by TB Markinson
Sheila’s jaw dropped. “That’s it. You two slept together. I should have known.”
I didn’t confirm. Not verbally, at least. Perhaps my squirming in my chair and flaming neck and face busted me. I was many things, but not a convincing liar.
Sheila reached for a see-through straw from her back pocket, where she usually kept a stash while tending bar, and proceeded to wrap it around her finger. “Oh, boy. It would have been better if one of you only had feelings for the other.”
“Why’s that?”
“Sex between two friends who are super close—that usually gets messy.” She repeated, “Sex is messy.”
Not comfortable with the conversation, I joked, “I know. That’s why I like S-E-X.”
“I’m not talking about the actual act.” She groaned and then spat out, “Asshole.”
“Whoa!” I mimed for her to stop right there. “Why am I an asshole?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
I remained mute.
“Come on. How did it happen?”
“What?” I asked, perplexed.
“How did you seduce your best friend?”
“You really don’t think highly of me right now. Besides, I’ve never been one to kiss and tell.”
Sheila’s chest heaved up and down as she gave me a death stare.
“Seriously, you’re getting worked up about nothing.”
“Annie isn’t nothing.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Has it happened more than once?” Her face was turning redder by the second.
I pressed a finger onto the table. “I’m not talking about it with you.”
“That’s a yes.”
“You’re making this into a much bigger thing. I think your student loan fear is infecting your brain when it comes to everything under the sun. Besides, it doesn’t involve you. Annie’s fine with it. I’m fine with it. No harm, no foul.”
“You really don’t believe that, do you?”
“Of course. I’ve had one-night stands before.” I pointed to Sheila. “We’re fine.”
She swatted that piece of evidence away. “This is Annie. She’s different. Special.”
My phone beeped, letting me know it was time to pick up the pizza. “We need to go.” I stood and downed the rest of my beer.
Sheila shoved her chair back on the thin carpet. “Can you promise me one thing?” She jacked up both eyebrows.
“Depends.”
“Don’t break her heart. Annie doesn’t deserve that.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I motioned for Sheila to walk ahead of me.
Chapter Four
Sunday afternoon, two hours before I was supposed to be at Aunt Barbara’s, I realized I’d forgotten to pick up the beer I promised Roger. And my fridge was beyond bare. “Perfect, I can kill two birds with one stone.”
“You talking to yourself?” Annie appeared around the corner of the kitchen. She wore one of my Red Sox T-shirts and an old pair of crimson basketball shorts that looked more like pants on her.
“You’re finally up,” I teased. “There was a moment I thought I’d have to call 911. Until I saw the puddle of drool on the pillow. Maybe you shouldn’t start a night of drinking with whiskey shots.”
“So funny.” She cracked her neck to the left and then right. “Your bed is so cozy. I could stay in it all day.”
“By all means.” I checked my watch. “I have to run to the store before Barb’s. I’m assuming”—I appraised her frazzled hair and the sleep stuck in the corners of her eyes—“you don’t want to join me for grocery store fun.”
“Not on a Sunday.” Annie stretched her arms overhead, yawning. “Nah, I’ll meet you there. Work out the cobwebs some.” She tapped the side of her head.
I grabbed my keys from the ceramic bowl on the kitchen ledge separating the kitchen and dining area. “Alrighty then.”
Annie grabbed my hand. “Thanks for letting me crash here last night. Two nights in one month at your place. A record.”
“Please, you’re always welcome. And, I’d never let a friend head out drunker than a skunk, even if using public transportation.” I avoided her eye. “Can you lock the door when you leave?”
“Sure. I may hit the hot tub again.” She kneaded the small of her back. “Hopefully, my talk with Roger goes well. Holding a three-year-old on my hip for eight hours a day, five days a week is doing a number on my back.” She pattered down the hallway to my bedroom.
