by Abby Jimenez
“We got another one,” she announced, putting a picture upside down in the dick pic pile.
I shook my head with a smile. “This is some job you have here.”
Vanessa scoffed. “I just don’t understand why men think we want to see that. It looks like a wrinkled elbow or something. It is not cute. Send me a picture of a puppy or cookies or something.” She ripped open an envelope. “If some guy sent me a picture of a cake at two a.m. like, ‘Hey, gurl, you up?’ I’d be like, ‘Hell yeah I’m up, come over.’”
I snorted. “Is it really that common? Do women get pictures of strange men’s dicks often?”
She tore open a pink envelope. “Most of being a woman is running a gauntlet chock-full of penises,” she mumbled. “I hope you don’t send them.”
I picked up the next box. “I’ve never sent a dick pic. I prefer the shock and awe of letting them see it in person.”
She practically cackled, and I smiled at the victory of making her laugh that hard. “Just for the record,” she said, “I soooo do not believe you.”
I gave her an amused look. “You don’t believe I don’t send dick pics?”
She shook her head, still giggling. “Nope. Men like you always send dick pics.”
I smirked, looking at the contents of my box. A large, squishy poop emoji. “Men like me, huh? And exactly what kind of men is that?” I held up the brown spiral and Vanessa nodded to the donate pile.
“The super-confident, self-assured, brooding alpha male kind.”
I chuckled. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but, as far as I am aware, my penis has never been photographed.”
She put her hand out. “Let me see your phone.”
I squinted at her. “What?”
She looked at me, dead serious. “Let me see it. You don’t have any dick pics. What’s the problem?”
I grinned. “Okay. Let me see yours.”
She shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. But no deleting anything first. We hand them over and whatever’s in there is in there. No filter.”
“Okay.” I unlocked my screen and handed it to her.
She grabbed at it excitedly. But then she froze and clutched it to her chest. “Wait, why aren’t you nervous?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Because there’s nothing in there you can’t see.”
She narrowed her eyes. “This feels suspicious. Is this your burner phone?”
I laughed. “No. What kind of guys do you date that you think I need a burner phone?”
“I told you, I don’t date. I just find it awfully odd that you’re not sweating bullets right now.”
“Because there are no dick pics in there. Like I said.” I put my hand out for her phone.
She gave me a long, hard, playful glare and then slapped her cell into my palm.
We both went quiet looking at each other’s phones.
Vanessa’s cell was like the digital version of her. Nothing but fun. It was bejazzled in pink rhinestones with a sparkly PopSocket on the back. Her home screen was a picture of Grace wearing a little beanie with teddy bear ears.
Mine was the opposite. Black, functional, and with a stock lock screen. And I meant what I said. There was nothing in there she couldn’t see.
Her home screen had a music app, Uber, Lyft, Tripadvisor, Audible, Instagram, iFunny, and a couple of games.
I tapped on her photo icon and started to scroll through. Everything in her gallery was excitement and color. Pictures of resorts. The bed in the hotel room, an elephant made of towels on the comforter. A snowy small town with a huge mountain range in the backdrop. Her, laughing in a bikini at a swim-up bar in a pool. There were pictures of her holding a sangria on a cobblestone street. A cruise ship on blue water somewhere.
My gallery was boring in comparison. I almost felt sorry for her getting the short end of the stick. It was mostly legal documents and several dozen shots of the sign in the parking garage downtown by the courthouse so I’d remember where I parked. A picture of a light bulb I needed to pick up at the store, the claim ticket on a dry-cleaning order.
“Wow,” she said, looking at my screen. “You sure do park a lot.”
I chuckled and scrolled on. There was a picture of Vanessa dressed in a milk maid’s costume of some sort under a large tent. She had an enormous stein of beer, bigger than she was. I turned the phone to her. “Where was this?”
She looked up from my phone. “Oktoberfest. Germany. Where are your pictures of Rachel?”
“I don’t think I have any,” I admitted.
