Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  He turns to face me, looking like a nightmare and a wet dream rolled into one. I clench my jaw and keep my eyes steady, refusing to let them travel down his body.

  They want to see if he was affected by me too.

  Well, too bad. Not gonna happen.

  “I’m not cute,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  “Sure you are.”

  “Jerk.”

  “I’m a jerk because I think you’re cute?”

  “You know what you’re doing.” My eyes narrow.

  “Do I?” We hold gazes for a seemingly endless heartbeat. Then he gives me a cat-that-ate-the-canary smirk, turns and saunters out of the room, whistling.

  Fucking whistling.

  I hate Benjamin Crawford.

  I sit there for a long moment staring at the empty doorway, bogged down by what just happened.

  Old pipes groan and rattle in the walls as the shower turns on, and I try not to think of Ben stripping from his clothes. But it’s like telling myself not to think of a pink elephant with big sunglasses and a shiny blue coat.

  I fall back on the bed with a frustrated groan while I stare at the shadows on the ceiling dancing from the sun filtering trees blowing outside.

  I reach to the nightstand and grab my phone. My gaze flickers over last night’s clothes scattered on the floor to Ben’s neatly folded T-shirts sitting atop his dresser.

  So much for showing him my best self.

  Not that I care which version of me he sees.

  I have two modes: Super clean. And super messy. Right now, I’m in super-messy-mode. My outside world tends to reflect how I feel inside and right now my insides are pretty messed up, so surprise… super messy room.

  I roll onto my back and check the time. I’m shocked it’s so late and even more shocked when I see a text waiting and it’s not from Derek but from Charlize Theron.

  I sit up.

  Mara: OMG! This is you, right? CONGRATS, girl! I didn’t know you were dating Ben! This is Mara by the way. I sold you the dress. At Stanford Mall. The one with the blonde hair. I probably should’ve led with that. Anyway, let’s go riding soon, K? :)

  I tap to open the text while trying to wrap my brain around her words.

  My heart holds onto the edge of its next beat as my eyes fix on a YouTube video thumbnail of Ben on one knee, looking up at me. And me looking down at him like… like he owns my next fucking breath.

  “Please, God. No, no, no, no…” I plead to my phone, my eyes glued to the screen, my fingers suddenly stiff.

  Rigor-mortis must be setting in because I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m dead and this is hell.

  I take in a deep, courage-filled, breath and tap play.

  “Holding Out for A Hero” by Bonnie Tyler blasts from my phone.

  Fucking Nick.

  Ben has me effortlessly slung over his broad shoulder, and with Mr. Wellington and Mrs. Baker at his heels, he stalks toward the dumpster. The ballad playing makes it look like we’re in a cheesy 80s music video. A music video that’s being narrated by…

  Winston: What the fuck is he doing?

  Jesse: Hell, if I know.

  Nick: I’m recording this shit.

  Ben swings the garbage bag into the dumpster. I hate the fact my ass is on full display when he turns his body. But there it is. In all its glory. My hands grab at Ben’s chest from behind.

  Winston: Is he gonna toss her in?

  Nick: He won’t.

  Winston: Maybe I should—

  Jesse: Sara Johnson.

  Winston: Fucking Sara Johnson.

  Who the hell is Sara Johnson?

  Ben turns to face Mrs. Baker, looking down at her with a deep scowl.

  Nick: What’s she saying?

  Winston: Can’t hear shit, but he looks pissed as fuck. Maybe we should go see what’s up?

  None of them move a single step.

  Instead, Nick zooms in on the image.

  Fucking Nick.

  Ben’s jerking me upright from his shoulder, sending my ponytail flying, and turning us away from Mr. Wellington, who looks more nervous than I remember, giving Nick’s phone a side view of us. We’re looking into each other’s eyes, our faces close. I don’t remember being that close. My hands reach behind his head, my fingers curl into his short hair. He inches closer. He licks his bottom lip. I roll my tongue over mine.

  Wait… I don’t remember doing any of that shit.

  Nick: Dude, I think they’re gonna get it on.

  Winston: I hate that fucker.