In the store, I placed a case of Harpoon in the cart, followed by the essentials for the week. At the checkout, while unloading twenty-some items onto the conveyer belt, the most alluring voice said, “Excuse me. Would you mind if I cut in front of you? I only have two items, and I’m in a huge rush.”
I turned around, and my jaw nearly dropped from its hinge. Words lodged in the back of my throat, although the cotton ball feeling made it apparent the words had no hope of coming to life. I resorted to gesturing for her to go ahead. The line behind me was six deep, more than half of which were men. Not one objected.
The woman didn’t seem to notice that all eyes were on her. Or maybe she’d grown accustomed to it with her silky dark hair, flawless skin, and penetrating eyes. Not to mention curves that were a work of art. She was all woman, and her skimpy attire was proof she owned it.
“Oh shit,” she said, pulling me out of a daydream. “It seems I’m short.” The woman shook her wallet to prove her point.
The commotion behind me of every male reaching for his wallet indicated I had to act quickly. Using my basketball blocking technique and height, I said, “I got it.”
“Are you sure? I feel like an idiot.” The tinge to her cheeks made her even more attractive. How I didn’t know since she was already off the chart. “I don’t even know how I can thank you.”
I wanted to say, “Let me stare at you all day, every day.” Instead, I waved a hand. “No worries. It happens to all of us.”
She touched my arm. “Thank you.”
The employee bagged her items, and the bombshell left the building, seeming to take all the oxygen with her.
I went through the motions of paying for my things and leaving in a fog. The handles to the bags dug into my fingers as I waited for the train to come to a stop.
Climbing onboard, I made my way to a seat when the conductor said, “Excuse me, but you forgot to pay.”
Tinges of a blush prickled my cheeks and neck. “I don’t know where my mind is.” I placed the two bags on the bench near the front, grabbing my CharlieCard from my wallet and tapping it on the machine. “M-my apologies,” I stuttered.
The fortyish male driver waved. “Yeah, yeah. The frigging heat is turning everyone’s heads to mush. Next stop, Hades.” He laughed at his own joke as he pulled the handle to close the train door.
Fifteen minutes later, I got off at Chestnut Hill, heading to Barb’s house. Mom and Barb, in the midst of sisterly laughter, stopped when they saw me enter the kitchen.
“Goodness, Cori. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Barb took the bags from my hands.
“What?” I swiped my forehead. “It’s fricking hot out, and summer hasn’t even officially started.”
“And Republicans deny the globe is getting warmer.” Mom rifled through my environmentally friendly bags. “Is the asparagus for you or us?”
“I’m more than willing to contribute.” I retrieved a bottle of Harpoon summer beer and used the bottle opener on my keychain. After a lustful tug, I said, “What’s new here?”
Mom slanted her head. “Nothing.” She dragged the word out. “Barb’s right; something’s off about you.”
I laughed. “My asking what’s new is a sign of illness or something?”
“You do have only-child syndrome, especially since you’re basically Barb and Roger’s only child as well.” Mom crossed her arms in her annoying I only speak the truth no matter how painful way
.
Roger, in navy shorts with colorful embroidered fish, lime cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and brown leather flip-flops, opened the fridge door and pulled out a beer. He held it up to the ceiling as if saying a silent prayer. “Man, I need this. Annie is talking my ear off.”
“Serves you right for inviting her.” I tapped my beer bottle against his.
He conceded with a nod. “Does she talk nonstop all the time?”
“She’s been known to.” I leaned against the fridge, enjoying the cool metal pressed onto the back of my arms. “You really thinking of hiring her?”
Again, he nodded.
Annie’s voice arrived before I saw her.
When she stepped through the deck door, I shielded my vision. “My eyes, my eyes,” I said.
She tapped one of her leaf-print flip-flops. “I take it you don’t like my shorts.”
Slowly, I opened my eyelids. “Love them. Just wasn’t prepared for tear-inducing bright pink paired with a brilliant white T-shirt.”