She laughed. “So you had a girlfriend, but she doesn’t go to this school?”
I smirked. “You don’t think I had a girlfriend?”
She shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”
I nodded at my phone. “Look for her on Instagram. Her account’s private, but if you search on my phone you can see it. Her name is Rachel Dunham.”
I watched her punch the icon and scroll through my phone and my smile fell a little. I should probably unfollow Rachel and her fake account. I made a mental note to do that as soon as I got my cell back. I looked back at the picture of Vanessa, trying to distract myself.
In the Oktoberfest photo her chest was pushed up almost to her chin by a bodice of some sort. Her hair was in an intricate braid that wrapped around her head and she was smiling. She looked beautiful in it.
Her cell phone vibrated in my hand and a number popped up at the top of the screen. It was mine.
“What are you sending to your phone?” I asked.
She didn’t look up. “Pictures of you. I told you, the ladies aren’t going to believe I’m hanging out with you. I’m gonna need proof.”
I tapped on the message and a text from my phone filled the screen. She’d sent herself three pictures of me from my gallery. One was me with Mom and Grandma at Mom’s birthday back in June. Another was a shot of me shaking hands with Marcus, at a fund-raiser. And the last one was my finisher picture for the last marathon I’d run, six months ago.
“You know, just because you have pictures of me doesn’t prove anything,” I said. “The ladies might say you just took them off my Instagram.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Good point, lawyer. I am a known cyber stalker. What do you have in mind?”
“We could take a selfie,” I suggested.
She brightened. “Good idea! Let’s put the baby and the dog in it for a time stamp.”
She picked up Grace and handed her to me. Then she grabbed the dog and crawled through the pile of trash between us, scooted over, and leaned into me, her shoulder pressing into my biceps.
The contact sent a warm ripple through me. It surprised me, gave me an impulse to turn my head to her.
I kept my face straight.
She angled my phone, we smiled, and she took the picture. Then she took Grace from me and moved back to her side of the pile with the baby in her lap.
The spot Vanessa had touched felt vacant.
We spent another few minutes going through each other’s phones. We both played the first song in each other’s favorite playlist.
Hers was “Redemption” by Lola Simone. Mine was “Back Down” by Bob Moses. I liked running to it.
“So,” she said, returning my phone. “Tell me, Adrian, how much time do you spend at the gym? Why are you so chiseled?”
I laughed. “Chiseled?”
“Yeah.” She cradled Grace and kissed her cheek. “I read a lot of romance novels and this is definitely chiseling that you have going on.”
“I try to stay in shape. I do triathlons sometimes.”
She blanched. “For fun?”
I peeled the tape off a box. “What, you don’t think running, biking, and swimming are fun?”
“I think walks on the beach, leisurely bike rides, and floating are fun. I don’t run unless I’m being chased. So, do you drink anything other than wine?”
“Bourbon sometimes. You?”
“Gin, socially. What are your vices?”
I wrin
kled my forehead. “I drive too fast. And I like good restaurants. I spend too much money on food.”
“Me too! The restaurant thing, not the driving thing. What’s your favorite restaurant?”
“Oh, that’s a tough one.” I pulled a tissue-wrapped snow globe out of the box I was opening, dipped it so that the snow flew, and showed it to her. She nodded to the keep pile. “I can’t say I have a favorite restaurant. Just favorite dishes.”
She looked at a postcard with a crayon drawing on it. “Even better. Which ones?”
“Well, let’s see. I like the cavatelli with braised rabbit at Lucrezia’s.”
She was nodding. “Their gnocchi is in my top ten.”
“Yes. And for steaks I like Cl—”
“Clove and Cleaver,” she said, finishing my sentence without looking up.
I smiled. “I love their jalapeno poppers.”
“And the fried green tomatoes.”
I laughed. “Yes.”
She put the postcard in the keep pile. “I am a huge foodie. I almost fainted once in Rome after a PA wanted to eat at McDonald’s. If someone invites me to lunch, and they take me to Taco Bell or something, it’s no longer an outing, it’s a kidnapping. Small business, all the way—except Chipotle,” she added. “I do like Chipotle.”
