by Meghan Quinn
I’ve worked too damn hard to have one more door slammed in my face. I’m one “no” away from giving up and settling for who my father always thought I would be, a lonely farm hand.
“And then there’s Formicophilia, which is just disturbing. Basically people can get aroused over seeing insects. I can’t ever imagine popping a woody over a spider.” Paul’s voice fades in the background as my mind runs a mile a minute. The only sound to penetrate my negative thoughts is the bright giggle coming from the woman I can’t seem to take my eyes off of.
Marley laughs. “That’s because you’re too busy screaming like a lip balm wearing teenage girl who just got her period, not to mention the running around as if someone set off a firecracker between your cheeks.”
“She’s got a valid point, son.” Bernie clasps Paul’s shoulder as they all joke about the fake spider he thought was in his hair when we first got to Wigwam Village only a few short days ago. “Spiders can crawl in your ears! There was validity to my girly cries.”
I shake my head and enjoy the banter of the McMann family. If the testers don’t like the soap, it won’t be the end of the world – at least I try to convince myself that; I still have this family to be a part of…that’s if I don’t fuck things up with my inability to stay away from Marley.
****
“So, tell us what they said,” Bernie and Paul say, leaning over to talk to me while Marley is grabbing napkins for us.
I check her distance from our location and quickly turn toward Paul and Bernie. “They like the product, but they’re on the fence. They’re sending the product to some testers to see what they think. Their results will give the investors a general idea of how they think the product will do in the common shopping circuit.”
“That’s good news,” Bernie cheers.
“It’s okay news,” I try to calm him down. I can already see how excited he is, pretty much itching to start dancing in celebration. “I’m halfway there. We will have to see what the testers have to say.”
Paul squeezes my shoulder. “They will love it. Savannah is really picky when it comes to products she uses. She wouldn’t lie to you, Porter. She loves Man Soap. She won’t let me use anything else.”
“You shouldn’t want to use anything else,” I joke.
“Seriously, this is good news. When will they find out the results from the testers?”
“A week.”
Paul and Bernie nod. “This is good, son. Have faith in your product; it’s a good brand and a great idea. With the right backing, you can truly turn this into a well-known brand. I have faith in you.”
“Thank you, Bernie. I appreciate it, but if we can still just keep this to ourselves for now, that would be awesome. I don’t want anyone to really know, just in case it does fail.” I turn to Paul and say, “Can you please tell Savannah to not talk about it either? I don’t want anyone cluing in.”
When I say anyone, I’m mainly talking about Marley. She’s the last person I would want to know, especially since she’s a beauty blogger. She would most likely tear Man Soap to pieces. I’ve seen some of her blog posts; she can be incredibly harsh.
“Not a problem, our lips are sealed.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I would ask who needs napkins,” Marley says, handing out piles to each and every one of us. “But, knowing you beasts, you will all need them. Remember, your beards are not meant for storing relish. I refuse to watch you pick out two day old chopped up pickles from your beard again, Paul.”
“You take the fun out of everything,” he huffs.
Marley sits down next to me on the concrete wall, looking up at the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Missouri. We took our pictures already, found a hot dog vendor, and now we’re eating our dogs under the Arch like Mrs. McMann always planned.
“It’s a lot taller than I expected,” Marley admits.
“I agree,” Bernie replies, fidgeting with a picture of Mrs. McMann to his side. Back at a Sinclair gas station in Oklahoma, Bernie found a cheap Route 66 picture frame and instantly fell in love with it. When we got back to the RV, he grabbed Mrs. McMann’s picture and put it inside. Now, the picture frame gets its picture taken by itself. It’s heart-warming. Weird to some people, but perfect for our group.
“Well it is the tallest monument in the western hemisphere, so it would have to be tall to obtain that kind of title,” Paul informs us. “What’s fascinating is the catenary architecture they had to utilize to uphold an arch of steel. The idea of the monument sprouted in the 1930s, but it wasn’t actually completed until the 1960s because of all the obstacles that needed to jump through involving city regulations. Glad they built it, though, because it’s a real beauty.”
Bernie and Paul talk about the bend in the arch and the constructional blueprints that the architects must have gone through, leaving Marley and me alone again.
“So, what was that call all about back there in the RV?”
I knew she wouldn’t be able to let it go. She’s too curious for that to happen.
“Nothing important. I’ll tell you if it ever becomes something of relevance.”
Her face scrunches in a cute way as she tries to break my evasive code.
“Is it another woman? I swear on Thor’s tiny nut sac that if you’re seeing someone, I will pull your intestines out of your asshole.”
Involuntarily, my butt cheeks squeeze together, protecting my intestines from the mere mention of them being massacred.
“It’s reassuring to know you wouldn’t have any problem dismembering me.”
“If you ever used me to cheat on someone, I would dismember you easily.”
I laugh. “Well, that’s nothing to worry about because I’m not that kind of man, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“How would I know what kind of man you are? You don’t talk all that much, Porter. I know the boy you used to be, but not really the man you are today.”
