by Julia Kent
“Speaking of money, where's the check?” Mal says, looking for our server. “It's my turn to pay. And even if it wasn't, I'd pay, because you earned it.”
“Hey, hey there,” Perky chides her. “Slow down. We haven't had dessert, big spender!”
Mallory's look of shock is replaced by her neck craning to find the dessert case. “Sorry! You're right!”
“Say that again,” Perky asks.
“Sorry!”
“No. The other part.”
“You're right!” The comment comes with an arm punch.
I slump back in my chair. “Everyone is so revved up. It's hard to feel the separate forces in the world.”
“I thought you said energy works best when it's synergistic and integrated?” Perky's words make me smile in spite of myself. She's internalized some of this, even if the quiet light needs to shine a little harder to get inside her skin.
“Unless it's the wrong kind of energy,” I explain, turning serious. “Then it's like a tangle of old Christmas lights that someone plugged into an unsafe outlet. Touch the wrong bulb socket and you're electrocuted.”
“That's how life feels right now?”
“Yes.”
The server appears, a huge smile on her face. “No check. It's taken care of. And they want you to have dessert, too.”
“You can't do that!” I protest.
“I didn't.” She points to an older couple, sitting to the right of a large table of ten people, the ones facing us all about college age, those with their backs to us hunched over in conversation. “That couple did.”
They stand and come over, the woman about my mom's age. As she approaches, I realize I know them.
“Fiona, my word!”
“MOM?” Mallory stands up and gasps, staring at her parents, Sharon and Roy.
Walking right past her own daughter, Sharon grabs me in a big old mom hug. I'm only halfway up, so I have to engage my glutes to handle the physical contact. Sharon smells like something from the Estee Lauder counter mixed with beef tallow and unrefined organic coconut oil.
“You are a hero,” Sharon whispers in my ear as it hits me: This is going to be every conversation I have with every adult in my life for the foreseeable future.
I'd better come up with a go-to answer.
“I just did my best,” I reply. “I knew what needed to be done, and I did it.”
I sound like Coach Belichick at a post-game press conference for the Pats.
Perky practically chokes on her laughter and the protein bar made of ground crickets she’s eating.
“That’s right, sweetie, you did it,” Roy says to me as Mallory stands and gives her parents perfunctory hugs.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
Roy pats his belly. “Lunch.”
“No, I mean–aren't you working? Are you closed for the Monday holiday?”
“I own the business. I'm the boss. Taking my best employee out for a treat.” He winks at Sharon, who giggles.
Mal makes a fake gagging gesture.
We're still thirteen when we're around our parents, aren't we?
“How are Beth and Geoff?” Sharon asks me, concern knitting her brow. She has auburn hair, a few shades darker than Mallory's brighter red, but Sharon’s comes out of a bottle. Kind eyes, brown with a sable ring around the edge, tell me she's worried about me.
It's nice to have someone worry about you when the stakes are lower. Right now, I feel like the world is either worried about me or wants a piece of me.
“They're fine. I talked to them last night, again. They call every day now that the cruise line gave them free Internet, just to check in. The timing of the attack was terrible,” I say with a silly laugh that feels stupid the second I do it. “Mom and Dad are the embodiment of delayed gratification, and they finally sprang for this world cruise.”
“Rico Lingoni should have thought of that before he lost his damn mind,” Perky snarks.
A guy whose back is turned to us, sitting in the middle of the long table of people, suddenly stiffens.
I lower my voice. “I just don't want attention.”
Sharon pats my hand. “It's a little too late for that.”
“At least you're getting positive social media attention,” Roy says, Mallory's face going pale as she predicts what's about to come out of his mouth.
“Dad–”
“Perky is social media famous because of her, uh...”
One eyebrow arches perfectly on Perky's face.
Roy turns bright red.
“Um, and then there's Mallory and that picture of her sandwiched between Will and Beasty.”
“Beastman,” Mallory corrects, unable to help herself.
“Well, now, look at the time!” Sharon chirps, tugging so hard on Roy's sleeve, she's about to rip it off. “We have that meeting with the main office. Can't be late!”
“What meeting?” Roy asks as she speeds him out of there.
“Why can't my parents be gone on a six-week cruise of a lifetime?” Mallory wails as they leave. Her eyes land on the vegan dessert case. “Mmmm, coconut key lime pie.”
“It's really good,” says a male voice I've come to know all too well.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask, looking up at Fletch, who I realize is the same guy who was sitting with his back to us at the long table.
“I could ask the same of you. I'm here with my staff from the gym. What're you doing here?”
“Being tortured by my parents,” Mal murmurs as she stands. “Is that a sprig of lavender on that chocolate cake, Perky? Let's go look,” she says in an arch tone. Perky frowns, then the lightbulb goes on.
“Your mom and dad got the check, so let's gorge.”
They disappear, fast.
Fletch is staring down at me expectantly, hands on his hips, biceps peeking out under a tight black workout shirt. He's fit beyond belief, with the kind of body that naturally draws good lighting to it. For someone I've been avoiding since seventh grade, he's turned out to be incredibly hot.
