by Charish Reid
The last girl to arrive to Becca’s Saturday night sleepover was McKenna. The freckle-faced girl showed up with her mother, who was hesitant to let her daughter cross the threshold.
“Becca!” McKenna screeched, running past him and into the living room where festivities were already in progress. The collective was complete and John girded his loins for the rest of the night.
McKenna’s mother, Mrs. Townsend, hovered at the door, looking from him to the group of girls who were digging into a gluten-free cheese pizza. “And you’re Becca’s...uncle?” she asked, looking him up and down.
“I am,” he said, holding out his hand. John watched as she stole a peak at his tattooed arm and tentatively reached out to give him a weak shake. “Becca’s living with me while her mother’s in Sweden.”
Mrs. Townsend pulled her hand back and crossed her arms over her chest. “McKenna needs to take her allergy medication before she goes to bed.”
“That can be arranged.”
“McKenna doesn’t eat dairy,” she countered.
“Becca gave me a list of each girl’s dietary restrictions,” John said. “I found McKenna some organic chicken nuggets.”
“McKenna doesn’t watch scary movies,” Mrs. Townsend said, moving rook to bishop.
John nodded. “I’ve already changed the parental settings on all devices in my home,” he lied. He knew censorship was horseshit in a world where every child had the internet in the palm of her hand.
Mrs. Townsend was running out of moves. She glanced around John, at the children and pursed her lips. “Are you CPR trained?”
“Renewed my certificate last year, ma’am.”
“Well...” The flustered woman shrugged her shoulders in a helpless way that made John feel less defensive. She leaned forward and whispered. “This is McKenna’s first sleepover and I’m just...”
John nodded again. “I know you’re worried and that’s natural,” he said. In his line of work, he’d had plenty of time to observe how parents interacted with independent children. Some held on tight and moved aside all obstacles, while others kicked back and relaxed. Mrs. Townsend was in the former category, armed with a bottle of allergy medicine. “I deal with kids all the time at the library and I can say that you’re leaving McKenna with a group of really nice girls. I’m here in the background ready to jump into action if anyone needs me, but tonight is about them...writing feminist manifestos or dabbling in witchcraft.”
The woman’s tight expression softened as she snorted a laugh. “Oh god, you’re right.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders with a resolute nod. “Okay. Thank you for saying that. I mean, that’s what we did. Playing Bloody Mary and making prank calls didn’t kill us.”
“Of course not,” John said, patting her on the shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”
It was enough to assure McKenna’s mother as she finally forced herself from John’s doorstep and returned to her car. John shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief. When he turned his attention to the girls, he was met with a disappointing reality; girls could be just as messy and loud as boys. John’s sparsely decorated living room was filled with pillows and blankets, while drink cups were being strewn around the floor and coffee table. Quinoa chips were spilling out of their bag and the no-trans-fat granola cookies found their way onto the floor. The packet of paper plates and napkins were still in their plastic wrap, ignored in favor of each girl simply holding a slice of oil-slicked pizza.
And the sheer noise...
John’s expensive speaker system, used only for AM Gold hits of the ’70s, was now attached to someone’s phone. Backstreet Boys were being piped through at a volume John wasn’t comfortable with. Though none of them were alive in the ’90s, each girl was singing at the top of her lungs about wanting it that way. How the hell? When they weren’t singing, they were shouting declarations at one another.
“I love Howie,” screamed the blonde one. Kelly?
“No, Brian was cuter!” said McKenna. Good luck, girls, they’re all married with children now.
“Becca, do you have Adele?”
“Duh!”
“I want to listen to Taylor Swift,” cried a fourth girl. Maybe she was Devon.
John’s home, his bachelor pad, was being torn apart right before his eyes. One girl was fine, four girls were more than any single person could handle. As he surveyed the destruction, he wondered what to object to first.
“Ladies,” John said, raising his voice above the fray. “Maybe we could lower the music a little?”
“But we’re singing,” Becca said.
“That’s fair,” he said, walking over to his stereo system and turning the knob down two clicks. “But if you turn the volume down, you might actually be able to hear each other when you talk.”
Becca rolled her eyes.
“I brought makeup!” Devon shouted, and proceeded to spread a bag full of cosmetics on the coffee table.
The living room exploded into varying pitches of “Makeovers!”
Ooh, what are the rules on makeup? John quickly retreated to the kitchen where it was quieter, and immediately began texting his sister. Damn the Swedish time difference.
John: Jess, I need your help. Is Becca allowed to wear makeup? The girls are breaking it out.
Sis: ...??
John rolled his eyes. Her three dots appeared on his screen before the next message appeared.
Sis: It’s fine, lol. You have soap.
John: What about the other girls? Should their parents know?
Sis: :D :D :D
John: I’m serious!
Sis: Me too. It’s a bonding thing, totally normal. Just make them wash their faces before they go to bed.
John: Fine...
Sis: You’re fucking hilarious...
John: *middle finger emoji*
Sis: LOVE YOU TOO, LOL!!!
