Head Over Feels

by Scott, S. L.

  “Okay. Okay. Enough. He’s not working any magic on me,” I snap. “It’s only temporary, and he has a spare room, so—”

  Cammie laughs. “I think you’re handling it great. Keep calm and carry on and all that.” She points the tape dispenser at me. “I mean, why would you feel otherwise? Just because you’re moving in with the one guy you’ve crushed on forever . . . What could go wrong?” She stands, looking at me expectantly with the tape dispenser, ready to battle the next box.

  Marlow adds, “When so much could go right.” Remembering how he said my body has so much right with it has my cheeks heating. I play it off as frustration.

  “There is not going to be any wrong or right with Rad. We’re friends. You guys know this better than anyone.” I busy myself with the box flaps to avoid their stares and the questions I spy populating in their eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking about this,” Cammie starts, worrying her lip. “Are you sure moving in with him is a wise idea? This will either bring you closer or destroy a good friendship. It could ruin . . .” She catches herself before she says the words.

  I say them instead. “The group dynamic. I worry about that, too, but I can’t live on your couch.” Trying to lighten the mood, I add, “Cade made it more than clear that you two have christened that thing fifty times over. Anyway, you guys need your couple time, alone.” Reaching across the box, I squeeze her hand. “So it wasn’t even an option to ask.”

  Marlow pushes off the futon and holds the flaps in place. “I want to help.”

  “Then help,” Cammie snaps, causing Marlow to recoil. “Grab another box and get to it.” The screeching of the tape breaks the standoff of silence that follows.

  Reaching down, she lifts a box to the top of the stack and says, “Cade’s right. The stress is getting to you.”

  After Cammie zips the tape over the top, she sets the tape down and hugs Marlow. “I’m sorry. I’m the worst.”

  “You’re not the worst. You’re awesome. You just have a lot going on. We’ll get through it, and so will you, and then you’ll live happily ever after.”

  When they both finish hugging, and the tension evaporates, I move a box to a stack by the door.

  She peeks inside a box on the bed and says, “I would have offered my couch, but it’s really not made for sleeping.”

  Cammie and I exchange a knowing look, and then she laughs. “It’s not even made for sitting. It’s for looks, Marlow, and the most impractical sofa ever.” The red velvet couch is so overstuffed, it’s stiff, hard like a rock. Sleeping on it would be impossible.

  “I like what I like.” Marlow shrugs. “And I’m rarely home to ruin it.” Swift to change the topic of conversation, she asks, “How’s the wedding planning?”

  Cammie bends to tape down the edges of an extra-full box. “Good. I think. I don’t know. I promised myself I wouldn’t worry about it tonight, and Cade told me to take the week off from it. Everything that needs to be done is done, so he’s right. I should.” She laughs to herself, but anxiety weaves through the sound. “I just worry everything’s going to fall apart. He’s been a good sport, though, and is just worried about me.”

  “I think Cade’s right. Nothing will happen this week to ruin your whole wedding. If something comes up, we have months to get it fixed. Just let us know, and we’ll help.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to try to focus back on life this week, give myself time to decompress.” Since all the boxes are taped up, Cammie moves into the kitchen and opens a cabinet. “We’re on for Saturday too. You secured the storage unit?” She gasps.

  Her gasp causes both me and Marlow to startle. With my hand over my thumping heart, I ask, “What?”

  “Where are your mugs?”

  “Oh, good lord, Cammie. You scared me.” I start to giggle. “I sent them with Rad last night.”

  “Whaaaaaat?” she says, smiling like she knows a secret. It’s not a secret that he was here, hence why I said it like it was no big deal.

  It’s no big deal . . . or is it? They are a part of my heart. Oh God, did I send a piece of my heart home with Rad last night? My subconscious is a devious bitch.

  “He came by to check on the packing and said I could start staying there tonight.” I do a quick sidestep I learned in tap class when I was five and add jazz hands, cracking myself up. “Don’t make a big deal out of this.”

