by Lexi Scott
I’ve been playing Scrabble against some random player on my phone and wishing I had earplugs, when an email pings, interrupting my game.
Usually I get irritated that work occasionally interferes with my free time. Now, I’m ecstatic.
I try to wave Jacinda down to let her know I’m going to use her office to take care of this issue, but there’s a knock at the door, and when it opens, a cop with a huge, white smile bursts in. The entire mass of dildo-screaming women hushes when he points a baton at them.
“I’m Officer Miller. I got a report there are some very bad girls in this room. Very bad.” He grabs at his shirt and rips it away, revealing a very nice, tanned set of abs and pecs.
“Stripper!” Obnoxious Teen yells, jumping on Jacinda’s couch. The ladies go ape shit. Jacinda smiles smugly, winks at the “officer,” and turns on Jace Everett’s “I Want to Do Bad Things to You.”
He hip-swivels in, and I dart for the office, secure in the knowledge that no one will miss me or care that I’m gone. Obviously, since my being out of the living room means more Officer Miller for the sex-crazed women out there.
In the safe comfort and quiet of the office, I skim the email from one of our suppliers and decide to leave a message on Mr. Rodriguez’s phone. There’s no point in trying to email him. I love that man to death, but he’s practically Amish about technology. I’m just thankful he uses voicemail… Unless of course he has an actual answering machine in his office. The thought of some old push button machine that works off cassette tapes makes me smile through the message I leave.
“Hello, Mr. Rodriguez. I hope you get this bright and early Saturday morning so you can get back to your lovely wife and all those sweet kids. Shermans called and they promised they could get a definite a.m. delivery on Mrs. Guarez’s mirrored hutch. Just use Marty’s extension and tell him which location to deliver to. If you have any questions, just call me—”
“Hello?”
The shock of having someone pick up makes my heart skip a beat, but I pull myself together because I can be professional even when I’m holed away at a party full of lusty women screaming sex words and running their hands over a stripper’s oiled body.
“Mr. Rodriguez! I thought you’d be home for the night. I could have sworn you were taking your wife to that heist movie.”
The low chuckle on the other end is half sleepy, half sexy. I’m mortified to feel a tingle of heat low down between my legs. I press my lips together to choke back a groan. Bad Maren! He’s a happily married man with five children. I have no business being turned on by his laugh.
“Maren? It’s Cohen.”
“Cohen!” I’m so relieved I’m not some pervert home-wrecker I actually squeal.
And then I think about our pseudo-flirty texts, and I’m not sure how to handle being on the phone with him outside of work now. I’m not sure where the line is for us anymore, because I definitely felt like we crossed some kind of unspoken boundary this evening.
When his first text came through, I had no clue what he wanted. I could have been more professional when I answered, but the laundromat was in chaos, and it was such a huge relief to have someone to vent to. We always have a great joking, kind of sexy vibe going on when we talk on the phone at work, but something about texting with him while he was out with another girl felt…naughty? Intimate? Dangerous?
“I’m sorry,” I stutter, trying to get my head on straight. “I didn’t expect you to pick up. Honestly, I didn’t expect anyone to pick up. I was just leaving a message for your father because an email we needed for scheduling came in late. I thought you’d still be out on your date.”
Oh, and I was also just getting hot and bothered over your sexy-as-hell laugh, but we can totally ignore that little fact.
I smooth my hair like he can see me, then drop my hand quickly because of course he can’t. Also I feel stupid worrying about my hair like some high school girl.
Ugh. Maybe all the dildo chanting and male stripping combined with those texts is just pushing my hormones into overdrive.
“I didn’t expect to be here, either.” I can hear him moving around, like maybe he’s just waking up, and the first thing that crosses my mind is he’s there with the girl he was on the date with. Shitshitshitshit! What if I interrupted the, ahem, conclusion of Cohen’s date? “So, do you need me to leave a note for my dad?”
“Um, the message pretty much sums it up, but if you want I can repeat it. Unless you’re, um, with someone. I mean…is your date…?”
I fumble the words, half hoping he’ll end this call and put me out of my misery, but also half hoping he’ll ask me to repeat the message so we can stay on the phone for a few more minutes.
Wow, my life really has sunk to new lows.
“I’m alone. My date… She had to, uh, get home. Thank you, by the way. For your advice. And general conversation. I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem at all. I hope your date sleeps off her hangover dreaming of Chi Poos.”
He laughs softly. “Wow. I think I’ve mentally erased some of the crazier parts, but that date was pretty much world record awful. But it’s done, and I’m just glad I survived it and am here to take your call. You know Dad’s pretty OCD about how his work stuff is organized.” There’s a pause, and it sounds like maybe he’s rummaging through drawers to find something to write on. “So, it sucks that you’re working this late on a Friday night after your harrowing laundromat experience. You should have just let it go ‘til Monday, kicked back, and enjoyed your day off. If anyone deserves a margarita, it’s you.”
“Are you kidding me?” I settle into Jacinda’s rolly office chair. “Mrs. Guarez has been a pain in the ass for weeks, stressing your poor father out like crazy. Now she’s going to be taken care of, and then he’ll be free of her and her constant bitching.”
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and close my eyes.
Dammit! Mrs. Guarez is a pain in the ass, but she’s also a customer at his family’s business, and I definitely stepped over the professional line even more than Cohen and I usually do. It’s one thing to joke about crazy dates… Joking about customers is a blurred line.
“Ah, Mrs. Guarez. Trust me, she’ll be back,” Cohen says, that great, gravelly voice a low rumble in my ears. “The pain in the ass ones never go away. But thanks for going the extra mile for my dad, Maren. That was really sweet of you.”
