked like something a fancy Parisian woman would have on her tiny balcony in a flat in the 6th Arrondissement. Then a sign that said, “Coffee is served. Now please leave, asshole.” Next a display of pillows. Grabbing one, she lifted it, declaring, “This is so perfect.”

  She ran her hand down the gold sequins, revealing the other side of the words quilted onto the pillow.

  Not today.

  “So true.” Her eyes held mine. “Never be afraid to say not today, Ruby. Or no, for that matter.”

  I smiled. “Wise words. Maybe you should say not today to the pillow. Don’t you have fifty already?”

  She lifted her chin haughtily. “It’s not my fault they multiply when I’m not looking.”

  I arched a brow. “Your pillows are banging each other?”

  She tutted. “Obviously. When I have sleepovers, they have bangovers. They’re very frisky. But I’m sex-positive, so…”

  She bought the pillow, I bought the lattes, and we toasted at Bertha’s Café to the mantra of “Not today.”

  Two days later, the pillow was destroyed in the crash.

  At least, that’s my best guess. No one salvaged it and brought it to the hospital when the doctors decided it was safe to bring me out of my coma. No tiptoeing into my room, gently offering me the reminder of my best friend. As far as I know, the “Not Today” pillow went to the junkyard with the car Jesse restored and gave her for her twenty-first birthday.

  My throat tightens at the memory. I miss Claire, and even that goddamn pillow.

  But I don’t miss yoga clothes, because when I check out my reflection in the dressing room half an hour later, I know I’ve found the perfect mushroom-tasting outfit.

  When I open the door, Gigi’s eyes are squeezed shut and she waggles her fingers. “I know this is going to be it. I can feel your fabulous fashion energy.”

  I glance in the mirror again and an entire skyscraper’s worth of butterflies swarms up my chest because, hell, I feel like I’m shopping for a date with a guy.

  And not just any guy, but Jesse.

  Except I’m not. This isn’t a date. It’s a . . .

  What would I call it?

  An experience.

  Yes. That’s it. Any time it feels like a date, I’m going to remind myself that our time together truly is . . . an experience.

  And it’s an experience I need, judging from how completely awesome List Item Number Five felt.

  I step all the way out of the dressing room and Gigi opens her eyes.

  I strike a pose in my filmy black top and satin kilt with a faded silver buckle. She whistles, like she’s catcalling me at a construction site. “Oh, mama. You are one hot cannoli, cuz.”

  I give a little curtsy. “Why, thank you. You’re sure it’s not too much?”

  She taps her chin. “Well, looks like the top is $36.88 and the skirt is $40.99. So that’s $77.87, plus a smattering of tax. That seems reasonable.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, human calculator, I meant not too much for a . . .” Do I call it an experience? I already told Gigi about the list and Jesse’s departure date, so she knows what we’re up to.

  But how do I refer to the great mushroom taste test?

  She arches a questioning brow. “For having mushrooms with Jesse on a Saturday night?”

  It comes out pointed, like she’s reminding me about the unspoken significance of Saturday nights. Saturday nights are for black, slinky clothes.

  They’re for dates.

  A flush spreads across my chest. “Yes.”

  “No, it’s not too much.” She makes a circular motion with her finger, pointing at me. “This outfit is fantastic. Full stop. And after you buy it—because you simply must buy it—can I borrow? It’s just delish.”

  “Of course.”

  I buy the delish, Saturday night outfit, and we head out of the shop, soaking in the July sun as it warms up the afternoon.

  “You’re going to have fun tonight. I can feel it.” She lets out a contented sigh. “But I also want you to be careful, okay?”

  I nod seriously. “Mushrooms are awful. Don’t worry—I’m well aware. I don’t intend to eat more than one. Maybe two.”

  She shoots me a narrow look. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that you’re going to be spending an awful lot of time with a very handsome man doing exciting, dreamy, yummy things. It would be like if I were engaged in a seven-day . . . I don’t know, a Rubik’s Cube-off with Henry Cavill or something.”

  I snort. “I call BS.”

  “What? What part do you call BS on?”

  I wag a finger her way. “It would not take you seven days to jump Henry Cavill. Or to solve a Rubik’s Cube.”

  “My point exactly. You just finished physical therapy. You feel good. Accomplished. Ready to take on the world. I don’t want you to rush into anything that might complicate your fresh start.” She stops and turns to face me on the sidewalk. “Especially not with a man who’s leaving town.”

  The reminder pierces my chest, sharp and hot.

  I don’t want to think of a New York without Jesse in it.

  Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I shove his exodus out of my head. There’s FaceTime and texting. We’ll still stay in touch when he’s in LA.

  I meet Gigi’s gaze. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t fall for Jesse if you don’t fall for Henry Cavill during a Rubik’s Cube-a-thon.”

  She jams both of her hands behind her back and shakes her head adamantly. “No way. I can’t agree to that. What if I get matched with him at the next Cuber competition? And after seeing me solve the puzzle in forty seconds he becomes so enamored with my brilliant hands that he wants hot, sweaty nerd-sex right on the spot? I don’t want to promise something I can’t deliver.”

  I laugh. “Fair enough. But don’t you worry. Because I can deliver. I’m not going to fall for Jesse. Our relationship isn’t like that. We’re just friends.”

  “Right.” But she doesn’t sound convinced.

  Neither am I.

  There’s something stirring between Jesse and me. Something different than the friendship we’ve been building the past two years. Something mutual, maybe. And that feels a little dangerous, but also exciting.

  “Danger isn’t exciting,” I remind my reflection in the mirror later that night, once I’m dressed in my slinky skirt, which looks as good with semi-sheer black tights and my combat boots as Gigi promised it would. “Danger is dangerous.”

  That’s right. It is. And I’m not into dangerous things.

  I will not fall for Jesse, no matter how good he looks in those dark-wash jeans, standing in the last of the sunset light, leaning against a lamppost beside Forage and Fox like he owns the place.

  The block. The entire borough.

  He radiates confidence—always has, probably always will—but when he turns, his eyes meeting mine as I jog across the street, there’s something new in his brown-eyed gaze. Something that makes me feel like maybe I’m a little dangerous too.

  8

  J
esse

  I didn’t think she’d indulge me.

  But wow . . . am I ever glad she did.

  I drink her in, my eyes traveling up and down her frame, savoring the absolutely fantastic sight of Ruby in a clingy top that reveals her tanned shoulders, along with a temptingly short skirt. “Damn. You look fucking hot,” I say, once she reaches me on the sidewalk. “And I don’t feel an ounce of guilt for saying that because you said I have fuck-me eyes. You introduced the F-word into this relationship.” I say that like I’ve caught her in the act. The act of what? The act of mischievously flirting with me?

  Maybe I have, but it’s not like I want her to stop.

  I should, of course. But I don’t.

  She juts out a hip. “So I guess we’re just a pair of hot, fuck-me, fucking fuckers?”

  I laugh. “Have I mentioned I like this side of you? The surprising side?”

  “Glad to hear it. Does that mean we can skip the foraged food and get something tasty and delicious?” She presses her palms together in prayer.

  “No way, woman. You’re not getting out of this.”

  “Are you sure? There’s a new sandwich shop by the park.” She points in the opposite direction. “Melt My Heart. They specialize in grilled cheese. Mmmm, cheese. Normal food. Yum. Doesn’t that sound amazing?” She already looks happier than she did yesterday.

  This list is a damned good thing. Any lingering doubt I had about giving it to her vanishes at her sparkling smile.

  “If you eat the mushrooms, you can have cheese and normal food for dessert,” I say to placate her.