The wind ripples through the empty parking lot. Her long, dark hair that I’m one-hundred percent sure would look perfect wrapped around my hand as I pull her head back and plant kisses down the side of her neck before burying myself in her sweet little body, billows in the air.
“It was a good day,” she says, stepping up on the curb. “How was yours?”
“After the sugar high from the cupcakes?” I grin. “Those were great, by the way.”
“Those weren’t for you.”
“Eh. I think maybe they were.”
“Oh, really?” she laughs. “How do you figure?”
Our steps stop at the same time. We stand at the front of our cars, parked side-by-side by no accident. Her cheekbones are high, framing the pink-hued cheeks that have been kissed by the cool breeze.
“You know I use your office as my personal phone booth. When you leave little treats laying around, it certainly feels like you’re training me. Like Pavlov’s dog. I use your office—I get a treat.” Holding my hands to the side, I shrug. “I can’t help it you’ve trained me to come see you every day.”
Her eyes roll as she uses her key chain to unlock her car with the press of a button. “I’m going to get a lock installed.”
“You are not or you would’ve done it way before now.”
Her lips part, as if she’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. She opens the back door and tosses her bag into the seat.
“I heard a nasty rumor about you today,” I say, leaning on the side of my car.
“This should be interesting.”
“Seems a girl in one of my classes thinks you’re single.”
Her laugh is light as she leans against her car. We face each other, our stances mirrored. “I’m glad the student body is spending their energy concerned about my dating life.”
“It was an offhanded comment,” I admit.
“And we wonder why their grades are plummeting.”
“Is it true?”
“Yes, their grades are plummeting,” she winks.
Tucking my hands in my pockets, my goal is to appear casual. “Not what I meant.”
“Um …” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure why that matters.”
“It doesn’t,” I say. “But is it true?”
“Kind of?” she laughs. “I hate labels.”
“If I were the guy you were seeing, I’d hate to think you were ‘kind of’ single.”
Shoving off the car, she laughs again. “Oh, I bet you would. You make that completely clear with your girls, don’t you? You’re like, ‘Now, remember. I’ll be sleeping with Gloria tomorrow so you are absolutely single.’”
“That’s not what I mean,” I say, standing straight too. Although she’s right. But this isn’t me. This is her. It’s different. “I mean, doesn’t the guy you’re seeing find offense in that?”
Her arms cross in front of her and it’s clear she’s not about to answer my questions. I voluntarily change the subject.
“Do you ever make red velvet cupcakes?” I ask. I don’t even know what the hell those are, but I heard my brother’s girlfriend talk about them the other day at Sunday dinner.
“I have,” she says, obviously confused. “I make them sometimes for the Senior Center.”
“The nursing home over by the church?”
“Yeah. Long story, but I knew a girl who worked there. She would tell stories about some of the residents and how they didn’t have family and it broke my heart. So I bake for them sometimes.” A small smile slips across her face. “There’s this old man there. They call him The Mayor, but I’m not sure he ever was the mayor,” she laughs. “Anyway, Red Velvet is his favorite. I make sure there’s some in every batch I deliver.”
There’s something different about her, a gentleness I don’t see often. She’s usually raring to go with me, a sharp tongue ready and waiting.
“Lance?”
“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “That sounds like a nice thing to do.”
“It gives me purpose.” She no sooner than finishes the sentence before she sticks a finger my way. “Don’t even.”
“Don’t even what?” I laugh.
“Don’t make fun of me for saying that.”
“I …” Cocking my head to the side, I reconsider. “We all need a purpose. We just get them from different places. You get yours from cake … well, I kind of get mine from your cake too.”
Rolling her eyes, she pops open the driver’s door. “Big plans tonight?” she asks, changing the subject.
I want to back up to a few moments ago. To the moment where she looked a little vulnerable, like she was almost ready to tell me something real about herself, but I let it go. No sense in playing in a sandbox when I have no intention of staying there.
“I’m going to give some excellent aural in a minute,” I tease, “then possibly some oral, depending on how it goes.”
“I can’t with you,” she laughs.
“You can. There’s a standing invitation. Have I not made that clear?”
Her laughter grows. “You have. Thank you.”
“And …” I coax.
“And …” She mocks. “And what?”
“And you are taking me up on that when?”
“Good night, Mr. Gibson.”
It’s totally unprofessional of me to watch the hemline of her dress ride up her thigh as she gets into the seat. It’s even more unprofessional to look at her and wink when she catches me in action, but hell—that’s nothing compared to the vision of her naked in the backseat of the car that I’m imagining right now.
“You’re a cad.” The engine fires but her door stays open.
“You love it.”
“I have no idea why you’d think that.”
“You’ve trained me, remember?”
“I’ll have to work on reprogramming you.” Before I can respond, she pulls out of the parking lot with a coy little smile.
With the wind at my back, and her flowery perfume still lingering in the air, I watch her pull away. There’s a weird-ass feeling I get around her that I kind of both hate and love. It’s a complete raging hard-on coupled with a comfort level I’ve never had with a woman in-person before. Probably because she’s the first woman who’s given me blue balls on a regular basis that I’ve not fucked.
