Valentine’s Day Virgin

by Wylder, Penny

  Valentine’s Day Virgin

  Penny Wylder

  Copyright © 2019 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. Sally

  2. Eric

  3. Sally

  4. Eric

  5. Sally

  6. Eric

  7. Sally

  8. Eric

  9. Sally

  10. Eric

  11. Sally

  12. Eric

  13. Sally

  14. Eric

  Epilogue

  Books By Penny Wylder

  1

  Sally

  “Thank you very much,” I say with a smile as I hand the woman her absurdly large box of chocolate. Finally, a breather. I’ve been going non-stop for what feels like hours. This is always the busiest time of year for the ‘I Love Chocolate’ stand. Valentine’s Day is in three days and everyone is stocking up, buying gifts for their special someone.

  I haven’t been stocking up on chocolate. Vodka is a different story. I'm going to need that in a couple of days when I'm home on Valentine’s Day alone. Again.

  I just missed it again this time, too. Bryan broke up with me a week ago, and even though it wasn't great, I would have liked for it to last through the holiday. I've never had a boyfriend for Valentine's, and it sucks.

  Iris keeps telling me that it's not my fault, that the guys I'm seeing don't seem to realize how great I am and that's why they keep leaving. That's pretty hard to believe when the same thing keeps happening over and over, but God bless my best friend for trying to make me feel better whenever I call her. She ends up consoling me while I cry into a bowl full of ice cream.

  I take a chocolate from under the counter and bite down. Cherry filling. Not the worst, not the best. A kid running away from his father knocked into the cart and landed on this box. I had to damage it out anyway, the non-squished chocolates might as well not go to waste. It's the most excitement I'm going to get this weekend anyway.

  It's Wednesday, and Valentine's is Saturday. Which means we'll probably be twice as busy as we normally are. And of course, I have a shift that day. Retail, go figure. I can't even just stay home and ignore the fact that no one wants me.

  If Iris were here she'd smack me for talking to myself that way, but I can't help it. I work at a chocolate stand. All I do is see people buy little gifts for their significant others. And they all seem so happy while they're doing it. Is it so wrong that I want the same thing?

  Of course it's not wrong, but deep down I know what the real problem is. I look around, even just thinking the thought makes me anxious. Somehow I've made it to twenty-five and I’m a virgin. That's the problem. I'll meet a great guy, and we'll get along, and suddenly when I tell him that I still have my V-card, he freaks out and leaves.

  I don't get it. I thought that guys were supposed to love virgins. Primal instinct and all that. But every one I've encountered gets the same uncomfortable look on his face, and within days, they're gone. Bryan was the same. I cried a little, but I'm mostly over it now. It's happened too many times for me to expect anything different. There was a feeling in my gut when he called me and said he wanted to meet. Like suddenly I just knew.

  A sigh escapes me. I'm just cursed. Something somebody did generations ago has made it so that I can't have a boyfriend on Valentine's and that nobody wants to fuck me. I know I'm a virgin but I'm not an idiot—I think I could be a pretty good time in bed if someone actually gave me a shot.

  There's a couple walking by the cart, and they're perfect. She's wearing a red dress that looks too formal for a Wednesday but also perfect for her. He's tall and is laughing at something she said while her arm is tucked into his. The way he looks at her, I have to look away. I want that, and I hate that I do. I hate that my chest aches when I see people like that who seem so blissfully happy.

  I lean down on the cart, eating another chocolate, caramel this time. Just once I want to be wearing the red dress. I want to be the one who's funny, who has someone look at me like that. We could go dancing, and in my mind a ballroom unfolds with perfect fancy music and people dressed from a different era. I'm swept across the dance floor by a tall man in a brilliant tuxedo, and I can feel my stomach do a little flip-flop as he dips me backwards. There's a smile on my face even though I have no idea who he is.

  The vision is faceless, but it's the feeling I want. That sensation of being completely loved and accepted and cherished. I've never had that. Not in the way I hoped. I had a couple boyfriends who came close, but even if I pretend otherwise, I'm a romantic at heart and I want nothing more than to be swept wholly off my feet. But if I continue to fall for guys who make up excuses for why they don't want to be with me, then it's never going to happen. They'll pretend it's something else, but it's always the sex. I'm not stupid.

  The man dancing with me won't care that I'm a virgin. He'll be happy that I haven't had to suffer through a lot of bad sex just to find him. He'll take me to bed and rock my world and care for me at the same time, and everything will be perfect.

  It's the movement of the cart that jerks me out of the vision, suddenly rolling out from underneath me because I was leaning so heavily on it. It moves faster than I thought possible, and suddenly I'm on the ground, the cart speeding away from me through the mall. Shit! I forgot to lock the cart down when I brought it out of storage this morning. I get to my feet and chase after it. There's some yelling as people realize what's happening and run to get out of the way. I can't seem to catch it, my breath burning in my chest. I'm no athlete. I mean, I go to the gym but I don't make the hundred-meter dash on a regular basis.