I chuckled, because I was the same way. Every time I took Mom out to eat and she wanted to go to Perkins, I died a little inside. I preferred supporting small businesses too. And why would you get something mass produced when you could try someplace unique? There are a finite amount of meals in this life and wasting one on something mundane when you have the means to have anything different is a travesty.
“Have you ever been to Badger Den?” Vanessa asked. “In L.A.?”
I had to stare at her for a second. “You know about Badger Den?”
She looked at the front of an envelope, holding Grace against her chest. “I’ve been on their waiting list for two years.”
I blinked at her. I couldn’t believe I was sitting here talking to somebody who knew what Badger Den was. In Los Angeles, sure. But in Minnesota? The exclusive, invite-only, secret-location pop-up dinner had been on my bucket list for as long as I could remember. “I’m on their waiting list too, but I haven’t gotten in.”
She smiled. “How about we make a pact. If either of us gets into Badger Den, we’ll take the other as our plus-one.”
“You have a deal,” I said, a little too quickly.
“Of course, you’ll have to fly there. They only give you a few days’ notice.”
“I drive very, very fast.”
She laughed, setting Grace back in her swing. Then she grabbed a yellow manilla envelope and pulled out a package of sponges. She squealed. “Yeeeees! Yes yes YES!”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Sponges?”
She smiled down on them in her hand. “I did this segment on small things you can do to make you happy. Clean sheets, warm towels out of the dryer, fresh flowers in your bedroom. A new sponge.” She looked up at me. “It is amazing how restorative a new sponge is.” She got up. “I’m giving you one.”
“A sponge?” I asked, twisting to watch her walk to the kitchen.
“Yup. It’s going to change your life.” She unwrapped it and set it on the sink, tossing the old one. “It’s like a spiritual cleansing. A cosmic reset.”
“A sponge…” I deadpanned, giving her an amused look.
She looked like she was about to reply, but someone started pounding loudly on a door in the hallway. Vanessa peered up past me toward the banging. “That sounds like my door, doesn’t it?” She walked from the kitchen, undid the bolt lock, and poked her head outside. Then she looked back in at me, her face etched in worry.
“I have to go. The police are here.”
CHAPTER 8
THE POLICE SHOWED UP
AND WHAT HAPPENED NEXT WILL BLOW YOUR MIND!
VANESSA
Can I help you?” I asked, leaning halfway out of Adrian’s apartment.
The officer looked over at me. “I’m looking for a Vanessa Price.”
“I’m Vanessa.”
He glanced at a clipboard. “Do you own a white 2018 Kia Rio?”
Shit.
My heart launched into rapid fire. “Yes, is everything okay?” I swallowed.
Adrian came up behind me and peered out into the hall. “Officer Sanchez,” he said, over my shoulder. “How are you?”
Recognition crossed the cop’s face and he broke into a smile. “Copeland! You live here?”
“Going on five years,” Adrian said. “How’s the wife?”
He laughed. “Pregnant again. Haven’t seen you at the gym lately.”
“Been busy. In the middle of a jury trial. What seems to be the problem?”
Officer Sanchez looked back at me, still smiling. “Yeah, we found your car wrapped around a tree over by the fairgrounds this morning, Ms. Price. Nobody in it. Do you know anything about that?”
His posture had gone casual the moment Adrian popped out. There was nothing accusatory about the question. But I could feel my pulse thrumming in my throat anyway. “No,” I said, hoping I sounded normal.
“Did you give the vehicle to anyone to drive?”
Adrian squeezed my elbow discreetly from behind. “Sounds like it was stolen. Probably a joy ride,” he said.
Officer Sanchez looked over my head at Adrian. “The keys were in it. It wasn’t hot-wired.”
Adrian’s breath tickled my ear as he spoke to me. “Didn’t you say you lost your keys, Vanessa?”