And even more incredibly annoying.
“I'm eating,” I finally answer.
“Aren't we all. How are you doing?”
“I'm fine. You just saw me two days ago, Fletch. Nothing much has changed since then.”
“You're the biggest social media story in Anderhill since Mallory was a porn star. I'd say plenty has changed.”
“Mallory isn't a porn star!”
“And you're not fine.”
He's right.
I hate that he's right.
“Why are you suddenly meddling in my life like you know me? Because you don't,” I inform him, moving closer, one hand rising up, my index finger pointing as I assume a power stance that seems otherworldly. Some self inside me is coming to the forefront.
And she has something to say.
Two of the people at his table turn and look at us, then start whispering. Fletch's eyes cut over.
“Can we talk in private?” he asks.
“Why? Afraid of being called out in public?”
“No, but you're about to get a bunch of cellphones pulled out. You really want more recordings of you floating around on the internet?”
I spin on my heel and move to the hallway in what I think is the direction of the bathrooms. Paleo2Clean is new to me, but before this incarnation, it was a soup restaurant, and before that, a froyo place.
Yep. Guessed right. High chairs and bathrooms.
“Look, Fletch,” I say, grabbing his arm hard. “Until our reunion last year, I hadn't seen you in forever. And when Mal and Will chose us both to be in their wedding, I wasn't happy, but I plastered on a fake smile because that's what you do when your friends are getting married and you used to hate one of the groomsmen.”
“Hate?” A smile tickles his lips, his amusement infuriating me more than any other response he could possibly have. “You,” he says, looking at my hand on his skin, taking a step closer into my space, “hate me?”
/> “No. I said I used to hate you. Before I worked on evolving and being a better human being.”
“How, exactly, have you done that?”
“By increasing my vibration.”
“You are a better person because you use vibrators?”
“Who said anything about sex toys?”
“You did. Just now.”
“No, I didn't! I said vibrations!”
“What's the difference?”
“Enlightenment!”
“Pretty sure enlightenment comes from enough orgasms, too, Fiona.”
An espresso machine hisses in the distance, cutting through the sound of our matched breath. He's inches from me, heat pulsing off his rock-hard body, the close-fitting black cloth of his shirt rippling only because of curved muscle. My hand on his arm feels like heat itself, our bodies some sort of element that conducts energy on a wavelength science hasn't discovered yet.
And I'm wet, wanting, and so, so confused.
“Why are you turning this conversation into a sex talk?” I finally choke out, pulling back as he leans in.
“You started it,” he replies, the smile fading, replaced by something intensely seductive. He bites his lower lip for a moment, looking at me. Then, in a whisper that makes me lean in to hear, he adds, “Maybe you wouldn't hate me so much if I helped you with those vibrations.”
Is that an offer? I almost ask, before I mentally smack myself.
“I am not having this conversation with you,” I say tightly.
Releasing me, he takes a distinct step back, still deeply amused. “Fine. But hate? You hate me?”
“You gave me that horrible nickname.”
“That was seventeen years ago. You're carrying around resentment from seventh grade? Can't be that evolved, can you? I really think you need more work on the vibrations, Fiona,” he says with a wink before turning toward the dining room. “Might make you less uptight about me.”
I am speechless.
I am agog.
And I am fuming.
Angry in all the wrong parts of my body, and hot in all the right ones.
Using the opportunity to get my act together, I go to the bathroom and take my sweet time. It's a single stall, the kind with a pedestal sink, a filthy mirror, and a toilet that won't allow you to flush anything thicker than a spider web. As my body cools off, my temper sure doesn't.
Why am I letting Chris Fletcher get to me like this?
Tap tap tap
“Fi? You okay?” It's Perky.
“I'm fine. Just finishing up,” I lie as I turn on the faucet and wash my hands.
“He's gone. Coast is clear.”
“Who's gone?”
“Fletch.”
“Why would I care if he's gone?”
“Because he walked out of the hallway with a shit-eating grin on his face and I figured you were a puddle of boneless goo from some hot bathroom boning.”
“BATHROOM BONING?” I screech, then clamp my wet hands over my mouth. Who am I? What am I saying?
“I wouldn't blame you. Have you taken a look at those arms? Dang. Now I miss Parker,” she whimpers through the door.
Ripping three too-short pieces of paper towel off the automated dispenser, I finally dry my hands and mouth, opening the door to find Perky standing there, her shirt unbuttoned to below her bra line, strategically angling her camera to take a picture of her cleavage.
“I'd have thought you'd learned your lesson about sexy selfies by now,” I lecture her, grabbing the phone and taking a picture of a high chair, hitting the up arrow to send the pic.
“OH MY GOD, FI! NO!”
“Serves you right.”
“But Fi! Before you sent that, I texted him the words Ready for this, Parker? Now he thinks I want a baby! We're not even married!”
Bzzz
“Shhhh!” Mallory appears, finger over her pursed lips. “We can hear you out there, Perky! What's wrong?”
“I can't look!” Perk screeches, covering her eyes, flinging the phone at me.
