“Yum,” Lucy says. “Are you working today?”
“Yeah.” And then I do the polite thing and ask what they’re up to, when really I shouldn’t.
“We had a workout, and after this, we’re meeting Finn’s parents at their lake house. His stepmother and I are going shopping, while the men fish.” She gives me a wink and a thumbs-up.
“Sounds super fun.”
This should be the end of our conversation, a good place to say “great seeing you” before darting out of the door, but Lucy and Finn proceed to fill me in on their newfound happiness and about Finn’s luxurious condo.
“It feels so good to stand up straight,” he says. “I swear that tiny house gave me a hunchback.”
Lucy rubs her hand down his back. “No, it didn’t, babe. But your new place is a much better fit for you.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say.
And then my anxieties go full Godzilla stomping through my body, destroying the barricades I’d erected to keep them at bay when Finn says,
“I tried to get Lucy to move in with me, but she thinks it’s healthier if we maintain our separate spaces.” He drapes an arm on the back of her chair, playing with the ends of her hair. “I guess she’s right. Even if I’d rather have her there all the time.”
“Well, it’s important to have those boundaries in a new relationship, and not be together 24/7,” she says, affirming my worries. “It’s good to miss me. It makes our time together sweeter. Don’t you agree, Chloe?” She realizes her mistake, because hello, I don’t have my own place. “Oh. Never mind.” She takes a sip of celery juice and changes the subject. “So how are things with you and Austin?”
This interaction with them is outside of my comfort zone. And I decide from this moment on to duck and run if I ever see them again. Screw being an adult. “They’re great.” I look at an imaginary watch on my arm. “I really have to get back to work. Enjoy your day.”
“See you later,” she says, giving Finn starry eyes.
Outside, I dump my smoothie in the trash because now there are a million butterflies in my stomach. Back at work, my anxieties wrap their fingers around my throat until I feel like I’m choking, so I try to soothe myself with some second opinions on the internet. Big mistake. The internet experts agree dating a roommate isn’t ideal. Time apart is crucial to fledgling couples who previously lived together as roommates, they say.
I take a deep breath and remind myself we’ve gone from zero to sixty and really, I’m more of a Driving Miss Daisy type of gal, so it’s natural I have these fears.
When I finally come home from the long-ass day at It’s Clay Time, firing one million dishes between checking kids in for birthday parties, wanting nothing more than to soak my tired feet in the tub while listening to the Talk Like a Lady podcast, Austin is lounging in the living room with his guitar.
For a beat, I linger in the doorway, unsure of how this works. Everything has changed, and I don’t do well with change. Yes, we had phenomenal sex last night and cuddled after, but where are our boundaries? Am I supposed to drop my stuff off and hang out with him?
Am I supposed to ask?
Is he feeling awkward about us?
How long before he feels trapped and suffocated?
God, it’s over and it hasn’t even begun.
The questions I have no answers for keep coming, and I lurk in the doorway like a creep overthinking until he looks up and says, “Hey, there’s food in the fridge. I picked up Thai fried rice.”
He looks happy to see me, so that’s good. “Yum. Thank you. I’m starved.”
In an Oscar worthy performance, I paste a smile on my face and cross to the living room like I’m not freaking out on the inside.
“I didn’t know if you had plans for the night, but I started a free trial of Showtime, so if there’s a series you wanted to see, we’ve got a week’s worth of binging available.”
Well. Okay. That was easy. My pulse slows a bit and I can breathe. I’m just being my usual overanalyzing self.
“I’ve actually got a short list of possibilities,” I tell him.
My statement is in direct contradiction to the web wizards who said if you’re going to date a roommate, it’s important to go out and not fall into the trap of staying in and watching Netflix. In my defense, it’s not Netflix we’ll be watching, and I’ve been angling for a Showtime password for some time. The Tudors looks amazing, and Austin can enjoy my fact-checking in real time.
I drop my bag on the couch and let my hunger lead me to the fridge. So far, so good. I only feel a smidge awkward. Should I have kissed him before bounding toward the dinner he offered?
The lines have crossed until they’re a tightrope and I’ve never had good balance.
Why is life so hard? Can’t I just have amazing dick without all these rules and complications?
He follows me into the kitchen and drops down at the table, guitar resting on his knee. “Wanna hear what I’ve been working on?”
“Do you even have to ask?” I pull out the container from the fridge and pop it in the microwave. “You’re going to serenade me while I eat? Swoon.”
It’s difficult to multitask flirting with a nervous breakdown, but I’m succeeding.
He blows me away with, “I wrote it for you.”
My heart somersaults in my chest. “Really? No one’s ever written a song for me.”
“Yes, they have.”
I grab a fork from the drawer. “No, they really haven’t.”
“I have a confession.”
“What?”
When the microwave dings, I gather my food and join him at the table.
“The song on the camping trip…that was about you too.”
“The moon,” I whisper. “You wrote that for me?”
He nods and gives me a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Is that creepy?”
I laugh a little. “Not at all. I still remember it, the line about history repeating itself, and I remember wanting it to be about me.”