That’s the part I hate: I haven’t fucked her.
Then again, that’s kind of the part I love: I haven’t fucked her.
So weird.
A vibration in my pocket shakes me out of my thoughts, and I pull my phone out to see a message from my dating app. My stomach churns.
Glancing up as the taillights of Mariah’s car takes the corner towards Goodman’s Gas Station, I almost feel … guilty.
Stop it. Fucking is freeing. Clear. Uncomplicated. Don’t be dumb.
Her message pings again.
Nerdy Nurse: I’m a little flu-ish tonight. Happy to chat later but can’t meet up.
Me: I think you’re suffering from a lack of Vitamin Me.
Laughing as I type out the line, the acid in my gut evaporates and everything feels normal again.
Nerdy Nurse: Every. Time.
Me: You’d think you’d expect it by now. We’ve been exchanging these messages for how long?
Nerdy Nurse: You sent your first dick pic two months ago.
Me: It wasn’t my dick.
Nerdy Nurse: Those weren’t my legs either.
Me: Such a letdown.
Climbing into my car, I get situated as her text bubble bounces on the bottom of the app.
Nerdy Nurse: Is that a deal breaker?
Me: We have a deal?
Nerdy Nurse: Two months and we haven’t managed to meet up yet …
Me: That’s why I like nurses. You’re busy. You can’t be too attached. ;)
Nerdy Nurse: We’re also well-versed in needles and serums. ;)
A quick glance up has me looking into the window of Principal Kelly’s car. S
he gives me a dainty wave full of unspoken innuendo. I return her a two-finger salute before dropping my attention back on my conversation.
Me: You’re right. I need to reconsider this arrangement.
Nerdy Nurse: If that wasn’t your dick, I’m in the same boat.
Me: You only wanted me for what I was packing?
Nerdy Nurse: It’s a dating app. Did you think I wanted to marry you?
Me: Most women do, yes.
Nerdy Nurse: Patient coming in. Try not to miss me.
Me: K.
Nerdy Nurse: Bye, Potassium.
/Nerdy Nurse offline
Four
Mariah
“I love how you just make yourself at home.” Dropping my bag on the sofa as I go by, I kick off my shoes. “You could at least make me dinner after a hard day’s work.”
My best friend, Whitney, glances at me over her shoulder. “I don’t cook. I’ll order something for you though.”
“I thought you worked today?”
“I thought I did too. I hate this floating schedule crap,” she sighs, peering up at me with a set of big, blue eyes. “I actually showed up at the hospital to find out it’s not my day. Who does that?”
“You.”
She turns back to the book she was reading. Filling a glass with ice, I find a Coke hidden behind a head of broccoli. “So, why are you here?”
“Your house is closer to the hospital than mine and I needed a nap.”
Looking at her over the brim of the glass, I wait for more of an explanation. I don’t get one. In fact, she doesn’t even glance up at me.
Whitney operates on her own wavelength. I stopped trying to figure her out years ago. She’s smart, fun, and as loyal as they come, but you have to let some things go where she’s concerned. She doesn’t always make sense.
“How was school today?” she asks, closing the paperback. “I feel like my mother when I say that.”
“That’s sweet. My mother used to say, ‘What did you do today, Mariah, so I can compare it to what your sister did and tell you how you fail to measure up.’”
Whitney scowls. “Well, your mother is an asshole and I’m not even sorry for saying that.”
Just the mere mention of the woman who brought me into the world sends my spirits sinking. “Let’s not go there,” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “I came home with a headache anyway. The last hour study hall doesn’t comprehend the idea of being quiet in a library.”
“I remember being that age. Friday nights held so much promise.” She picks up her drink and follows me into the living room. “It’s so sad, isn’t it?” Her bottom lip protrudes almost to her chin. “I used to have such a social life. Who would’ve thought I would be the one sitting around bored on a Friday night. I’m slowly turning into … you.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Curling up on the sofa, I watch her nestle into the chair across from me.
“You’re a librarian. It is a bad thing,” she laughs.
“It’s the best job ever.”
“Sure it is. That’s why you’re practically a hermit. Every time I come over, I expect to be met with a flock of cats.”
“A flock of cats?” I laugh. “That’s not even a thing. What’s wrong with cats, anyway?”
“Nothing is wrong with one cat. One cat is perfectly normal. Two cats are a sign something’s amiss. If you have two cats, you spend way too much time alone. Three cats? That’s a flock and that means you have no people skills and will spend the rest of your life on your hairball-filled couch surrounded by fictional people.”
Lifting a brow, I ponder this for her amusement. “There are gadgets to clean hairballs these days. I really can’t see anything wrong with this scenario. It’s kind of appealing.”
“No, it’s not,” she says, placing her phone on the table next to a framed photo of us at Lake Michigan a few summers ago. “It’s unhealthy.”
“It’s healthier than going into public and ending up losing my sanity from all the people-ing!”