“It's an email shipping confirmation from ItAlwaysFits for some kind of device called a–”
She snatches the phone back. “Never mind.”
Mal plucks it out of her hands and taps the screen. She gasps.
“You bought a dildo with Parker's head on the end? His actual–” Squinting, she spreads the image on the screen with her pinched fingers. “His actual head?”
“That's right. I shrinky-dinked a sitting member of Congress and attached his still-pulsing head to a sex toy. You wouldn't believe the blood cleanup. Come on, Mallory.”
“I wouldn't put it past you.”
“Give that back!” She shuts the phone off and shoves it in her pocket. Huffing. “Besides, it's not like I'm the first one. Turns out they had five others. Parker has a personalized dildo groupie club. The customer service person was a little too forthcoming about that.”
“Why?” Mal groans.
“Because it's cute! And they follow Fair Trade practices.” Perky turns to Mal with mischief in her eye. “That might make a good bachelorette party gift for you.”
“The only dick I want attached to Will's head is his real one.”
“That... sounds like something from a horror movie.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Easy to be smug when you don't have a long-distance relationship.”
“You don't have a long-distance relationship anymore! You're about to move to Texas!”
Perky waves her hand dismissively as she wanders off to the dessert case.
“At least you both have regular sex,” I groan as we head back to the table. Fletch and his group are gone, our server washing off their table.
Speaking of sex...
Wait! No! Sex and Fletch don't go together. Ever. Never ever ever. I don't like him. I go out of my way to avoid him. I cannot associate Fletch and sex in my conscious mind, because that thought will invade my subconscious layers. The last thing I need is for my spirit self to try to connect to his spirit self and ruin my equanimity.
“You need a date.”
“What about Fletch?” Mal asks slyly.
“Anyone but him.”
“You seemed... flustered talking to him.”
“Because I can't stand him!”
“If you say so.”
“ANYONE but him!” I insist as Perky appears with three selections of baked goods from the vegan case. I see coconut cheesecake with blueberry compote, something very chocolate, and a raspberry mound that covers something made from coconut ice cream.
“Then do the app,” Perk insists.
“I don't want to swipe right! I'm not out for a virtual booty call.”
“What's wrong with virtual booty calls?”
“Hold on,” Mal says around a mouth full of macadamia nut crust and blueberry. “I thought we were here to talk about my wedding shower. Not Fiona's defunct vagina.”
“Defunct!”
“Out of order,” Mal adds with a blue-stained grin, her teeth perfectly aligned from years of orthodontia.
“In need of a reboot,” Perk contributes.
“Temporarily out of stock.”
“Are you two quite finished?”
“No.” They flash mirth-filled eyes at each other. “Available in two to four years,” Mal quips.
“So popular, we ran out!”
“Hey! My vagina isn't some refurbished Apple product you buy on Groupon.”
“But it could be. Bet that's in their business plan for 2023,” Mal deadpans.
“Can we get on with this and just sign me up for blind-date hell? Anything is better than this conversation.”
Perky leaps at the chance, grabbing my phone, punching in the password, and immediately downloading the app.
“Just avoid NiceGuysFinish,” Mal mutters. “Stupid David and his conversion-consultant snare.”
“Huh?”
“Remember the guy who secretly works for the dance studio and made me
think we were having a date for dance lessons?”
“Oh. Right. Block him,” I tell Perky.
“This is why I hate those dating apps,” Mal grumbles around a mouth of chocolate mousse. “Too many perverts and con artists.”
“You're really selling it,” I inform her as I steal the chocolate candy sculpture sticking out of the mousse and lick the tip.
“I'm sure it'll be fine for you,” she soothes.
“Perverts and con artists are in my dating pool. Multi-millionaire real estate heirs who are Rhodes Scholars and former quarterbacks are in yours.”
She rolls her eyes playfully. “Looks like you have a paramedic gym owner in your dating pool if you want him.”
“There is only one way I will ever date Chris Fletcher,” I announce, then stuff my face full of raspberries.
“How?”
“When her third chakra aligns with the moon in the seventh house of Aquarius under a geopathically sensitive female lemur giving birth during a meteor shower,” Perky says.
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“Neither do your energy things.”
“My answer has to do with energy, but not that,” I correct her.
“Then what would it take for you to date him?”
“Signs.”
“Signs? Like, he needs to go make up a big banner and fly it above the town common?”
“No. The universe would need to send me signs. My higher power would have to guide me to him.”
“Weren't you just complaining that he keeps finding you?”
“That's different. That's him manifesting his own intentions. I'm talking about–”
“Fate,” Mallory declares. “She's talking about fate. Coincidence. Uncanny moments when neither should be there but they are. You know,” she says with a grin, teeth still purple. “Serendipity.”
“Exactly,” I say, taking the last bite of cheesecake.
“That's stupid.” Perky taps on my phone, squinting. “I'm going to make fate work for you with this app. You're athletic, right?”
“Sure.”
“And you like coffee?”
“I prefer tea, but–”
“Coffee and tea,” she says loudly, as if overriding my heresy. “Kids?”
“Huh?”
“You like kids?”