Annie tugged on her shirt, only the front was tucked in and the drawstrings on her nylon shorts were tied into a crisp knot as if she were afraid someone here would attempt to pants her after a few drinks. With Mom and Roger present, it was probably a good precaution.
Dad sidled up to her in his khaki shorts, navy Polo, and brown loafers, wearing his signature white socks. “You okay, Cori? You look a little green around the gills.”
“Is that a sign of losing one’s sight?” I nudged Annie’s side with my elbow.
She huffed. “This is the first and last time I’m wearing these shorts.”
Barb gave an admonishing glare. “Nonsense. They’re adorable, and if I had legs like yours, I’d buy a pair. Roger, is the grill ready?” She handed him a platter of steaks, with a couple veggie patties for me, before he had a chance to confirm.
Dad and Roger retreated to the deck, talking about the Sox game that was about to start.
“What can I do to help?” Annie rubbed her hands together.
“You can keep Cori company while she takes care of the corn on the cob.” Barb motioned for Mom to step outside with her. “And prep the asparagus.”
I saluted.
“Alone at last. Roger loves to talk.” There was an eagerness in her expression that stirred unease, although I wasn’t entirely sure why.
Instead of focusing on Annie, I grabbed a square stainless-steel vegetable basket for the asparagus. In the pantry, I pulled out the olive oil, sea salt, and fresh pepper. Lastly, I retrieved lemon juice from the fridge. “How goes the Ireland talk?”
Annie popped the top off a beer and took a seat on the barstool opposite me on the kitchen island. “Intriguing.”
“In a good or bad way?” Carefully, I peeled back a husk, brushed the kernels with olive oil, rewrapped it, and started on the next one.
“I didn’t know you cooked.”
“I think these are the only things I know how to make.” I shrugged. “You were saying…” I prodded her with a flourish of my fingers.
She fixed her eyes on mine. “Good, I think.”
“But you aren’t sure?” I seasoned the asparagus with oil and salt.
Annie sighed and fiddled with the corner of the beer label. “Not sure I’m making the right decision.”
“You’ve decided, then? On Ireland?”
Dad came in for the veggies, and I had to wonder if they sent him in knowing he wouldn’t stop for chitchat. I hadn’t clarified to anyone in the family Annie and I had ventured into the friends with benefits category. Was that why Roger had invited her? Had Mom and Barb put him up to it? Were they trying to figure things out knowing I wouldn’t confess?
After he retreated back to the grill and the television had been hooked up on the deck, I put an arm over Annie’s shoulders. “Talk to me, little one.”
She elbowed my side, but it lacked her playfulness. “I just don’t know if I should stay.”
“Would you miss your job?”
She shook her head. “I’m sure I’ll miss the kids after a break from them, a couple of them at least, but the job—no way.”
“The Red Sox?”
“I like going to the games. But who knows? I could become a fan of hurling.” She shrugged.
I nodded. “I hear it’s one of the fastest sports and nothing like curling. More like lacrosse.” I sat down on the stool next to her. “Tell me what’s holding you back. You always know what’s going on inside that head of yours.”
She stared at her lap. “I’ve only visited Ireland, never lived there. The climate sucks. The 2008 Wall Street meltdown destroyed their economy.” Annie paused, making eye contact. “Also, what if the woman I’m supposed to settle down with is in Boston not Dublin.” Her eyes dropped, avoiding mine.
I thought of the woman from the store and ended up stuttering, “I-I know what you mean.”
A hopeful smile eased the tension from her brow.
My brain snapped back to Annie. “But you have time to mull it over, right? Roger’s talking about this winter. Gives you time to think and, at the very least, see if the Sox make the playoffs.” I hopped off the stool and headed for the fridge with determined steps. “Another?” I asked with my back to her.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Speaking of the Sox, shall we see how the game’s going?” I waved for her to go ahead of me.
Instead, she waited and wrapped an arm around my waist. “Thanks for listening.”
Mom and Barb picked up on our closeness as soon as we stepped foot on the deck. The heat from the sun practically pressed down on my body.