  Leaning against the counter, she holds her hand out, ready to tick her fingers. Oh great. I roll my eyes, bracing myself, which is something usually reserved for Marlow. Speaking of . . . she joins in the fun and stands next to her. Two against one. Even better. . .

  I cross my arms defensively over my chest. “Bring on the mockery. Let’s do this and get it over with.”

  Cammie touches her index finger. “I want someone to love me like I love coffee.”

  I restrain my grin even though that mug is one of my favorites. “It’s a classic.” That barely earns me a smile.

  Marlow asks, “And that ugly, brown ‘Happy Birthday, Gerald’ mug?”

  “That awesome flea market find is already at Rad’s.”

  “I’m surprised your mug collection left the premises. I would have thought you’d be personally escorting them to the city.”

  “I love mugs, but I felt they were safe with him.”

  Marlow laughs as she returns to the futon. “I can’t wait for Rad’s reaction when he sees them.” Touching her chest, she adds, “We’ve been good friends keeping your addiction under wraps.”

  “You submitted my story to Hoarders to be featured in an episode.”

  “Although true, does one need that many mugs?”

  “No,” I reply, holding my chin up as I defend my mug-loving ways and sit on the bed. “But I think the real question is do I love them? Yes. I do. Do they make me smile? Absolutely. Quippy mugs are sort of my thing. It’s a collection. I have one to fit every mood.” I point at a lone box by the door. “For the record, though, I did set a few aside in the donation box.”

  Cammie pads across the room and looks down. “Three? You have like two hundred. As Marlow said, I think you are past love at this point and well into obsession. Did the ‘Happy Accidents’ mug make it?”

  “Bob Ross is an American treasure. Of course, his mug made the cut. Anywho, what kind of collector would I be if I broke up the band, Yoko?”

  Her hands plant on her hips, and although Cammie tries for serious, she can’t contain her grin. “Yoko did not break up The Beatles. They were already splintering.”

  “Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night.”

  Giggling, she flops down on the bed next to me and lies back. “You’re ridiculous, Teals.”

  Marlow smirks to herself. “I think it’s great that you took them to Rad’s. He needs a little chaos in his life.”

  Knowing she’s not intentionally insulting me, I ham it up. “Are you calling me chaos? I thought I was fun. Phoebe fun.”

  “You are fun with a side of chaos,” she replies, “fun chaos.”

  My brow furrows. “Fun chaos?” I shake my head. “Fine, I’ll be the fun chaos.” Packing takes precedence again, so I drag myself to my nightstand and start tossing stuff into my suitcase. “I found out that our budget’s run out at work.”

  Marlow crooks her head. “Quarterly or yearly?”

  “I didn’t get the details.”

  “It’s only May.”

  The vibe in the room changes. I know they’re looking at me, probably worrying about both my passion and my paycheck. I agree, so I don’t look at them. I don’t even know why I brought it up. It probably won’t even happen anyway. I do feel better getting it off my chest, even if I now have two sets of wary eyes directed at me. Cammie asks, “What does that mean?”

  “Cutbacks. We run out of money every year, though, so I’m not worried.”

  “We know,” Marlow says, “And then every year, you accumulate weeks on the clock and don’t get paid. You can’t keep doing that.” Ideally, no, I
wouldn’t, but I’m left with no choice.

  “Would you suggest I let people suffer?”

  “I’m not trying to be heartless. I’m worried about you. You deserve to be paid for your efforts and the hours worked.”

  “And to have a life outside of work, especially if they aren’t paying you,” Cammie adds.”

  “I agree, but what am I supposed to do?”

  Sighing, Marlow huffs, sending her bangs flying up from her forehead. “I don’t know. I just worry about you.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Cammie sits up, resting her weight on her hands behind her. “What if they shut down the office?”

  A deep-seated fear bubbles to the surface. It’s one I’ve tried not to think about without knowing any specifics. But it’s always there in the back of my mind.

  What if I lose my job?