He was coaching me. And standing sooo close. Ridiculously close. It was on purpose. He wanted the officer to think we were together.
He was lending me his credibility.
He’d known me less than a week, he knew nothing about what was going on, and he was stepping in to defend me, giving me the benefit of the doubt and protecting me from whatever repercussions there could be from this. I didn’t know why he was doing it, but I couldn’t be more grateful. I was freaking out.
I nodded. “Yeah, actually. I lost the keys a few weeks ago,” I lied. “I’ve been using the spare.”
Officer Sanchez nodded, but his eyes felt like they were studying me all of a sudden. “Where were you last night at around three a.m.?”
Adrian laughed. “Where do you think she was?”
Officer Sanchez looked back and forth between us. Then he chuckled a little. “All right, buddy. I’ll write it up as a stolen vehicle.” He looked back at me. “It’s in the impound. Here’s the info.” He handed me a card.
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, um…was there any blood or anything? Do you think anyone got hurt?”
Officer Sanchez shook his head. “Hard to tell. The airbag deployed, but we canvassed the immediate area. Nobody dead in a ditch. I think they ran off on their own two feet.” He nodded up to Adrian. “Hey, you need to get back to the gym to spot me.”
Adrian’s laugh practically rumbled against my back. “Will do. Have a good day. And tell Karla I said hi.”
As soon as we stepped back inside the apartment and the door closed behind me, I darted for my phone.
I dialed Dad. It went right to voicemail. Then Annabel. Voicemail too. Brent would have answered, but he blocked me after I told him he could have my Gucci backpack when he got a job. Arg!
“Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. I have to go.”
I started grabbing things, shoving wipes and hand sanitizer in the diaper bag, running to the kitchen to get the bottle I’d left drying on his sink. I had to collect Grace and her swing. My fan mail was all over the floor. I was so panicked and flustered I couldn’t organize myself.
Adrian crossed his arms, watching me spin in circles around his apartment. “Who was driving the car?” he asked.
The hospital. I needed to call hospitals.
“My dad. I bought him a car to use. He’s on probation, he probably got scared.”
“Probation for what?” he asked.
“Health code violations. Stuff in the yard.” I stopped in the middle of the room, panting, the diaper bag swinging off my elbow. “Do you think your friend knew you were lying?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. There were no injuries, no property damage. Unless he has video footage, he can’t prove anything and he knows it. It’s not worth his time. I relieved you of any liability and saved him the paperwork and a trip to your dad’s house. And I knew it wasn’t you. I could hear you up with the baby at three a.m.”
I nodded, too freaked out to feel bad that Adrian was awake with us in the middle of the night, and I dove past him to grab Grace’s BabyBjörn off his table.
“Hey.” He put his hands on my shoulders to stop me as I whizzed by him. “Breathe for a second.” He dipped his head and looked at me with those deep green eyes. “What do you need?”
I swallowed. “I need…I need you to watch Grace,” I said quickly.
It came out before I even had time to think about it. But I did. I couldn’t take her on my scavenger hunt across hospitals and jail cells. And I definitely couldn’t take her to Dad’s.
Adrian nodded and took the diaper bag off my arm. “Of course. I got it. Go do what you need to do.”
“Are you sure?” I asked breathlessly. “You can handle it?”
He looked me in the eye. “I’m very sure. Go. She’ll be fine with me.”
He had this strong, steady, take-charge thing about him. The air of someone who was used to being depended upon. He was so capable and I wondered offhandedly if this is what other people’s dads were like.
I nodded at him and practically tripped over my feet getting out of the apartment. I ran home to change—but after getting almost all the way to the elevator I realized I didn’t have my purse or car keys and I was in unicorn slippers and a Froot Loops necklace.
I drove the twenty minutes to Eagan. I’d called all the local hospitals on the way. Dad wasn’t at any of them. He also wasn’t in the Ramsey County jail system. I asked about Annabel too, just in case she’d been with him during the crash and she was hurt, but her name didn’t ping either.