Nailed

by Jasinda Wilder

  “I wasn’t gooey.”

  “You were pretty gooey,” Nova says.

  Imogen laughs. “Goo-fest, babe. Own it.”

  I sigh. “Fine. He just makes me all melty, and I can’t help it.”

  Imogen hugs me. “Don’t try to help it. Own it, embrace it, and go with it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know how.”

  “Lead with your heart, think with your pussy, and tell your brain to shut the fuck up,” Audra says.

  Nova rolls her eyes. “Wow, Audra. Super eloquent advice.”

  I’m laughing, though, because I was thinking something similar, just…not quite in those words—but then, that’s what Audra’s best at.

  We pay the bill, chat for a few more minutes, and then I head out. And, on the way, I make a stop at the drug store for a giant package of condoms. Because Ryder is so getting laid as soon as I can figure out how to make it happen in such a way that Nate won’t know.

  Chapter 12

  Ryder doesn’t get laid that night, and neither do I. By the time dinner was done it was already after seven, and then Nate was begging Ryder to get started on the piggy bank project, so they went out into the garage to start that, which meant I was alone for cleanup, and then it was time for Nate to go to bed. We were just about to have a glass of wine when Ryder got a call from a client with an electrical emergency, so he had to go take care of that.

  We text a few times later in the night, we’re both pretty exhausted and end up going to sleep in our own beds. So much for getting laid.

  The next few days are all fairly quiet and, sadly, Ryder-free, except for texts between us. He’s slammed with work—the guys are starting a kitchen remodel and expansion, which means Ryder’s services are required pretty much nonstop as they rewire and extend the electrical.

  I think about him constantly.

  Like, literally.

  I think about him in the morning as I’m getting ready for work and getting Nate on the bus…wishing he was here so we could say goodbye properly. I think about him at work, at lunch, on the drive home, in the tub, in bed, in my dreams.

  He’s everywhere.

  Except, there’s no time to see him.

  I get a big surprise on Friday when I get a bouquet delivered to me at work. I’m ecstatic. It’s a burst of daisies and tulips—not my favorites, but hey, it’s the thought that counts. I bring them to my desk and call him.

  “Hey there,” he says, the sound of power tools screeching and buzzing in the background. “How’s your day, babe?”

  “It’s awesome,” I say, smiling to myself. “I got your flowers.”

  He doesn’t answer right away, and I hear the noises of the tools fade as a door thunks closed, and then another bout of silence. “I, uh…didn’t send you flowers, Laurel.”

  “You didn’t? A bouquet of daisies and tulips?”

  “Nope. I’m pretty certain you told me once that you’re a traditional girl, so if I was ever gonna send you flowers, roses would be fine.”

  “I’m impressed you remember that,” I tell him; that was a throw-away pillow-talk comment made in the middle of the night sometime during the weekend we spent together.

  He huffs a laugh. “Like I’d forget when you tell me the name of your favorite flower. So, no. I didn’t send you those.”

  I groan. “Fuck.”

  He’s surprised, as I’m not typically prone to language like that under normal circumstances. “What?”

  I pluck the card out of the holder and open it: To my dearest, darling Laurel. Love never dies. I never gave up on us, and I never will. Always yours—Paul.

  I groan again, a nearly feral sound of frustration and anger. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

  “Damn who? Me?” Ryder is confused, worried. “What’d I do?”

  “No, not you. My ex.”

  “Paul? What’d he do?”

  “He sent me the flowers.”

  Ryder hesitates. “Oh. Ummm…okay.” He’s clearly trying to say the right thing. “Why is your ex sending you flowers?”

  I have an audience, I realize.

  “Laurel? Talk to me, honey.”

  My office is open to the rest of the floor, a slightly larger version of the open-plan offices the rest of my employees have—it’s great most of the time…except when you want privacy. Like now. Everyone in the nearby area is listening.

  “I can’t talk about it right now, Ryder. I’ll call you after work, okay?”

  “Fine. It’s cool—you’re at work, and this is personal drama. I get it. Call me later.”