Biting her lip, her eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. It’s just enough of a warning.
Sighing, I close my eyes and wait for it. She doesn’t make me wait long.
“Speaking of people …” she says, her voice trailing off.
“No.”
“But he’s so cute!” Her tone is almost giddy. “He’s a resident, which means he’s super smart and will be making big bucks soon.”
“Whit. No.”
“Why? A date won’t kill you.”
“It happens. I watch those shows on television. Blind dates aren’t what they used to be, pal.”
Rolling her eyes, she leans forward. “It’s not a blind date. I know him. Kind of, but that’s not the point. The point is it kills me to see you wasting your life away in this little house. You’re young, Mare. Gorgeous. You have a great personality when you’re not being a dick on purpose.”
“Gee, thanks,” I giggle.
She smiles, but it fades slowly. “I want you to live your best life. Jonah could be your best life. Or a one-night stand …”
I try to look at the ceiling while her stare almost drills a hole in my face. My best life is something I desperately want—a life filled with respect and love and two or three babies at some point. The life I’ve never had and craved so badly from as far back as I can remember.
I counter to myself. My life isn’t bad. I have Whitney and Tish who like me and make me happy, even if I never see Tish outside of work. But that’s not the point. I’m fulfilled by baking and have thought about getting a kitten at the shelter for companionship, but Whitney’s comments about the whole cat lady thing make me a little leery of jumping into that too soon.
Still, my life isn’t bad. It’s just not great.
When I look at her again, it’s like she can read my mind.
“You deserve a great life. One filled with laughs and love and orgasms,” she winks.
I don’t disagree. It sounds heavenly. It also sounds virtually impossible and, on the off-chance it is possible, the process sounds very, very people-filled.
“His name is Jonah,” she repeats, a little softer and less enthusiastic this time. “He was top of his class at Northwestern. He has a great smile, blue eyes that match his scrubs in the weirdest way but it’s a total turn on,” she rambles. “Plus, I might’ve viewed his abs on accident and they. Are. Killer.”
The vision she’s painting is vivid, but I don’t think it’s the one she’s aiming for.
At the mention of killer abs, my mind goes where it always goes. I used to fight it, to chastise myself for allowing him to affect me even when he’s not in my office, but I gave up on that around Christmas of last year. I’ve accepted it as my dirty little secret: I fantasize about Lance Gibson.
Sweat rolling down his muscled back, the dips and curves not too bulky like he spends his free time in a weight room, but sexier. Like he might throw down some push-ups here and there. The way his hips twist and flex, the cut pointing down to his groin—
“Where did you just go?”
My head snaps to Whitney. She’s got that ‘gotcha’ look painted on her face.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, feeling my face rat me out. I can’t wipe the smile from my lips, nor can I cool down the heat caused by the memory of the sight of his sweaty skin.
“What were you thinking about?”
Filling my lungs with oxygen, I blow it out as slowly and as time-consumingly as I can.
Maybe I should act on this. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am going to turn into an old cat lady if I don’t get out. But just as I’m about to agree with Whitney, images of Eric’s dumbass smile rip through me, Chrissy tucked under his arm, and my mother’s voice rings through my ears—
Snap! Whitney’s fingers whip against each other before she starts wagging one my direction. “Stop it.”
“I—”
“No.” She clamors to her feet, her hands going into her hair and drawing it back in
to a high ponytail. “I love you to pieces but I’ll love you a lot more when you stop playing that stupid spiel through your head.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I gulp.
“Yes, you do. You start to come around and then let them win.”
“No one is winning,” I protest.
I don’t know whether it’s worth it to defend myself or not. Her stance is always the same. So is mine. It’s an impasse in our friendship.
“Every day you sit here miserable is a day they win,” she says matter-of-factly.
“What do you want me to do, huh?” My hands flail in the air. “This is fucking hard, all right? It stings.” It feels cathartic to just let it out. “My sister, the perfect daughter according to my mother, just had a baby with my ex-boyfriend. You know the one. The one I thought I was going to marry.”
I expect to see a dose of sympathy. I get a blank face instead.
“Your sister did you the first favor she’s ever done. Be glad,” she deadpans.
“Ugh.”
Whitney chooses her words carefully. She wants to pick apart Eric, listing his various flaws and telling me why I’m better off without him, but the birth of the baby last week has her reconsidering her flamboyant response.
Falling back onto the sofa, I pick up a pink embroidered pillow and hold it against me. I finally broke down a couple of nights ago and trolled Chrissy’s social media. The baby is absolutely beautiful with Chrissy’s long eyelashes and Eric’s olive skin. She has a birthmark on her cupid’s bow, just like me.
The tears I blink away aren’t for Eric, although that’s probably what Whitney thinks as she watches me. It’s for the little girl I’ll never know because her mother and I have been at odds since we were kids. Nothing I’ve ever done, no choice I’ve ever made, no clothes I’ve ever worn or way I’ve styled my hair has ever been good enough for Chrissy. Or my mother. There’s got to be some irony in the fact Eric was good enough for them.
Craft Page 3