“You said why couldn’t a guy give you the moon and I don’t know”—he shrugs—“I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
I feel like I’m on the moon, weightless and in uncharted territory, when I rise from my chair and show him what I’m feeling with my lips.
His hand clasps the back of my neck as he takes the kiss deeper, into depths I’ve never been.
When I’m drowning in desire, we come up for air.
“I could kiss you all night,” he says.
“I’d let you, but I want to hear my song.”
He swats my ass, and I move back to my seat, feeling more of the anxiety dissipate. A soft melody fills the kitchen as he strums the cords with a flick of his fingers. It starts out slow and sweet.
He sings about meeting a girl prettier than he’s ever seen (Me!) and needing to see her (I’m so lucky!) and wondering what she’s doing (Admiring you, big fella!) and driving in his truck to her house. (Huh. Huh?)
You see, she’s across town. (Anxiety alert.)
While I try not to choke on my rice, because my throat is closing, his raspy voice sings the chorus.
Is she thinking about him while she’s asleep in her bed, miles away. (Miles away?)
Does she miss him when they’re apart, like he misses her? (Oh my God, Lucy was right.)
He strums the last chord. “That’s all I have for now.”
Thank God. And I don’t mean that in a bad way, just in an I-may-hyperventilate-if-he-continues kind of way.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a work in progress.”
Like me. If I don’t get this out, I might die.
“Will you still want to write songs for the live-in girlfriend? Do we need to preserve more mystery? How do we newly date and shack up at the same time?”
He tilts his head. “I think—”
“How long do we maintain separate bedrooms? Most people date and then decide to move in together. We skipped right over that part, Austin. Ho
w much time do we spend together on a daily basis?” My mini-spiral about what to do continues. “These are important things to think about since we spend all day, every day together.”
“I don’t know the answers,” he says and probably thinks he’s ended it when he adds, “but, we’ll figure it out.”
But it does not end there.
It continues for me in the bedroom as I slip into more comfortable clothes. My paint-stained tee and frayed cotton shorts I’ve worn a million times in front of him? I put them on, look in the mirror, and promptly take them back off. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about my lounging clothes, but now that we’re dating, it’s a different story. My pink tank and black yoga shorts are less comfy, but sexier. When I pad into the living room, Austin is in his usual position on the couch, so I plop down beside him and rest my feet beside his on the coffee table.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
The thoughts holding my mind hostage make it difficult to enjoy the show. The royalty on the screen might as well be speaking gibberish.
But then! My phone buzzes and when I check it…
A notification reads, “Congratulations! Your Kickstarter has been fully funded.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe out.
“What?” Austin looks over at me.
“My Kickstarter is fully funded. I have the money to rent a space. I can buy a kiln. I can quit my job!”
His eyes light up and he steals what little breath I have left with a celebratory kiss. “That’s awesome,” he says when he pulls away. “How did you get it funded so fast? The last time we checked, you still needed almost half.”
“I have no idea.”
I click into the app and scroll through the donors. They all have distinctly MC-like monikers.
“Frog, Rooster, Glock, Scar, Hawk, Snake-Eyes, Shorty, Coco…” Either Dune is involved, or Disney.
Austin chuckles, looking over at my phone as I keep scrolling. “Coco? Yeah, I think it’s safe to say Dune’s friends hooked you up. That’s cool. They’re good people.”
“Yeah.”
I send a text to Dune.
Three Things:
You’re amazing.
Your friends are amazing.
THANK YOU!
He responds right away.
No thanks needed. I won a good bet. Finally got my house back, and funding from half the club!
I thank him again and add a barrage of hearts and crying emojis. He reminds me about incorporating, and I promise to follow up with him. And then I can’t stop smiling because I’m going to have my own business. Like a real one, with a sign and everything.
I toss my phone back in my purse and snuggle into Austin’s side, ready to enjoy the show, even if the worries about us are still front and center. I can do both.
Business-ladies are very good at multitasking.
Eight
If I told you what I’m doing, you wouldn’t believe it. Even I don’t believe it.
Thank God, I have a village to help raise me, and Charlotte is along for the ride.
Dune’s motorcycle roars into the parking lot of Handle Bar, where Charlotte and I stand waiting to talk with one of his friends about a rental property for Mae’d. When he contacted me about it, he assured me there’s no nefarious activity at the place, so here I am. It’s Friday night, and after a week of sex so fantastic I can barely walk followed by worries so heavy I can barely breathe, I snagged Charlotte while Austin works a double shift to meet up with Dune and his friend to get more details about the space, which also includes an apartment above it. That’s all he told me when he texted earlier, because he’s vague like that.
His booted feet eat up the ground until his leather-vested chest is in front of us. “Hey. Thanks for coming. Hopefully, this works out. I think you’re going to like this place.”
“Fingers crossed,” I say.
“Mine too,” Charlotte says.
He opens the door for us, and we follow him into the rowdy bar. The regulars give us waves and chin nods as we pass through the crowded space.
“Does this count as bringing a baby into a bar?” Charlotte asks as we weave through the leather vests.
“They have food too, so technically you can say it’s a restaurant.”