  Oh my God, the cart is heading to the escalator. If it falls down the escalator it's going to be damaged beyond repair. But it's worse than that, because I can see a woman riding up the escalator, and I can see that she's going to reach the top right when the cart is going to crash into her and the tiny dog that she's carrying.

  I push myself forward, faster than I thought possible, I've got to stop it. I have to stop it. I reach out and grab the cart, and it doesn't want to slow, it's momentum already too much, but I dig in my heels and yank. The cart crashes to the side, the glass of the display shattering and chocolate flying everywhere as I go flying in the opposite direction. The woman and her dog arrive at the top of the escalator to a scene that must look crazy. She looks at me, and then she looks at the cart, blinks, and blinks again.

  I realize that I haven't killed anyone, and let myself sag back onto the floor. Ow. First I fell on my front, and then it threw me on my back, and my body is shaking from the exertion of chasing the cart. I really am cursed. Truly. Only I could let myself daydream for five minutes and then almost kill someone. I didn't think that Valentine’s could get any worse this year. Clearly I was wrong.

  Fuck.

  "Are you all right?" The woman—who is younger than I first thought, only a few years older than I am—appears over me.

  "I think so. Or I will be." I manage to sit up and survey the damage.

  Honestly, I didn't think that the carts were that fragile, but apparently subpar craftsmanship has taken its toll, because the cupboard doors are swinging off their hinges, the roof has fallen off, and the shelves are scattered across the floor surrou
nded by chocolate and glass. Oh God.

  The woman helps me to my feet slowly. "Thanks. I have to call the owner."

  I reach for my cell phone but a voice interrupts me. "I already did." It's Gus, one of the mall security guards who's a million years old and seems to think that anyone under thirty with a job at the mall is a child that he's allowed to punish. "He's on his way."

  Great. So now instead of Mr. Ferguson hearing about the accident from me, it's going to look like I tried to hide it from him. "Thanks," I say. That means he'll be here shortly. He owns several stores and kiosks in the mall, so he's probably already in the building. I'm doomed.

  "What the fuck happened?" A voice echoes from across the mall, really too loud and too far away to be asking.

  And there's Mr. Ferguson.

  I wait because I'm honestly not sure what to do here. I don't have gloves, so I can't start cleaning up the glass yet. All I can do is watch while Mr. Ferguson storms around the railing that surrounds the elevators toward me. He stops, staring at the wreckage of the cart, his face angry, veins popping in his forehead. "How did this happen?"

  "It slipped," I say quietly. "I must have forgotten to lock it down this morning."

  "Oh, well that's better than a freak accident," he says. "Oh wait, no it's not. I've made exceptions for you, Sally, but this is the last straw. You're the worst on the sales team, and now you've ruined a couple thousand dollar’s worth of merchandise. Go find someone else to terrorize."

  I stare at him, gaping. "You mean?"

  "You're fired." He yells it, and it rings out across the mall.

  People are staring, watching the show, and it's all I can do not to run and hide. I can feel my face go beet red and suddenly I'm fighting off tears. "Do you want me to help you clean up?" I ask softly.

  "And risk even more damage to anything that's not already broken? No thanks. But I can assure you, you will pay me back for every cent of this. I'm not going to be out this amount of money for your stupidity. I'll expect whatever isn't covered by this paycheck by the next billing cycle."

  I don't have that kind of money. There's no way I can cover what's got to be probably two grand worth of chocolate above and beyond my pretty pathetic paycheck. Oh God, what am I going to do? Mr. Ferguson is the kind of man that will definitely sue me if I don't pay him back, and the case is pretty clear on this one. He'd win.

  "I'll pay for it," a female voice says behind me, and I turn to find the blonde from the escalator. She's digging in her bag and pulls out a checkbook, "How much? For that and the cost of the girl’s salary, which you will pay her."

  I take a step forward, "You don't have to do that," I say, as she opens her checkbook. "Really, it's fine."

  She pins me with a stare that's hard and unyielding, but at the same time she's smiling. I'm not sure how she manages it. "You saved my life," she says brightly. "It's the least I can do. How much?" she asks Mr. Ferguson.

  I should probably point out that the whole reason I had to save her life in the first place is because I endangered it, but I'm too shocked to move. Is this really happening?

  "Twenty-eight hundred," Mr. Ferguson says, "That'll cover it I think. And I'll pay her, even though she doesn't deserve it." His eyes suddenly focus on me. "Get out of here, Sally. I don't want you anywhere near my property."

  I retrieve my coat and purse from the shell of the cart and start walking. The blonde walks with me, confidently taking my arm. "Come with me," she says, leading me down one of the branching hallways to some benches. She sits me down. "Are you all right?"

  "I should be asking you that," I say, trying to hide the way I'm shaking. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that. I'll pay you back, all of it, I swear."

  She waves a hand in a gesture that looks older than she is. "Don't bother. Trust me, I can afford it. Besides, like I said, without you I think Edison and I would be crushed against that escalator right now."