She was one hundred percent right. I don’t open up that much and there is a reason, I don’t want to get hurt, not with Marley. She could easily destroy me, a fact I never want to see come true.
“Not much has changed,” I lie, knowing full well I have more ambition to make something of myself than I did back then. I’ve seen what life can offer someone who tries for more than what’s expected of them, and I want to be one of those people.
“Not really into the whole talking thing, are you? Not surprised by that. Back then you were either pulling some kind of prank on Paul or me, or you were playing video games with Paul. The first time you actually opened up was when you wrote those letters.”
Those letters were the only reason I didn’t find myself slipping down the same path my dad did. Paul was in the Army, I got back from training with another farmer, and I realized what my life would truly be. I was depressed and mad at myself for not wishing for more. Marley wrote to me every day, and I wrote to her. I opened up to her about stupid things, nothing too serious, but hearing her responses, seeing her bubbly handwriting on her personal stationary helped me; it encouraged me to keep moving forward.
“Sometimes it’s easier to say things on paper than it is to say things out loud.”
Not saying a word, she nods her head in agreement, and then takes another bite of her hot dog. “Not the best hot dog I’ve ever had,” she changes the subject. “My mom would not be impressed.”
“Mama McMann would most definitely not be impressed with this rubbish.”
“That’s what you get for seeking out a vendor who is about ready to pack it up for the day. You get what you pay for, and we got dollar twenty-five hot dogs. Thankfully, I think my digestive system has finally accepted defeat and is adjusting to the crap I’m shoving through it.”
“Good, I’m glad we won’t have any more clogged toilets.”
Marley gives me an annoyed look.
Laughing, I ask, “Still too raw to talk about?”
“Just a little.”
The rest of the afternoon
is spent laying on our backs, looking up at the Gateway Arch and taking in the shine of the silver steel and the blue sky, while I occasionally brush my hand against Marley’s.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
**MARLEY**
“Now tomorrow is going to be a big day for us. We are finally going to meet the end of our travel on Route 66 and taste the mother of all hot dogs,” Dad says, as the campfire only simmers, no longer shooting up flames. “It’s best that you all get a good rest.”
“Speaking of good rest, I was thinking about sleeping out under the stars tonight. Would that be okay?” I ask, hoping to spend one night not on the bitch bed and instead next to Porter.
“You’re just going to sleep out in the open?”
“No, I mean, if Porter will let me, I would like to sleep in his tent. It’s plenty big enough for two people and the top unzips so you can see through the mesh to look up at the stars. I think it would be fun to do out here, before we hit the big city lights.”
“I don’t like the idea of you sleeping in a tent by yourself,” Dad responds. “Plus, I doubt Porter would want to sleep on the bitch bed again.”
“I don’t mind,” Porter says sweetly.
“Still, that doesn’t mean I want you sleeping out in the open by yourself. Even though we are on one of the nicest KOAs in the country, that doesn’t mean there aren’t murderers, psychopaths, and freaks out there waiting to cut your tent open and take advantage of you.”
I try not to let my frustration get the best of me. “Well, maybe someone can sleep out there with me.”
Paul shakes his head immediately. “No way, I’ve spent my fair share of nights on the ground. I’m sticking with my mattress.”
“Buttons, I would, but you know my back isn’t very good.”
“Ugh,” I fake and then turn to Porter. “Would you mind sleeping out there with me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want you drooling near me.”
“She is a drooler. You should see her pillow in the morning. You would think she pissed all over it.”
Grinding my teeth together, I say, “Thanks, Paul.”
“Anytime, sis. Porter, do you really want to play babysitter tonight?”
Babysitter? This is a warning to anyone who is paying attention, if Paul uses that term one more time for me and Porter, I will shove my foot so far up his ass, his tonsils will learn to tie my shoe.
“Eh, I don’t mind playing babysitter.”
My mouth drops, my rage starts to boil, and my hands start to clench at my sides, ready to plow my fist through Porter’s face. He did not just say he didn’t mind playing babysitter. Better term would have been something like: I like hanging out with Marley, I don’t mind sharing a tent with her. He will pay for that comment.
“Then that’s settled. Marley make sure you have enough blankets to keep you warm.”
“I will,” I tell my dad as I blow past the men and go into Tacy to grab my bed items. I know Porter was just playing it cool with Paul and my dad, but still, I don’t need him treating me like I’m his little sister, or a nuisance he has to deal with. I’ve put up with that attitude from him ever since I can remember.
While the boys finish up getting ready for bed and take care of the camp fire, I settle myself in the tent. There is no mattress, but that’s okay; I lay down a thick blanket for a little cushion and then set up my blankets and pillows. I unzip the top of the tent so the stars are shining through, and I get under my covers.
From the side, I can hear Paul and my dad settle into Tacy and talk about how they don’t have to keep the windows open, since I won’t be in there, which is just…lovely. Tomorrow morning in the RV is going to be extremely pleasant, driving across Illinois with Paul’s oozed-out night time smell. I’m gagging just thinking about it.