“Good point,” she says. “Oh, look. It’s Jell-O-wrestling night.”
“Ah,” I say, remembering my brief career in the ring—well, pool. “Good times.”
We follow Dune to a table in the corner where he finally stops in front of a silver-haired woman.
A small woman who is a big cheater.
Bev.
Aka Jell-O Champ.
“Told Bev you were looking to rent a space, and she’s got one,” Dune says. “I’ll let you two talk, and I’m going to go say hi to my brothers. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Bev sips a Heineken, eyeing me over the glass bottle.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet up to discuss this,” I say. “Dune didn’t give me a lot of details.”
“It’s in a prime location,” she says, getting right down to business. “Just off Pearl. I’ve been renting it out for years to a woman who sold wind chimes and dream catchers to launder drug money. She’s moving to Miami, so it will be available in a month or so.”
“Oh, okay. Prime location is good.” Ideally it won’t come with any phone taps.
She pulls her phone from between her breasts to show me pictures of the place, and it’s perfect. Large and airy, with good lighting, built-in shelves, and wood floors. The apartment is a good size too, with a modern kitchen and large rooms. It even has a big claw-foot tub in the bathroom. But then she tells me the price, and my excitement deflates as quickly as it ballooned. I’d be cutting it close, considering I still have to have a kiln installed.
“I think it’s out of my price range. I’ll need to talk to my financial guy.” Dune. It’s Dune.
“I’ve got interest from a few other people, so I don’t really have a lot of time to give you to think.” She puckers her cigarette-wrinkled lips, studying me. “I’d be willing to cut you a deal on the price, since you’re family.”
“Really?”
These people are truly my people. I’m on the verge of hugging her for her generosity until…
“On one condition. Let’s have another showdown in the pool. You beat me, and I’ll work with your budget, pending your finance guy’s approval.”
Charlotte’s eyes widen as they bounce between us.
I’d just like to say, that’s nice and all she’s willing to take less, but how many families make you Jell-O wrestle for a discount?
“Give me one second, please.”
She arches an intimidating brow at me. “Scared I’ll win again?”
“Not at all. Just need to discuss the space with my friend.”
I smile politely and pull Charlotte away to an empty space behind a cactus.
“What should I do? That place is gorgeous. I mean…it has a claw-foot tub. That’s my dream tub. I could really enjoy Talk Like a Lady in that thing.”
I’m expecting her to tell me not to risk my life over a tub, but she says, “How can you not do this? I feel like this is going to be a cool story to tell my kid one day. Imagine their wonder when I tell him or her how Aunt Chloe Jell-O wrestled her way into the perfect property. You must. Right?”
I peer through the prickly arms of the cactus over to where Bev sips a beer. “She’s a wily woman for her age, though. What if I lose? It will be doubly disappointing.”
“Don’t count yourself out of the Jell-O war. You’re wily too. I was in awe of your lotus move at cat yoga,” Charlotte says. “I mean, not to be rude, but…she’s at least forty years older than you and the size of my arm. How did you not win last time?”
I park a hand on my hip. “She cheated. That’s how. And Jell-O is more slippery than ice.”
“True. True. Okay, so, what are you going to do?”
“I really need a
n exit plan for Austin and me. If things go south, one of us would have to move out. And that’s so much pressure.”
She smiles. “I think you know what you have to do then. Are you ready to rumble?”
And that’s how I end up yet again wearing a borrowed one-piece swimsuit, standing in line for a rematch with Bev.
Charlotte, Dune, and a bevy of bikers gather round the blowup pool filled with lime Jell-O as Bev and I take our places on opposite sides of the pool.
“You got this, Chloe,” Charlotte shouts with way too much glee. “Woo-hoo!”
When the referee blows his whistle, this time I’m prepared for her sneak attack and opt to dive into the gooey mess instead of trying to stand in the slippery concoction. I hit the bottom with a thud. Of course, I planned to swim across, grab her by the ankles like an incognito shark attack, but you can’t really swim in Jell-O.
But you can slide.
And I do, all the way across the length into the opposite side. It bows out and pops me back like a boomerang.
“Wook wout,” it sounds like Charlotte says because of the Jell-O in my ears.
“What?” I ask.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she meant “look out” as Bev bounds onto my back, wrapping her leathery arm around my throat. She’s like a monkey I can’t shake off.
I stumble and slide, but she stays latched on to me.
“Give it up, girl,” she says. “You can’t beat me.”
This is not how family acts. If my mouth weren’t filled with Jell-O, I’d tell her that. When she pins me in the corner, Charlotte gasps.
Bev’s underestimated the level of my anxiety and just how much I want that place, though. And also how many sex moves I’ve learned in the last year. I buck my hips and circle them, pushing back—like the reverse cowgirl the other night with Austin—and tangle my legs with hers until I flip us over.
She’s as shocked as I am as I stare into her hazel eyes. The crowd cheers as she tries to wiggle away and I struggle to hold on to her. The ref starts counting and I’m ready to celebrate my victory when she gives it one last go and kicks me square in the vagina. Hard.
Summer Lovin: A Dating Season Novella Page 5