That Swoony Feeling

by Quinn, Meghan

  I chew on the side of my lip and turn toward Griffin, holding the bag of cookies with the tips of my fingers. Vulnerability shoots through me as I ask, “Do you ever think he could . . . like me?”

  “He already does, just hasn’t realized it yet. Trust me when I say he’s a moron when it comes to this stuff. Don’t worry, he’ll get there.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  “That’s because it’s true. And if he doesn’t, my brothers and I will make sure he does.”

  My face flames. “Oh please don’t—”

  Griffin holds up his hand. “Don’t worry, we’d never do anything obvious, just help him peel his eyes open.”

  “Well, don’t peel them too hard.”

  He chuckles. “Can’t make any promises. But hey, happy birthday to your mom. Your parents would be very proud of you and everything you’ve done to help build this town.”

  Of course, Griffin comes in with his caring, big-brother thoughtfulness. He sends me off in a wave of bubbling emotions. I head out the door and to the left where I run straight into Brig, nose to chest.

  “Whoa, hey there.” He takes me by the shoulders and steadies me. “Ruthie girl, I was just looking for you at the Parlor.”

  It takes me a few seconds to regain my bearings, but when I do and my eyes meet Brig’s, my throat chokes up and hot tears prickle the backs of my eyes.

  Oh God, don’t cry.

  “Hey, is everything okay?” Brig asks, lowering so he can be at eye level with me.

  And there it is, the dreaded question you should never ask someone when they’re on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

  There’s no stopping what happens next. It’s as if our bodies were made to cry when someone asks that question. Pre-engineered to turn into a mess of emotions.

  Tears swell in my eyes.

  Don’t blink.

  Hold it together.

  “Ruthie . . .”

  I blink. Tears fall and before I can wipe them away, Brig’s pulling me into a hug and holding the back of my head as he moves me to the side of The Lobster Landing.

  He strokes the back of my head as he cradles me carefully into his chest, which only makes me lose it even more.

  Just like any other emotional breakdown, everything that’s been plaguing me for the last few years comes to a screaming crash in my mind.

  The loss of my parents.

  My mom’s birthday.

  The stress of the Parlor.

  Brig’s inability to look past my metaphorical apron.

  It all comes flooding out in a crest of tears.

  “Shh,” Brig says, cooing closely to my ear, his hands soothing as they float over me. I lean into him, lean my head against his chest, and wrap my arms around his waist. “I got you, Ruthie.”

  And he does.

  He has everything about me.

  My friendship . . . my heart. All he has to do is hold out his hands and I’d shamelessly give him the rights to everything—not even giving a second thought that he could possibly hurt me. Not when I feel it deep in my bones that Brig is the man I’m supposed to be with.

  I lift away and wipe at my eyes as he grips my shoulders. He waits for me to speak, concern etched in his soulful eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” I swipe under my nose. “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t apologize,” Brig says. “Don’t ever apologize about experiencing emotions.” He slides his hand down my arm and links our hands together. My pulse skyrockets into a burst of excitement as he tugs on me. “Come sit with me. Talk.”

  I nod. There’s no way I would skip out on this moment. Cookies in hand, we make our way to the harbor wall where I take a seat, but instead of facing the ocean to watch the waves lap against the harbor rocks, we face each other. I set the bag of cookies between us and take a deep breath.

  “It’s my mom’s birthday today.”

  “Oh fuck . . . Ruthie.” He reaches out and takes my hand in his, scooting closer on the wall so our legs are touching. “I wish I would have known. I wouldn’t have let you spend most of the day alone.”

  “It’s okay. I usually spend the day alone anyway.”

  “You shouldn’t have to.” His fingers rub over the back of my knuckles. “I’m here now though. What can I do?”

  I glance up at his worried brow. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but being this vulnerable, it makes it harder to say. When I go to look away, he catches me by the chin with his finger, forcing me to maintain eye contact.

  “What can I do?” he repeats. His usual humorous tilt is completely gone and has been replaced with a serious tone, one that speaks volumes of support, of warmth.

  Mustering enough courage, I ask, “Will you share some cookies with me?”

  His eyes soften as he nods. “Of course, Ruthie.”

  “Thank you,” I say, squeezing his hand.

  “You don’t need to thank me. That’s what friends are for.”

  I let the friend-zone comment roll off me as I let go of his hand and open the bag. “When I was young, my parents took me to The Lobster Landing every other Sunday and let me pick out something special. Then we came to this very spot, watched the water, and enjoyed our treats together as a family. It was calming. Serene. My dad would tell silly knock-knock jokes that weren’t funny, but we’d laugh anyway because of how stupid they were. Mom always got a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie and Dad was an avid fan of always trying something different and unique. I floated between the two of them, going with a classic choice or a unique choice. They were my world and I was theirs.” I reach into the bag, pull out the cookies, and lay the bag flat on the harbor wall as a plate, setting the cookies down. “Want to split them?”

  “If that’s what you want,” Brig says, bringing his body closer so his inner knees press against the outside of my knees.

  “I do.” I split both cookies and ask, “Which one do you want to try first?”