  Ben’s hands are on my ass, gripping it hard. I try not to think about how good it looks, him gripping me like that. Strong and capable…

  Nick: Get it, bro!

  Winston: Shut up, dude!

  Ben’s features sharpen, his jaw clenches, then he lets go of me, and I watch my ass hit the ground. Yeah, it looks about as ungraceful as if felt…

  Nick: Ooh… That’s cold.

  Ben grabs my arm and hauls me up like I’m a rag doll. Mrs. Baker grabs my hand, turns to Ben and barks something at him. I grab his arm, and again we stare into each other’s eyes like we’re star-struck lovers. Not mortal enemies. Lovers.

  Mrs. Baker’s back is mostly to the camera, so you can’t see what she’s doing, but I know. She’s taking off her ring. I glance to the ring now perched on my finger.

  Mr. Wellington runs his hand down his face when he sees what she’s about to do. She thrusts out the ring for Ben to take. Ben grabs my hand. My eyes go wide.

  Nick: What do you think it is?

  Their collective voices murmur in the background.

  Ben drops to his knee.

  It’s suddenly quiet. The music playing in the background cuts off.

  Winston: No fucking way.

  Nick: Shh!

  Ben takes my hand, his dark eyes holding mine, “Will you marry—”

  I cut off the video, and fall back to the pillow with a groan, wallowing in the shit-fest I’ve created.

  I don’t know why I feel guilty, but I do. I should’ve just let him throw away the damn garbage bag. It’s not like I have anything that can’t be replaced.

  I exhale a heavy breath and look at the video to see the number of views, relieved only a handful of people have witnessed this mess I call life. Well, at least that’s something.

  Closing the YouTube window, I stare at Mara’s text. It’s sad how badly I could use a friend right now.

  My thoughts turn to Derek, but there are things only another woman will understand. Things we hide and only let each other see.

  Before I can think of what a loser-move this is, my fingers reply to her text.

  Me: Hi Mara! That’s me, but it’s not what it looks like… at all. Do you wanna grab lunch or dinner tonight? Totally understand if you’re busy. :)

  I hit send before I can change my mind. I feel like a total loser, but with Rose gone I’m desperate for someone to talk to. And Mara seemed super nice and down-to-earth.

  I’m surprised by the swiftness of her reply.

  Mara: Yes! I’d love to! Dinner would totally work. Hope you’re okay… Feel free to call, if you need to chat. :)

  My fingers itch to dial her number, but I’m pretty sure I’m incapable of forming a coherent sentence right now. Too much shit running through my mind. Too many emotions simmering in my gut.

  Plus, I hate talking on the phone. Even more than Uncle Rick. And that’s saying something.

  Me: Great! I’ll text you later to figure out the deets. Talk soon! :)

  I reread the text after I hit send.

  Deets.

  I’ve never said deets in my life.

  But there it is.

  Deets.

  Exhaling, I remind myself that I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a roof over my head. Food in my belly. People that love me. Life is okay. I’m okay.

  But this still sucks.

  Big time.

  There’s only one thing that can make me feel better. One thing that can make
all this seem less sucky. One thing that could drag my embarrassed ass out of bed.

  Coffee.

  A good hot cup of coffee fixes everything.

  I get up from the bed, throw on Ben’s cozy sweatshirt that I’ve taken as payment for all the shit he’s put me through, and make my way to the kitchen.

  It takes two cups of Pete’s dark roast and a slice of the frozen Sara Lee pound cake that Rose kept on-hand for guests, before my bruised ego starts to feel a little better, before I’m able to move the YouTube video into the non-world-ending category.

  Then Ben saunters in the kitchen and poof good feeling gone. But at least he’s not whistling. So, that’s something.

  His hair is still wet from the shower, and he’s dressed in a worn-till-soft red Triumph T-shirt and jeans.

  His gaze doesn’t meet mine as he walks to the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup, finishing the pot.

  “Help yourself.” I glare at his back.

  I know I’m being petty, but it turns out, I’m in a petty mood.