John was slightly relieved, but hesitant to return to the living room. The girls ran that territory now. Perhaps if he retired to his bedroom, he could hear himself think. Surely, no one would set anything on fire this evening. He’d make himself come down in a couple hours to check on them. Maybe they’d tire themselves out and send themselves to bed? As John crept back into the living room, three girls were swarming Kelly, smearing all kinds of garish colors on her face.
“How does it look?” she asked.
“Hold still so I don’t poke your eye,” McKenna said.
“Let’s not injure eyeballs,” John said in a loud voice. He considered staying downstairs just to make certain there would be no makeover-related injuries.
“We’re not,” the girls said in unison.
“What are you doing?” Kelly asked.
“I’m giving you a nighttime eye,” Becca said. “I’ve seen my mom do it all the time. It’s totally easy.”
“Hold still, Kelly!”
John cringed as he stood off to the side. For the love of god, Kelly, please stay still. When they were finished with her, she looked into a mirror and declared she needed a purple lipstick. The girls sifted through the loose makeup until someone found the closest shade, something call “Sinful Lilac.” John rolled his eyes. Kelly applied it...liberally, smacked her lips and examined her face again.
“Perfect,” she squealed. The other girls cheered and high-fived while Kelly took a selfie. Then the girl turned around and called out to John. “Mr. Donovan, what do you think?”
Four pairs of eyes zeroed in on him, daring him to say anything unfavorable. John raised a brow and rubbed a hand over his mouth before answering. “Kelly, you look...colorful.”
The girl flashed a beaming smile. “I know!”
“Omigod, you guys,” Becca said. John noticed how many of them started their declarations, observations, and questions with this phrase. “You know what we should do?” His niece lea
ned over to whisper in McKenna’s ear, causing the girl to giggle behind her hand.
“Omigod that would be hilarious!”
The children were still whispering to each other as John started to make his getaway. He just had to make the stairwell and he’d be home free.
“Oh, Uncle Johnny...” Becca called out in a singsong voice. His hand was on the banister. “We think you should have a makeover.”
John grimaced. “I don’t think I can pull it off with this beard,” he said with a low growl.
“We can decorate your beard,” said the helpful Devon, holding up a bag of flower barrettes.
“Omigod, you guys,” Kelly said. “We can paint his nails!”
He locked eyes with his niece, whose brown cheeks were red with laughter or rouge, and then at the mess in his home. Her dark brown eyes shined with joy instead of hurt and John was thankful for that. Tonight, she was with friends and not worried about bullies, her body, or her father. If this made her happy, John would man up and get his nails painted. He pulled away from the banister and marched to the scaffold. “No glitter polish!”
* * *
As much as he’d tried to put her at ease, Mrs. Townsend came to John’s house, at 6 a.m., to retrieve her child. The other girls had parents who didn’t mind sleeping in on a Sunday. By noon, the last of the friends had been shuttled away, leaving him and Becca alone once again. Luckily, he had an ace up his sleeve: His stepmother, Sandra. She’d been clamoring for some granddaughter time and was on call when John needed Becca to vacate the house. With his niece prepped and out the door, John was in the clear. The kids were gone and he was now on his way to adult time.
Last night, he’d received an email from Victoria regarding today’s meeting. He tapped his hands against his steering wheel as he pressed on the accelerator. His destination was Pembroke’s campus, but not the professor’s office. Apparently, she had other plans, all of which were detailed in her email. Park at Moulton Student Center and walk towards Felmley Hall...
John smiled as he remembered Victoria’s hurt-bunny expression when he announced his departure. He did have a meeting with community outreach, but it gave him a little satisfaction to let her dangle. Today, she had his undivided attention and he looked forward to having hers as well. He may have left her office laughing, but the walk back to his truck had definitely been an uncomfortable one. Their one-sided hookup was amazing enough though. He’d never gone down on a woman in her place of work. Tick that one off the list. The memory of Victoria’s thighs clasped around his head had been seared into his brain and her taste... He licked his lips as he recalled each tongue-swipe against her tiny bundle of nerves.
“Loosened that right up, didn’t ya, Johnny,” he said with a chuckle.
Every sharp breath, shuddering gasp, and low moan reminded him that under her buttoned-up façade, Victoria was a hungry woman. She needed a release alright. When he pulled his truck into the Moulton Student Center parking lot, and walked towards his destination, he noticed how quiet the campus was on a Sunday. At 2 p.m., it was nearly a ghost town. John hitched his shoulders against the autumn winds and marched through the quad until he spotted a large glass building in the distance.
They were meeting at the university greenhouse.
He shook his head and wished he knew what this Pembroke girl was thinking. Maybe she got this fantasy from her paperback romance. After all, dark dalliances in the garden was something the duke specialized in. The rake had scandalized more than one maiden in his manor’s labyrinths. John was nearly finished with the book and could see why some women would be titillated by a dark, broken man who needed to be fixed. However, something told him Victoria didn’t have the patience for fixing. If he had to guess, his lover wanted something bigger: unbridled passion...in a university greenhouse.