  “In honor of your mom, let’s go with the classic.” He picks up both halves and hands me one. He taps the tip of his cookie to mine. “Happy birthday to her.”

  Tears well in my eyes again as I take a bite of the cookie. “Happy birthday, Mom.”

  Brig notices the new wave of tears so he moves the cookie bag to the side and closes the space between us while facing us both toward the harbor. He brings his arm around my shoulder and holds me tight.

  The waves crash below us, a few birds chirp close by, distant laughter from tourists trailing behind us, but nothing could take me from this moment. Nothing could deter me from realizing that even though I might not have my parents with me right now, in some small way, they brought Brig and me together.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For being here with me.”

  He leans in close and places a soft kiss on the top of my head. I feel my heart stutter to a stop, only to start up again when he places one more kiss on my forehead. “Always here for you, Ruthie.”

  And I can’t help think . . . if only that were true.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Brig asks, standing outside of Snow Roast.

  “I’m positive.” I twist my hands together in front of me. We spent the entire afternoon sitting on the harbor wall, talking about my parents. I shared some of my dad’s jokes, spoke about how Brig’s parents always wished they had my mom’s coffee cake recipe, which I thought was funny, and I even told Brig about how the Parlor was the exact vision my mom had. Then we stopped by Jake’s Cakes, grabbed some crab cake sandwiches, shared some waffle fries at one of the picnic tables outside his food truck, and talked some more.

  I learned that he loves being the youngest of five kids in his family, because he can get away with a lot. He once caught Harper and Rogan doing it at Snow Vale Manor and never told a soul. He secretly liked Eve, Reid’s girlfriend and for a minor second—minor being the key word—he thought he was going to end up with her. That was quickly kicked back into reality when he told Reid h
e was going to marry his friend. Reid punched him in the arm and told him to think again. Poor middle-schooler Brig.

  He learned that I’m allergic to cats. I reminded him that I’m really good at playing basketball and played on the girls’ varsity team all four years. And when we were in middle school, I held the record for fastest girl to climb the rope in gym class.

  We joked about our PE teacher, Mr. Robicheaux, and how he got so mad when we didn’t play proper badminton rules that his face would turn red. Brig then sighed and shook his head, wishing we’d known each other better in school. Asked why we never hung out. Even though we lived in a small town, our circles never collided. He was a popular Knightly. I focused on helping my parents at the coffee house—baking in the back—and played basketball. My days were full.

  We shared so much more.

  We laughed.

  And when I got emotional again, Brig didn’t hesitate to pull me into his arms and offer me his strength and compassion.

  “Thank you for today, Brig. It meant the world to me.”

  “Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”

  He stands only a foot away, hands in his pockets, his face sun-kissed from sitting outside with me all day.

  “I forgot to ask you. You were looking for me earlier, what for?”

  “I was?” he asks and reaches up to pull on the back of his neck. “Oh wait, yeah. I was looking to talk to you. The rehearsal dinner for Harper and Rogan is going to be behind the garage and I was hoping we could possibly use your kitchen for some meal prep. We usually have a caterer for our events, but my mom and dad wanted to make the food. I know you just got a new oven in so I don’t want to mess up anything you have going on, but thought I’d ask.”

  “Of course. What’s mine is yours, Brig.”

  “Does that mean your vibrator is mine, too?”

  I laugh a little harder than expected. “Sure. Want me to get it for you?” I thumb behind me.

  He holds up his hand. “I’m tapped out for today, maybe tomorrow though.”

  “I’ll let my vibrator know.” I wink and then take a step forward closing the space between us. I loop my arms around him and hug him tight. “Thank you again, Brig.”

  His hand caresses my back as he squeezes me tight as well. “Anytime. Run with me tomorrow?”

  I pull back and nod. “Yeah.”

  “Going two miles. I think you’re ready. You’re killing one and a half.”

  “I think I’m ready too.”

  “You are.” He tips my chin up. “Just don’t wear that one bra that makes your tits bounce everywhere. You know the one I’m talking about.”

  “Why? Is it distracting?” I ask, acting coy.

  “You know it is. And ever since the whole nose and boob collision, it’s like whenever you’re in that bra, my nose needs to sneeze constantly, as if trying to tell me something. So to avoid all sneezing attacks during a run, I beg you to retire that bra from the rotation.”

  “You poor tortured man.” I step away and turn toward my apartment.

  “So is that a yes, you’re retiring it?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see. Good night, Brig.”

  He sighs heavily. “Good night, Ruthie Girl.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  BRIG

  Dear Whoopie Pie,

  Figured I should call you something other than Secret Pen Pal. I couldn’t think of anything other than Whoopie Pie and for some reason, it feels like it fits so well. Sorry I’ve missed some nights of sending you a letter. Life got a little crazy, but please don’t think it’s because I’m not interested or invested in our conversations. I am.

  I look forward to your letters. I usually save them for night, even if they’re delivered during the day or in the morning. I’ll set them on my nightstand so when I tuck in for the night, I can fall asleep to your words.

  How are you holding out, being in the thick of summer? Did you catch the wave of tourists this past Saturday? I swear you couldn’t move an inch down Main Street without someone’s sweaty shoulder touching yours. Sunday was nice though, felt like a breath of fresh air. I know how much the crowds bother you, so I’m hoping you made it out alive.