  What if I sign a new lease and then lose my job?

  How long can I stay at Rad’s? Those details haven’t been worked out. I know that I refuse to be a burden to him or cramp his lifestyle.

  What if I end up back in Texas after all? I’d have to get new certifications, and would I return to my parents' house? Tail tucked between my legs . . . Off the top of my head, I reply, “There are other centers I can transfer to.”

  She nods, and when I glance at Marlow, she’s staring at her lap. This topic is a real downer. My stomach interjects its own opinion with a growl.

  Marlow sits up abruptly. “Hey, how about we go out for dinner? My treat.”

  I suggest, “There’s a new Thai restaurant one subway station away. I’ve been wanting to try it.”

  “Thai sounds great,” Marlow starts while slipping her heels back on, “but Louboutins do not belong on the subway.”

  Cammie pops up. “No worries. I’ll order a car.”

  As I slip on my sneakers, I listen to them chatting about everything and nothing. It’s good to be surrounded by the sound of friends and them showing up without me even asking—I’m a lucky girl.

  I just hope that it carries me through this stint at Rad’s and that moving in with him will only bring us closer and not the alternative. Although it feels a lot like everything’s on the line, I suck down my worries and grab my purse.

  Marlow opens the door. “You ready?”

  For dinner or Rad? Either way, I say, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  11

  Rad

  “Hey, you,” Tealey says, smiling like I just brought the sunshine with me. “You’re full of surprises lately.”

  When she greets me in the lobby of her workplace, her light hair is in its usual state of catastrophe on top of her head, and honestly, I find it so incredibly sexy, but the temptation to pull the pencils holding it together is strong. Flushed cheeks match her lips, all under sky-blue eyes hidden behind glasses I didn’t know she wore.

  The past few days have felt longer than usual, and now I understand it’s because I haven’t seen her.

  “Yeah, it’s called fucking off.” Why am I sweating? You’d think I wasn’t a seasoned attorney used to intense situations. Is this intense? It shouldn’t be. I tug at my shirt to allow air under my collar.

  Her laughter fills my ear. “I have my share of struggling-to-concentrate days. More lately. What’s going on?”

  I dig in my pocket and hold the metal tight in my hand. When I open my palm, the only excuse I could come up with to see her today lies in it. “I had a key made for you. Wasn’t sure if you want to move over tonight.”

  My other hand tightens around the brown paper bag, crinkling in the quiet of the office. We both glance down, but I use the time to look her over. The tail of her white shirt hangs loose in the back over a baggy gray skirt, leaving no figure to be found. I already miss her sexy little body I was eyeing the other night when she was revealing her shoulder and those great legs. And I haven’t been able to get her ass off my mind all day. Hence, the special delivery, which now feels like an utterly ridiculous idea as I stand in front of her.

  When her glasses slip down her nose, she’s quick to adjust them with her index finger. Turning shyly to the side, she takes them off and tucks them in her pocket. With her other hand, she takes the key, the tips of her nails scraping gently across my skin. “You didn’t have to bring it all the way to Brooklyn.”

  “No trouble.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “The girls helped me finish packing last night. It’s only a day early, but I’m looking forward to sleeping in your bed.” Embarrassment flashes through her eyes. “My bed. The spare bed.”

  Chuckling, I hold up the bag to help her out. “I also brought you lunch.”

  She blinks twice as her brows rise in surprise. “That’s so sweet, but you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I heard you were working through lunch.”

  “Just making up the hours I needed to leave early this week. How’d you hear?”

  “Jackson ran into Marlow last night.”

  “Ah.” Tugging at her skirt, she seems to give up on the ill-fitting garment and reaches for the bag. “What did you bring me, Rad?”

  I’m about to respond, but she closes her eyes and takes a deep inhale, exhaling with a moan that has my body unable to decipher between her craving the food or having her in my bed. Dirty thoughts I shouldn’t be having rush my veins.

  I’m surely going to hell.