When he approached the entrance, he looked around and saw a young woman jogging on the other side of the quad. John had to assume they were fairly isolated as he opened the door and stepped through. Humid heat hit him in the face, banishing any of the outdoor chill that had snuck past his jacket collar. Hundreds of species of plants covered every inch of the building. Much of the greenery hung from the ceiling or was contained to a dozen tables, positioned in two neat rows. The center aisle was clear enough for observation and maintenance. Some of the plants on the periphery of the greenhouse were large potters containing fruit trees and rose bushes. Bamboo stalks and trellises of ivy lined the walls but there were no signs of his wallflower. He wondered if he’d find her at the venus flytraps...
“Victoria?”
“Back here, John.” Her voice was muffled, squashed by the thickness of the building’s atmosphere. John loosened the buttons of his jacket and shook out his collar as he moved through the center aisle. The building made an L-shape where the orange trees grew, and opened into a large atrium where he found Victoria sitting on a bench. Legs crossed and wearing another cute blouse-skirt ensemble. Her braids were wound into a large bun at the top of her head and her skin was already flushed.
Once his eyes landed on her, John slowed his pace and grinned. His heart did a little jig when he saw her crossed thighs tighten. The skirts she kept wearing drove him insane. Her voluptuous thighs filled and strained against the fabric like a warning. John’s fingers itched to handle every dangerous curve with care. A tremulous smile lit her face when they locked eyes. She reached downward, absently smoothing her toned calf muscle and asked, “Did you find it okay?”
Her movement, unconscious or not, made his pulse race. “I did,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it above a salmon-pink hydrangea bush. “Have you been waiting long?”
She shook her head. “I got here a few minutes ago,” she answered.
John looked around. “Nothing but the quiet and the flowers?”
Victoria stood and approached him. “If you’re worried about privacy,” she said with a bashful grin. “I know for a fact that the horticulture students only do maintenance work on Mondays.”
Fuck privacy. John was well aware of the risk he took every time he met with Professor Reese. John had a difficult time keeping his hands to himself wherever and whenever they met. Even now, he was unsure what to do with them. “I trust in your planning,” he said. “Now tell me the significance of the greenhouse.”
She sidled up to him and leaned against a table of white African violets. In her heels, she still stood several inches shorter than him, even with her back straight and breasts pushed out. Above the warm musky scent of the flowers, John could still pick up her familiar perfume of orange blossoms and vanilla. Victoria was a flower nestled amid a thick rainforest, waiting for him to inhale her. “I come here when I need to get away from the florescent lights of the office. Being around the plants takes me somewhere else.” She gave a self-conscious shrug. “It’s a calming place.”
“Calming?”
A smile tugged at the side of her mouth as she ducked her head. “It can be.”
“What’s your favorite plant?” he asked, stepping around her. “Show me what you like to look at.”
Victoria’s brow creased slightly as she looked up at him. “You want to see my favorite plant?”
As exhausted and horny as John was, he wanted this one thing from her. It was some semblance of normalcy in a still very weird arrangement. They weren’t going to fuck until Victoria engaged in some Midwestern niceties. “Yes, please. What blossom attracts you? I already know what mine is.”
She grinned and flushed under his gaze. With her hands on her hips, she glanced around the atrium. “I usually breeze through the first room to sit back here,” she said, walking around the table of violets. “I like to check in on these guys.”
John followed her to a group of tall pink and yellow orchids. Their label read Orchids of Tanzania. “These are lovely,” he said, as he stood behind her. Reaching around her shoulder, he ran a finger down the
drooped flute until he reached the opened blossom. Each petal was a shock of taffy-pink, dotted with black freckles, and lemon-yellow patches near its center. “Why are they your favorite?” John asked, his voice dropping an octave right above her ear.
Her head bowed towards the flowers, in an almost-reverent motion. He could imagine her eyes closed as she inhaled the blossoms’ heavy perfume. “The petals are wild and...dynamic,” she murmured. “They feel like exciting flowers.”
John contemplated her meaning as she leaned closer for inspection.
“Did you paint your nails?” she asked, twisting around to meet his gaze. A smile played on her lips as she waited for an answer.
Jesus... John glanced at the hand that still stroked the velvet petal before her. Dark purple nail polish covered each fingernail. It was the only color in Devon’s makeup bag that appealed to him. “I hosted a slumber party last night and the girls got to me,” he admitted.
Victoria bit back her laughter. “That might be the cutest thing I’ve heard today.”
“The day is still young,” he said, fighting the urge to slip his hands into his pockets. “I’m sure you’ll find something else.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” she said, turning back to the orchid. “Your nails rival the beauty of this mysterious plant.”
John would take the compliment. “What is it about the Tanzanian orchid that feels exciting, Victoria?”
Her hand began stroking the same delicate petal, brushing against his fingers in the process. She inhaled deeply and relaxed her shoulders. “I imagine where it came from. I don’t know much about Tanzania, but I know it has the Serengeti Plains and beautiful wildlife. These flowers were a part of that.”
John was lured by the soft lilt of her breathy voice as she murmured about far-off lands and found their fingers intertwined. “It’s a far cry from little old Farmingdale, isn’t it?” he whispered against the back of her neck. Her skin was warm to the touch and damp with a light sheen of perspiration. John kissed the spot just below her hairline and felt her shiver under his lips.