  Did you?

  Patiently waiting to find out.

  Hugs,

  Summer (that’s not my name, but figured since I love summer so much, it fits for me)

  * * *

  Dear Summer,

  When I finally do meet you, it’s going to be weird to not call you Summer. In my head, I picture you as a blonde. Are you . . . blonde? I know we shouldn’t be talking descriptions and we should get to know each other on a deeper level like we have, but every time I read your letters, I picture you as a blonde. Not sure why. Maybe because you have a striking resemblance in personality to my friend.

  I will admit, skipping a few days and not hearing from you was a little painful, but I was able to spend Sunday with a good friend, enjoying the harbor and some of the small things I forget to enjoy when living in Port Snow. Like sitting on the harbor wall and listening to the waves crash. Taking a moment to enjoy a cookie from The Lobster Landing. Or walking down the streets at night, enjoying the sounds of crickets in the background while the streetlamps light your path. I felt rejuvenated yesterday and it made me not dislike summer as much.

  So rest assured, I’m alive and well.

  Which means I need to know . . . are you a blonde?

  Hugs,

  Whoopie Pie < - - snorted writing that, but I like it.

  * * *

  “Got an extra pep in your step this morning?” I say to Ruth who is gliding down our route, showing stamina and great power in her legs.

  “Feeling good,” she says while knocking me in the shoulder. “Even have a healthy breakfast planned for us.”

  “Healthy? What’s this bullshit? I run for food.”

  “It’s overnight oats with chia seeds and kale.”

  “Uhhh . . . kale in my oatmeal? Are you insane?”

  “It’s bright green and smells like death, but I think it will give us all the fuel we need to hang shiplap today.”

  We turn the last corner and head toward Snow Roast. By now, Ruth would normally be slowing down, breathing harder, but it’s as if she’s traded places with an ultrarunner, because she’s picking up the pace.

  Keeping up by stretching out my stride, I say, “I prefer my breakfast to smell like death. How did you know?”

  “Wild guess.” She glances at me and says, “Race you.” And then takes off in a sprint.

  It takes my brain a few seconds to process what’s happening but once it does, I start to sprint . . . only for my eyes to land right on Ruth’s retreating rear end.

  Firm.

  Tight.

  Round.

  Perfectly framed by black spandex.

  Damn, Ruth.

  I’m so caught up in watching her ass that I don’t turn on the “booster rockets” soon enough. Ruth reaches Snow Roast before me, throws her arms up in the air, and starts chanting for herself.

  She looks . . . God, she looks fucking adorable.

  Her hair is in two French braids. Her freckles are darker from the summer sun, and her tits . . . well, I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with me, because I can’t seem to stop staring at them. It’s because I’m hard up; that’s what I keep telling myself when I catch myself gazing at them. Or wondering what they would look like bare. Or considering how they’d feel in my hand.

  Yup . . . hard up, all right.

  “You didn’t even try,” she says pushing my shoulder when I finally make it to her.

  “You caught me off guard.” With your ass.

  “I have to keep you on your toes somehow. Come on.” She nods toward Snow Roast. “Let’s grab some breakfast.”

  I don’t budge. “I think I’ll skip breakfast today. Not really feeling the whole oatmeal and kale combo.”

  Not saying a word, she takes my hand in hers and walks into Snow Roa
st where Beck is at the counter. His eyes fall to my hand clasped in Ruth’s. He cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything.

  “Beck, can you hand me the breakfast I prepared for me and Brig?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He reaches below the counter and sets two plates in front of us, each containing the biggest cinnamon bun I’ve ever seen.

  “Ruthie Girl, I might just kiss you,” I say, taking both plates in hand.

  “I’d love to see that,” Beck says. “Kiss her.”

  Not even thinking about it, I lean down and place a kiss on her cheek before walking over to our table. “Grab some waters, Ruthie,” I call out, my mouth watering. I take a seat and situate myself, ready to eat all the calories I just burned, when I look at Ruth to see where the waters are at.

  She’s hunkered down next to Beck whispering something to him. He’s smiling and laughing. He says something. She pushes his shoulder. He laughs some more. And an odd sensation heats the back of my ears.

  Do I detect . . . jealousy?

  No. There’s no way I’m jealous.

  Just then, Oliver from the general store walks in. The quiet, brooding man lights up when he sees Ruth and to my surprise, he gives her a high five. She motions up and down her body and I watch him slowly scan her, starting at her legs, up her bare stomach, to her . . . hey, those are my tits to stare at.

  Wait a second.

  No, they’re not. They’re not my tits . . . but, why do I feel like I’ve staked a claim on them? She says something that makes him laugh, and I watch in horror as he reaches out and tugs on one of her French braids.

  What the shit is that about?

  Is he . . . oh fuck, maybe he really is the guy Ruth has been pining after, because from my vantage point, it’s easy to see the rosiness of her cheeks and her flirtatious body language.

  Unwelcome anger seeps into my veins. My fists grow tight with irritation. Is she really going to flirt like that in front of me?

  Of course she is . . . you’re friends, you doofus.