  I shake my head. "You wouldn't have even been in danger if I weren't so stupid I forgot to lock the wheels."

  She smiles. "It all worked out." And then she extends a hand. "I'm Bianca."

  "Nice to meet you," I say.

  "Likewise." She puts her purse up onto her shoulder. "Unfortunately, I'm on my way to a meeting, so I can't stay to chat, but take care of yourself, Sally."

  I stand, reaching out but not quite touching her. "Please, at least can we exchange information. I know you say you don't want me to, but I might still be able to change your mind about me paying you back."

  She seems to hesitate for a second before she says, “Of course." She's smiling again, and this time I notice just how glamorous she is. Her coat and bag cost more than what she just paid to get me out of trouble, I'm sure. She lets me put my number in her phone and sends me a quick text that says 'It's Bianca!' with a smiley face.

  "Thank you," I say.

  "Have a good rest of your day," she says. "Try to take it easy." She floats away and I sit down on the bench again because my legs are still shaking.

  The fact that she gave me her info makes me feel better, but I don't know what I’m going to do to pay her back. I didn't have the money when it was Mr. Ferguson asking, and of course, now that I don't have a job, I’m in an even bigger pinch. Great. I sink down onto the bench until my neck is leaning on the back of it. I probably look pathetic but I don't care.

  I'm definitely cursed. Why can't I just have a normal Valentine’s Day?

  2

  Eric

  I look down at my phone again and sigh. It's really unlike Bianca to be late. She knows how busy we are at the office this time of year, and this is the day she chooses to flake? If I didn't love my sister so damn much I'd have already left. She's thirty minutes late, and the people at the restaurant are starting to look at me funny.

  Glancing at my phone again, the clock ticks forward. Thirty-one minutes.

  I resist the urge to check my email, though I'm sure even in the short period that I've been gone that it's full to bursting. Marshall Greetings can stand for me to take a couple of hours away from my desk without collapsing, even though it doesn't seem that way sometimes. There's always some kind of emergency this time of year, when everyone and their mother is buying greeting cards. Frankly it starts in October and doesn't stop until March. I can't wait until the slow season when I can actually relax and not have trite sayings bouncing behind my eyelids when I close my eyes.

  Thirty-two minutes. At this point I'm wondering if something bad has happened, because even though my sister always enters with the air of being fashionably late, she never actually is. Marshalls are never late. It was drilled into us from an early age, though it might be good if we can all start to forget those lessons now.

  I cut off that line of thinking as Bianca breezes in, carrying that little dog that goes everywhere with her. I'm quite partial to Edison even though I'd never admit it to her. I have too much fun giving her a hard time.

  She settles into the seat across from me with a flourish. "Sorry I'm late," she says with a smile. "I ran into some trouble."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Of course," she says, winking. "Nothing that my checkbook couldn't fix."

  I roll my eyes. "I don't even want to know what you bought or who you bribed. It was probably you trying to bring that dog in here."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Bianca says, waving over the waiter. "Everyone here loves Edison, don't you, John?" She asks as our regular waiter appears at our table.

  His smile is courteous. "Edison is a very well behaved dog, ma'am."

  That's not the same as loving the dog, but everyone here knows better. And everyone here loves Bianca, so they put up with Edison.

  "Regular please," I say to John.

  He nods.

  "I'm in the mood for something new," Bianca says. "What do you have?"

  "The chef has recently added a Mediterranean pilaf to the menu."

  "Oh, that's perfect. I'll have that and a glass of my usual white."

&
nbsp; John nods again and disappears to put in our orders, and to bring me scotch. I rarely drink, but today I need it.

  Bianca's purse is gaping open on the seat beside her, and there's a giant red candy box in there. I feel like I'm going to vomit, and that feeling is washed away with anger as she follows my line of vision and quickly rearranges her bag so it's not visible. I don't need to be coddled. I can hate this stupid damn holiday without everyone treating me with kid gloves. "It's from Mom," she says, answering my unspoken question. "She's really doing this?"

  "Yes," I say. "Though I'm glad my invitation wasn't that."

  Bianca rolls her eyes. "I would have preferred that it wasn't either, but you know Mom doesn't do anything by halves."

  "No, she doesn't." And when she called me yesterday to tell me that she was hosting a Valentine's party, and that she expects me to bring a date, I realized that she hadn't told me until the last minute so that I wouldn't be able to say no. Sneaky, and also not very kind. "She wants me to bring a date."

  Bianca groans. "She told me the same thing. I get her pressuring me, but she really needs to lay off you. I'll talk to her."

  I laugh. "Don't bother. It's Mom. She's doing what she always does."

  "But—"

  "But nothing, Bianca. Mom is never going to accept that people heal at their own speed. The only speed she'll take is the one she goes at. That's just the way it is. You know what happens if it goes the other way." John sets down my scotch and I thank him.

  Bianca is looking at me carefully. "Well have you found someone to take yet? Because if you show up alone that's going to be just as bad."