  He ignores me, pouring in some milk and several heaps of sugar. Then grabs the last piece of pound cake and faces me, leaning against the counter. I search his face for any indication that he knows about our engagement video. Either he’d make one hell of a poker player, or he doesn’t know.

  Am I excited about ruining his day like he’s ruined mine? Yep.

  His gaze takes me in as he drinks his coffee. I imagine what he sees: Crazy hair. Flushed cheeks. Puffy eyes. It’s safe to say, I won’t be winning any beauty pageants anytime soon. But I am wearing his cozy sweatshirt that I have no intention of ever giving back, so there’s that.

  I take an ungraceful bite of my pound cake to show him how little I care what he thinks. I can’t help but notice his beard is trimmed shorter, hugging a little closer to the sharp lines of his jaw. And for some reason, it makes me want to crack the empty coffee pot over his head.

  “I take it you haven’t seen our little engagement video.” I grab my phone, excited to tap play and drag him down to my level, which currently resembles the bottom of a septic tank.

  “Yeah, I saw it.” He shrugs.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Well, aren’t you gonna do something?”

  “I got more important shit to worry about,” he says in a way that makes me feel foolish.

  “I’m not worried about it, I’m annoyed.” I sound defensive because I’m that too.

  He grunts with a shrug.

  “I need the debit card,” he says, before taking a bite of the pound cake.

  “You mean the card I gave to you?” I shoot back.

  “I mean the card I gave back to you, which you put in your purse.”

  Through the sludge of my mind, I vaguely remember him handing me back the card.

  “What do you need at Home Depot?” I change the subject, losing a bit of my bravado.

  “Tanbark,” he says, finishing off the coffee and turning to put it in the sink.

  I really need to read the will.

  “I’ll go with you.” I stand from the table. “Just give me a minute,” I say, cleaning up the crumbs from the table with a napkin.

  It’s not that I want to spend time with Ben. But I’m pretty sure the only cure for this delusional Ben-crush is to spend time with him. Exposure therapy.

  “Naw, I’m good.” He snickers at the same time the doorbell chimes.

  I glance to the clock, not in any mood to deal with Wellington.

  “Someone’s at the door,” I state evenly while giving the table another wipe letting him know I’m not getting it.

  Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I see Ben walking out of the kitchen. “My sweatshirt looks cute on you,” he says with his back to me.

  Jerk.

  I finish cleaning the table and go to throw the paper towel away, freezing when the murmur of deep voices sends ice through my veins.

  Derek.

  Knowing every second they’re alone is inviting disaster, I yell from the kitchen, “Coming!”

  I blindly toss the paper towel, missing the garbage, and speed-walk to the entryway, relieved to see Ben retreating down the hall.

  I step into the foyer to see Derek standing by the door with a Starbucks latte and a brown bag that I’m sure contains my favorite maple scone.

  “Mr. Personality let me in,” he grumbles.

  “Sorry. Turns out he’s got a permanent stick shoved up his ass,” I say, not-so-quietly.

  “That’s one way to put it.” The crooked smile he gives me is so devastatingly pure, so instantly contagious, that I can’t help but return it.

  His green eyes brighten despite the red rims that tell a story of a rough night. His disheveled hair says he came straight here from pulling an all-nighter in the stables.

  He came here first.

  To bring me coffee.

  “They were out of sugar free—”

  His words are cut off as I step into him, wrapping my arms around his trim waist, I bury my face in the scratchy wool flannel.

  “Whoa…” A surprised chuckle sounds as he rushes to lift his arms to accommodate my crazy ass, trying not to spill the coffee or drop the scone.

  I’m not a huge hugger. I mean, I give goodbye hugs, thank you hugs, condolence hugs, and the occasional bear hug, but this… this hug is an I-want-to-crawl-inside-you-and-hibernate-until-spring kind of hug. I hardly ever give those.

  “You alright?” His voice darkens with concern.

  I breathe in the smell of hay, sweat, and Derek. His earthy musk wraps around me, soothing my frayed nerves.

  I nod, but I don’t let go.

  “Em, what’s wrong?” His deep voice vibrates against my cheek.