  She’s way too nice to get mixed up with the Bachelor of the Year three years running. I can’t even act right when I’m near her anymore. I went from zero to sixty for her, and she’s looking at me like I’m a dead end.

  “Hope you like hot and sour soup.” I already know she loves that soup because she always orders it when we eat at an Asian restaurant. I’ve also eaten enough meals with her to know the two foods she hates—mushrooms and anchovies. Every week when the group meets, she chats with the server about what to try that doesn’t include those two ingredients. “I told them to hold the mushrooms.”

  She shivers while scrunching her nose, being utterly adorable. “I hate those little fungi.” Taking the bag from me, she says, “How’d you know?”

  “I don’t like them either,” I lie. I love mushrooms.

  “Do you have time to come back? I can show you my fancy cubicle.” She waggles her hips.

  “Absolutely.”

  We only travel about ten feet before I’m in a cubicle not much bigger than my desk. Two chairs are squeezed into the space, so I angle to sit.

  Perking up, she asks, “You got the contract yesterday, right?”

  “I did. Thanks for sending the retainer. I have my assistant gathering records so we can start laying the groundwork for the divorce.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me every time.”

  “I’m just grateful.”

  “I’m glad you came to me.”

  When a door grates against its hinges, she stands up and looks around, then sits back down. “If my boss stops by, pretend we’re working together,” she whispers. “There aren’t many people I dislike, but Lowell is at the top of the list. The city placed him here two years ago because they want a business degree judging how we operate. We have a very tight budget. I get that, but sometimes someone needs more than food assistance and a pat on the back.” She leans forward in her chair, sliding across the cracked plastic mat.

  My idea of what she did for a living felt distant from my life, never touching my shores, but seeing her office and hearing her stories puts it in perspective.

  She’s even more amazing than I knew, and I already thought highly of her.

  She continues, “Our job can entail taking five extra minutes with someone to help prepare them for a job interview or find other financial resources. Lending a nonjudgmental ear can change a person’s life. He doesn’t get that. He only understands dollars and cents.” Waving to clear the air, she takes a deep breath and raises her chin. “And he refuses to pay for some of my extra hours. If anyone can relate to long and dema
nding days, though, it’s you.”

  “I hate it sometimes, but it comes with the territory. I’m also compensated for the work. You’re not.”

  “No one goes into social work to get rich.” I receive a pointed look, but then her expression eases. “I wanted to help people. I’m helping people . . . ten hours a day. I hate complaining. Sorry for the rant.”

  “Rant away. You’re too damn good-hearted, you know that?”

  The compliment leaves her grinning, too. “Someone’s got to counteract the cynicism in the world.” She winks at me.

  “Touché. The world needs more Bells and fewer Wellingtons.”

  Pulling the container from the bag, she laughs. “Lies. Your mom is very charitable.”

  “Ha! She’s not even a Wellington anymore, but I’m not sure she ever felt one with the name anyway.”

  I’m caught in a laugh when our gazes connect. Through shared smiles, our laughter fades, but our eyes stay fixed on each other. It’s quick, but in that one look, something more than our sense of humor tied us together.

  She says, “It’s not only your mom who’s wonderful. You give people hope, a chance to make a new life.”

  “I’ve never heard a divorce lawyer made out to sound like a saint.”

  “It’s all about perspective.”

  “Well, from my perspective, you’re the saint who’s actually giving people hope and a new start in life.”

  She smiles again but doesn’t look at me as she pulls off the lid of the container. As if she doesn’t want to discuss herself, she sighs. “Hot and sour is just what I needed today.”

  “Comfort food.”

  When she finds the spoon, she offers it to me. “Do you want to share?”

  I hold my hand up. “No, you go ahead. I ate earlier.”

  Tealey starts eating as I look around at her personal belongings. It’s cute like her with the knickknacks. There are only a few, but enough to show her personality. Picking her coffee mug up, I read, “There. They’re. Their? . . . Ohhh.” I chuckle.