“Cori, come settle an argument.” Mom, with pursed lips, beckoned with a finger.
Annie released her grip and joined my father on the wicker couch.
“What are you two fighting about now?” My voice betrayed my relief about being freed from Annie.
Mom and Barb shared a smile. “Nothing, anymore,” Mom said with triumph.
I made a show of eyeballing her like a seasoned private detective, but I failed to unearth the goods. “I’ll never understand you two—your weird sister bond.”
Mom rolled her eyes, but her expression became animated. “I almost forgot. You remember Professor Brown?”
“Your friend from the ice age.” I plucked a cherry tomato from the bowl on the side table.
“You think you’re so funny.”
“Oh, I know I am.”
“How many times do I have to tell you when people laugh, it’s not always with you. In your case, they’re all laughing at you.”
Barb drilled an elbow into Mom’s side.
Laughing, Mom said, “One of Jake’s assistants had to leave the program.”
“Really?” I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.
“Apparently, the young woman has a bubble wrap fetish.”
Barb scrunched her face. “Can you fire someone because of a fetish?”
Mom, barely able to contain herself, said, “It’s more like she was pushed out. She shared photos on Facebook of herself in bubble wrap without a stitch of clothes. Her account was set to public.” Mom made a gesture implying that was foolish, but I wasn’t on Facebook, so most of it went over my head. “A fellow student stumbled on the photos, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t spray tomato over my mom. Through the web of my fingers I said, “Why would anyone post something like that on the internet?”
“Who knows? Jake said she tried to brave through it, but students slathered her office door with bubble wrap and naked Barbies. She stormed out and hasn’t been seen since.”
Barb shook her head. “College students are worse than middle schoolers, sometimes.”
“Now Jake needs a new research assistant to help him with a paper he’s working on. Unfortunately, his budget was slashed so he can’t pay anyone, and in his words: None of the students know that Mar
y Wollstonecraft and Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley are mother and daughter.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to find a qualified grad student in Boston looking to add street cred to their resume.” I swiped another tomato from the salad bowl.
“Quite true. In fact, I’m staring at Jake’s newest volunteer. Of course, your name will be added to the article or articles you help cowrite.” Mom fluttered her lashes.
I put a hand on my chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” She pointed at me for emphasis.
“But—”
She motioned for me to be quiet with a not-so-motherly slice of the hand. “This will be a good way for you to explore if you want to go the research, teaching, or writing route. Let’s face it. You applied for grad school because you didn’t have a clue what to do after basketball. You can’t drift forever.”
I ignored the drifting comment because she wasn’t all that far off the mark. “He’s a professor at Adams, not Harvard. I won’t even get credit.”
“Unfortunately, none of the grad students at Harvard have a bubble wrap fetish. Not that I know of, at least.” She was way too pleased with herself.
“And, I said you’ll get a publishing credit.”
I sucked in a breath. “I’m currently working on the thesis for my creative writing program at Harvard. How will I find the time for that, the two remaining classes I need to finish, and research for Jake?”
“Please, when have you been afraid to work? You’ve already completed the majority of the workload even though you have five years to complete them. And you’re taking the summer to focus on your thesis. You’re my daughter. Penning stories comes naturally, like breathing. How long does it have to be?” Her raised brows suggested she already knew the answer.
“Minimum of fifty pages,” I said in a voice lacking confidence.
“You know, when Brandon Sanderson was twenty-one he decided he wanted to be a professional writer. He completed a handful of novels in two years. During his graduate program, he got a book deal with Tor.”
I huffed, annoyed she’d brought that up, as if suggesting I should already have my own publishing deal. At least she didn’t bring up the fact she wrote a literary bestseller at the age of twenty-one and continued to crank out one smash after another. Writing was like breathing for Nell Tisdale. I said, “Your argument is flawed. He was working on his own novels, not helping out one of your buddies with research after his assistant was chased out of town.”