  “Ryder, you understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I absolutely do understand. I keep my personal shit out of work, too. It’s fine. As long as you’re okay, I’m okay.”

  I’m feeling a little trembly, to be honest, but I don’t say that. “It’s just…a tricky situation. That’s all.”

  “As long we’re cool, I’m cool.”

  “We’re totally cool, babe,” I say, trying to fake a ditzy Valley Girl voice, and only sort of succeeding.

  “Then I’m cool.”

  I laugh. “This is a silly, juvenile conversation, and I have to go.”

  Ryder laughs too, and I hear him returning to the work site. “Same. Talk to you later, okay?”

  “Okay, bye,” I say, and hang up.

  I hang up, take the vase of flowers out of my office, and bring them to the receptionist at the front of our office. “Here,” I say. “Have some flowers.”

  The receptionist, Emily, is brand new and very young—fresh out of college, eager to change the world through nonprofit work, and very sweet—she also has a funny and endearing and annoying habit of making statements sound like questions. She takes the flowers, sniffs them, and looks up at me with bright eyes. “Wow, thanks, Ms. Madison. They’re beautiful. I love them!” She hesitates. “Why are you giving them to me, though?”

  “Well, it’s complicated. Let’s just say they’re from someone who has no business giving me flowers, and leave it at that. They’re pretty, so I don’t want to throw them away, but I don’t want them.”

  She perks up. “Oh. Well…okay!” She frowns, then. “Um, you know, I was the one who received these.”

  I blink. “You were?”

  “They weren’t delivered by a delivery person, and I thought it was kind of weird.”

  I wait, but she’s not forthcoming with any further information. I stare at her. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Who delivered them? Why was it weird?”

  She tilts her head to one side. “Oh. Well, he was just some guy. He wanted to know if you were available, but you were on that conference call with Mary-Jo, so I told him no, you weren’t, and he asked when you would be available, but I was getting a weird vibe from him, so I just said I didn’t know.” She frowns up at me. “Was I wrong?”

  I take my cell phone from my blazer pocket and flip through my old photos until I find one of Paul with Nate from earlier in the summer. “Was this him?”

  “The older one, yeah.”

  I laugh. “Well, it would awful odd if it was my son, seeing as he’s supposed to be in school.”

  “Sorry. My boyfriend says I’m kind of a ditz sometimes.”

  I frown at this. “That’s not okay, Emily. He shouldn’t talk down to you like that.”

  “Well, it’s okay because I call him an airhead. He means it with love.” She wrinkles her brow. “So, the guy who brought the flowers—he’s your ex?”

  I nod. “Yup.”

  “So…why’s he bringing you flowers? Are you getting back together with him? Because, like, I know it’s none of my business, but going back to an ex is never a good idea.”

  “I’m not sure why he’s bringing me flowers, but I’m definitely not getting back together with him.” I have one last question for her. “What was the weird vibe you were getting?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Just…weird. Not creepy, like I wasn’t scared of him,
although I probably wouldn’t ride in an elevator alone with him. Just weird. He just randomly shows up with flowers and wants to talk to you and you’re, like, super business all the time, so it just felt weird.”

  I think that’s about all I’m going to get out of her, so I let it go. “Okay, well, if you see him again, let me know. And definitely don’t ever let him back to talk to me.”

  “You got it, Ms. Madison.” She grins at me, all eagerness and sweetness. “Is there anyone I should let back to see you?”

  I can’t help a smile. “Yes. His name is Ryder McCann, and he’s a bit under six feet tall, he has huge muscles, red hair, and an awesome red beard.”

  Her answering grin is mischievous. “I see. And if he ever wants me to help him plan a romantic surprise for you?”

  I laugh. “Keep it a surprise, duh!”

  “Okay. Should I give you hints?”

  I sigh, laughing. “No, Emily. That would defeat the purpose of it being a romantic surprise.” I hesitate. “Wait—is he planning a romantic surprise?”

  Emily goes wide-eyed. “No! I just was wondering. When I got this job, I was hoping something romantic and fun would happen like in the movies. But so far it hasn’t.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I pat her on the shoulder. “Stick around, Emily. I have a feeling you’ll get your wish.”