The tent rustles from the outside and the front unzips. Porter ducks into the tent, wearing another pair of sweat pants and a black Henley shirt, well, I think it’s black at least. I can’t tell under the moonlit sky.
“Warm?” he asks, nodding at the pile of blankets I’m under.
“Don’t want to chance it.”
“Alright.”
He gets into his sleeping bag and looks up at the sky. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stretch his arms out and place them under his head so he’s propped up a little. I know if he wasn’t in his sleeping bag, I would see his stomach and that mouthwatering V of his.
We lay there in silence, looking up at the stars, the occasional shooting star crossing the sky. Initially, my plan was to get some more alone time with Porter, but after his little comment, I’m not about to throw myself at him. I just don’t know why he’s not trying to suffocate me with his lips right now. Shouldn’t he want to? Am I not tempting anymore?
Yes, I’m being a total girl right now, but you know what? I don’t care, because guess what? If you looked down my pants and up my shirt, you would find a vagina and a pair of boobs, making me very much a girl, and because I have to deal with my uterus committing suicide every month, I should be able to have girly moments. And I’m having one right now.
“Are you not interested in me anymore?” Don’t worry, I know it sounds desperate and annoying, but I know what I’m doing. At least I like to think I do.
Porter is silent for a second before he starts chuckling.
Chuckling!
Note to all men out there, if you’re listening, do not chuckle when a girl is trying to talk to you about something serious. Want to see a red dot special in person, go ahead, chuckle when your girl is trying to have a serious conversation. See what happens.
“I was just waiting for you to stop being pissed at me.”
Surfing through the blankets I’m drowning in, I finally sit up and stare at Porter. “You know I’m pissed and you’re not doing anything about it?”
He turns on his side and rests his head on his hand. If he was trying to look like a calendar model in some sexy camping photo shoot, can I just say…nailing it! Bastard!
“It’s more fun this way.”
“More fun for whom? I don’t find this fun at all.”
“Really? Because, the way I see it, you’re pissed and rightfully so. But let’s be honest, the fury that simmers inside that cute little head of yours will soon turn into something so much better. To help ease your mind, I will say some sweet and caring things that will make you all googly eyed over me again, which then in return will lead us to making up. And that’s when it gets good, because making up will consist of my tongue down your throat and my hand down your pants.”
A part of me wants to storm out of the tent, back kicking a few rocks into his face as if I was a dog trying to bury its own crap, but the other half of me wants to kiss away that adorable grin he has on his face. If it was light out, I know I would be able to see his dimple.
Ugh, rocks to the face or kissing party? What a hard decision.
“Come on, you know I was just going along with what Paul said.” Porter grabs my hand and starts his sweet talking. “Are you really going to be mad over that little thing when we finally have the night together, undisturbed? You know I’ve been waiting for this opportunity, you being here is making my fucking road trip.”
Don’t fall for it; don’t give in too quickly.
His thumb strokes the back of my hand, and would you believe that’s all it takes? Well, it does. Don’t judge, he has a really nice thumb stroke.
“I’m still mad at you,” I say, while allowing him to pull me on top of him. He rolls to his back and cups my face.
“No, you’re not. You can’t stay mad at me.”
I pull away and give him a “get real” look. “Uh, do you want to talk about the last four years?”
“Valid point,” he chuckles. “Let’s not talk about that.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“How to get you out of your clothes and into my sleeping bag.”
“That’s a little forward, don’t you think?” I ask, my bod
y already starting to warm from the thought of being completely naked with Porter.
“No, I actually don’t.” His smile stretches across his face as his hands run under my shirt. His eyebrow raises when he realizes I’m not wearing a bra. “You trying to kill me, Marley?”
“Why would I do that? You would be no good to me dead. I’m not into Necrophilia.”
Porter laughs, “Fucking Paul and his arousal fixations. That was a really fun conversation.”
“Hey, I’m forced to be around him since he’s my brother, but you have a choice. You stick around.”
Porter rubs my back gently with his hands, which are almost as long as my back is wide. The man has some incredibly sexy hands, did I not mention that yet? Well, he does.
“We bonded over dorky things when we were younger; you can’t change that kind of connection over the years. Bad hair and splotchy mustaches, that’s where we really hit our stride in our relationship.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me of the mustaches; I think that was the first time when I didn’t utterly crush over you.”
Lifting a rakish eyebrow, Porter says, “Crush over me? When did this crush start? I thought it was your senior year that I was able to gain your attention.”
I put my hands over my face as I realize I just opened a can of used condoms, aka, can of worms…I wanted to get a little creative, but see that’s irrelevant now.
I’m mortified. Telling your lifelong crush that in fact, you’ve liked him from the first day you met him is never easy, especially when he looks like an even more beautiful version of Henry Cavill, if that’s even possible.
“Why are you hiding that beautiful face of yours?” Porter grabs my hands and forces me to look at him. “When did you crush on me?”
I blow out a long breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I answer him, “The moment I first met you. I thought you were the most handsome boy I’d ever seen.”