  “Let me just hug you like a weirdo, okay…”

  “What happened?” The humor his voice is gone. He steps back, gently moving me from my arms so he can get a good look at me. “You look like shit.”

  I feel like shit.

  I shift my feet under the weight of his gaze. His eyes narrow as they take in Ben’s oversized sweatshirt.

  “I didn’t sleep that great,” I lie, taking the latte from his hand with a tight smile. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  My stomach hits the floor when Ben saunters in, his energy suddenly surrounding my personal space.

  His thick wavy hair is combed neat for a change, and with his beard trimmed to masculine perfection, he looks like he’s on the hunt for prey of the female variety.

  Is this why he didn’t want me to go with him? Is he meeting someone, maybe the redhead? Or Crying Cindy from the bar?

  The thought sends a Backdraft-sized inferno to my gut, which quickly spreads to my chest and moves up my neck.

  “Don’t you need the card?” I call out to his back, not noticing he’s wearing his sexy faded-wallet jeans.

  Without turning around, he holds up the card between two fingers like he’s giving me the bird, opens the door, and walks out. The door slams shut behind him.

  My feet itch to storm after him to snatch the card from his jerk fingers, while I mess up his styled hair.

  “What the hell is that dude’s problem,” Derek growls, his eyes shooting daggers at the front door.

  Where do I begin?

  I should probably start with the fact Ben and I are fake-engaged. For a fake April wedding. Planned by a real-life Betsy.

  I run my finger over my fake engagement ring and take in a deep breath, dreading the conversation I’m about to have.

  My shoulders slump with the weight of the words I’m about to say. “I messed up.”

  His eyes slam into mine, his jaw hardens. “You slept with him,” he states, like the words are a knife twisting in his gut.

  “Hell, no!” I shout in outrage, actually feeling slightly disgusted by the suggestion. I guess, even my sex-crazed lady-part has turned off her open sign.

  Derek’s searches my eyes for a moment. I can tell when he finds truth reflected in them.

/>   “Then what is it?” His shoulders relax, tension eases from his body, making what I’m about to say next that much harder.

  How do you tell someone that you’ve somehow found yourself fake-engaged to a person who you despise? To a person who despises you?

  Shia LaBeouf ’s “Just Do It” video echoes in my mind.

  “We’re sort of engaged to be married,” I murmur through a sip of my lukewarm Vanilla Latte.

  14

  Massage Parlor Barbie

  Things I can do with a good night’s sleep: Survive a Soviet-style interrogation by Derek. Take a shower. Have an awkward conversation with Uncle Rick. Eat a Hot Pocket. Clean my room. Do laundry. Paint two coats on the hallway. Eat another Hot Pocket. Take another shower. Get ready to hang out with Mara.

  All before three o’clock.

  All while not running into Ben.

  Not once.

  This has me in an excellent mood. So, excellent, in fact, I don’t even lose my shit when the same Google self-driving car cuts me off twice.

  Welcome to Palo Alto.

  I pull Derek’s truck up to Mara’s Spanish-style apartment building, surprised by the butterflies taking flight in my stomach. In a way, it feels like a blind date. We chatted a lot while I was buying the to die for dress, but it still feels strange going to her place.

  We’ve been texting on and off all day, trying to figure out plans for tonight. After a few misses, one of which was goat yoga, she hit it out of the park when she suggested pizza and a movie.

  And here I am. Walking past an elaborate blue tile and sandstone water fountain, Rico’s Pizza in-hand, smiling like a weirdo as I scan the tiles by the curved doors for her address.

  “Hey, girl!”

  I look up to see a barefaced Mara leaning over the iron railing, waving. She looks younger without her smoky eyes and painted lips. I put her closer to my twenty-eight, maybe even younger. You know how some women look prettier without makeup? Well, she’s one of them.

  She’s wearing black yoga pants, which she probably does yoga in, and an oversized artfully distressed black sweatshirt that I’m sure costs more than my skinny jeans, Chucks, and Hank Williams T-shirt combo combined.

  “Hey!” I beam up at her.

  “Oh my god, is that Rico’s Pizza?” She starts toward the stairs, her hungry eyes tracking the pizza box.