  The rest of the day goes smoothly enough. I finish work and head out to get Nate from school, pop into our favorite coffee shop for a quick snack before he has basketball practice.

  I sit on the bleachers and watch him practice, and exchange texts in our girl group.

  Imogen: I need to figure out how to tell Jesse. I’m freaking out!

  Audra: Ummm, how about: Yo, jesse babe, you knocked me up.

  Nova: that’s fucking stupid, Audra. I swear, you think like a caveman.

  Audra: excuse me, that’s caveWOMAN

  Me: how about a surprise baby shower? Like, with beer and chicken wings and surprise, we’re having a baby

  Imogen: Actually, Laurel, that’s not a bad idea. Act like it’s a surprise birthday party, and then when he gets really confused because it’s not his birthday, I’m like, oh, oops. And I bring out a cake that has YOU’RE GOING TO BE A FATHER!

  Audra: Wait, I have an idea!

  Imogen: If it involves giving him a blowjob, keep it to yourself.

  Audra: You take the fun out of everything.

  Imogen: the man gets plenty of BJ’s, trust me. I need a cute, fun, romantic way of telling him I’m going to have his baby.

  Audra: I was actually going to suggest you let him cum on your belly, and be like, baby-juice on the outside of my stomach, baby-juice on the inside too! Surprise!

  Nova: I’m literally speechless.

  Audra: Not as speechless as he’d be.

  Imogen: Seriously, Audra. You could say Hail Marys til you’re 90 and not make up for all the nastiness you come up with.

  Audra: Sex is my spirit animal.

  Me: …

  Imogen: …

  Nova: …

  Audra: What? Why are you all sending me ellipses?

  Me: Because that makes zero sense.

  Audra: FINE. LET’S PLAN YOUR STUPID FAKE BIRTHDAY SURPRISE BABY SHOWER PARTY.

  Imogen: Can we get it planned by this weekend?

  Nova: Did I ever mention I was an event planner in a previous life?

  Audra: see, again, I’m not sure if you’re joking or not.

  Nova: Not joking. I used to own my own event planning company. Then some shit in my life went sideways, and I had to switch tracks, which is how I ended up in nursing.

  Imogen: Didn’t you also used to be a bartender?

  Nova: In college, yeah—my first degree was a double major in political science and public relations. I thought I was going to be a politician or something. I was super political back then—a real idealistic, energetic, ra-ra-ra, “I’m gonna change the world” type. And then some shit happened and I discovered by accident that I have a knack for party planning, and ended up starting a company. And then more shit happened and I had to start over. My party planning company didn’t quite make enough to make ends meet, so I bartended on the weekends, and when the shit happened, I went back to school for nursing and ended up with my MS. And I am now an assistant to a neurologist, because I’m an overachiever.

  Nova: Never say I’ve never shared anything with you, because I think that’s the longest text message I’ve ever sent.

  Me: Wait, so you have a double major in political science and public relations, AND an MS in nursing?

  Nova: There’s a minor in art history in there too. Like I said, I’m a chronic overachiever who has had zero life, like ever. I was the kid taking college courses in high school.

  Imogen: not to mention you’re six feet tall, ripped, and absolutely gorgeous? ANNOYING.

  Nova: I offset all that by being a cold, neurotic, antisocial bitch.

  Audra: You’re not antisocial.

  Nova: LOL, I notice you’re not denying the other two.

  Me: I wouldn’t say you’re cold, just a little…aloof, sometimes. But I think it’s just because you’re hiding a lot of pain and damage and don’t trust all that easily.

  Nova: Or at all. The three of you are the first real friends I’ve had in years, and making myself leave my apartment to hang out requires an act of will every time.

  Imogen: We’re honored, Nova. We’ve adopted you because we love you. You’re ours now, and you may as well just accept it.

  Audra: I don’t mind you, Nova. I actually kind of identify with you, because I come across as aloof sometimes too. Cold ass bitches of the world, unite!

  Me, with an eye-roll emoji: Neither of you are cold. It’s just a defense mechanism.

  Nova: quit analyzing us, Laurel.

  Me: I’m not. I just can’t help being observant of human nature.

  Nova: okay, enough mushy shit. Imogen, would you like me to officially come out of retirement to plan your double-fake surprise party?

  Imogen: I mean, yeah, I’d love that! But you don’t have to. I don’t want you to feel obligated.

  Nova: Having real, actual friends is kind of fun. It would be my pleasure.

  Imogen: You can’t see, but I’m totally squealing like a crazy person right now. I hate planning parties.

  Nova: I suppose this means I’ll have to dust off my sense of fun. It’s kind of rusty at the moment.

  Audra: Hey, I think that was a joke!

  Nova: Sort of. Okay, not really. I stopped having fun a long time ago.

  Audra: Well, you let yourself get adopted by the wrong people in that case, because Imogen and I are addicted to fun.

  Nova: Maybe I let myself get adopted by you exactly because you have fun. Maybe I missed being fun, and having friends, and I’m hoping you guys will help me get out of my cold, neurotic, antisocial bitch shell.

  Audra: Well if that’s the case, then you got it exactly right!

  Me: Hey, I like fun too!

  Imogen: I have a feeling this party is going to be the bestest best thing ever!

  Audra: Will there be strippers? Because there should totally be strippers.

  Nova: Yes, Audra. Strippers are definitely appropriate for a baby shower.

  Audra: Strippers are never appropriate, which is why they’re always appropriate. And I mean the male kind. If I wanted to see sexy naked bitches, I’d throw us a pajama party.

  Nova: what the hell does that mean?

  Audra: you guys all come over, we get drunk and end up naked playing truth or dare while listening to The Greatest Showman soundtrack.

  Imogen: That sounds fun.

  Me: Actually, it does.

  Imogen: I can’t drink, but I don’t need to be drunk for any of that! Plus, someone would need to babysit you lushes.

  Me: I have to go, my son is done with basketball practice and I need to feed him. Bye, bitches!

  I put my phone away as Nate trots over, sweaty a
nd grinning. “Hey, buddy! Ready for dinner?”

  “Yeah!” he shouts. “I’m starved. Can we have mac ’n cheese with bacon in it?”

  I laugh as we head to my car. “Sure. You make the macaroni, I’ll make the bacon.”

  A few minutes later, we’re home, and Nate immediately starts making the macaroni. It was the first thing I taught him to cook, and now he’s basically a pro.

  We’re sitting down to eat about twenty minutes later when the doorbell rings.

  I sigh. “I’ll get it. Go ahead and eat, Nate.”

  I’m anticipating the worst as I open the front door. Instead of Paul, however, it’s a young man in dirty jeans, a baggy Bears hoodie, wearing a backward Blackhawks hat, and holding a clipboard.

  “Laurel Madison?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice trepidatious.

  He holds out the clipboard. “I have a delivery for you. Sign at the bottom, please.”

  “A delivery of what, and from whom?”

  He digs in the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie and pulls out an envelope, hands it to me. I open it, and within is a small rectangle of plain white linen paper. On the front is a simple line drawing of a single rose, done in black ink. On the back, in the same black ink, in neat, all-caps block handwriting that I somehow know immediately is Ryder’s, is a short message:

  If I’m going to send you flowers, it’ll look like this. —Ryder

  “Oh dear,” I mumble to myself, signing the slip, and then look up to address the delivery guy. “So, you have some flowers for me?”

  The young man’s eyes widen and he blows out a breath and nods his head. “You could say that.”

  I frown. “What does that mean?”

  He just laughs. “Just…leave the door propped open.”

  I snort. “Did he go overboard?”

  The guy scoops his hat off, scrubs his hand through his hair, and replaces the hat. “All I can say is, either he messed up really bad, or he really likes you.”

  I prop the door open, and the delivery guy enters…wheeling a dolly on which are three giant boxes.

  He opens the first box and pulls out a vase filled with a dozen red roses.

  Then a second.