“No problem.” I pause, totally debating if I should fish for more personal Cohen life details. We did have a ton of fun texting tonight, so maybe we’re officially at that work-friend level? “So your first blind date was a bust? There was no redemption at the end at all?” I blurt out.
Fish it is.
His chuckle becomes a full-on laugh. “Tonight was one of those nights I wish I’d pulled an extra shift at work. Have you ever had a date so bad, it makes you contemplate a lobotomy?”
I cradle the phone close to my ear. “Brain annihilation, huh? Sorry, but you have to fill in the gaps now. I’m intrigued, and all I know about is the tequila and the Chi Poos. I’m definitely wondering if I can one-up your story.”
“I doubt it.” I imagine what his smile looks like, because I can hear it netted over his words. “Unless you have a story where you end up covered in your date’s vomit?”
“What? No!” I cry, pressing my fingers to my lips so I don’t laugh. “Really? Was that why she was in the bathroom so long? Maybe it was actually food poisoning. Oh, poor girl. She must have been so embarrassed.”
“Well, maybe she ate something bad. But the half-bottle of Tequila she sucked down across a couple double margaritas made a serious impact.” He pauses like he’s wondering whether or not he should say the next words. “And the, uh, position she was in didn’t help.”
I feel a blush run over my cheeks and wonder if this conversation is about to go the way of the raucous party I can hear through the closed office door. “So, um, she was…”
“She was eager to take the date to the next
level in my car. Which is weird, since she didn’t make any actual attempt to talk to me while we were together and seemed to think my name was Calvin right up to the end.”
I giggle. “Uh-oh. She never got your name right, huh? And her last ditch effort to salvage the date wound up a little less romantic than she expected?”
“Unless a puddle of vomit on my lap is what she was going for. I’ve been told I’m that kind of boring. Is that what the kids are into nowadays?”
I love that he had this awful, crazy night, but is still laughing about it.
“Wow. I don’t think I can beat that story. My worst was going on a date with a guy who left me at a party one of his friends’ friends threw. I wasn’t even that upset about him ditching me, because—frankly?—he was a complete dickhole, pardon my French. But I’d driven us to the party, so when he wanted to leave and didn’t feel like coming to get me, he stole my keys and took my car home.”
I grimace at the memory.
Cohen is very quiet on the other end, and in that silence there’s a shift. From fun and light to…something more. Something unexpected.
“He just left you there?”
He sounds pissed. Furious, even.
I’ve never really heard Cohen’s voice like that, and we’ve been in some pretty infuriating situations: missed orders with customers screaming in his face, employees not showing up and leaving departments understaffed during huge sales events, deliveries getting sent across towns… All kind of things that would test a saint’s patience, and I’ve never heard him use the tone he’s using now.
“Yep. And his friends were all talking about Danish cinema and how the climate changes are actually part of this big multi-layered government conspiracy, and tortes are going to be the new ‘it’ food after people rebel against cupcakes. It was freaking ridiculous.” I wait for him to laugh, but the other end of the line is weirdly silent, so I rush to finish. “Thankfully my sister was right around the corner, and she offered to pick me up.”
“So he just…left you there?” Cohen clarifies, his voice steely.
I feel embarrassed.
I feel like such a fool all over again. Ricky made me feel like a jerk the entire time I dated him, and I wanted the story of that awful night to be…funny or something. But, instead, Cohen makes me feel like an idiot, and I wish I could get off the phone.
Crap.This is why it’s best to keep things totally light and fun when I talk to my over-the-phone work crush.
“Yep. It wasn’t even the first time, either. Look, I’m at this stupid passion party thing for this coworker of mine, and it’s getting late. I have to cross a living room full of sex-crazed women wielding scarily powerful vibrators just to get to the nearest exit—”
I try to make my voice cool and breezy. Not the voice of a girl who gets left places by guys whose interest she can’t hold.
His laugh sounds distracted. “Of course. Sounds dangerous. I’ll let you go. Just…Maren?”
I can hear him hesitate, and I don’t want that. I don’t want him to stop saying what he needs to say.
At the same time, I know we already danced on the edge of a line tonight.
“Yeah?” The artificial brightness in my voice makes me squint.
“I don’t know about the guy you were with that night, but I hope he was just some random asshole and not someone you dated long-term. I might be sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong and all, but no guy should ever leave a girl alone anywhere. Ever. Even if she vomits on his lap. He should still get her home and make sure she’s safe. That’s, you know… That’s just my opinion.”
There are a few beats of silence while I collect my thoughts.
“You know what, Cohen? You’re a stand-up guy. And you deserve way better than a lapful of vomit.”
His laugh is the best sound I’ve heard in a long time. Deep, throaty, and disturbingly sexy. But so genuine and kind. “Thank you. Hey, I hope you don’t get clobbered by fuzzy handcuffs and bottles of flavored lube before you get to the door.”
“Me, too. Good night, Cohen.”
“Good night, Maren.”
I click off and hold the phone hard in my hand for a few minutes.
I wonder what he’s like when he’s not just a voice on the phone. I wonder what he’s like in person.
And then I remind myself: the Cohen I know is all in my head. Of course he’s amazing over the phone… That’s just one tiny aspect of who he is. In real life, honest, good guys are so rare. I’m not entirely sure I believe a guy as amazing as my phone-only crush, Cohen, even exists.
But the more I get to peek at his life beyond the furniture store phone lines, the more I think maybe I could be wrong…
The screeches from the other room interrupt my Cohen Rodriguez daydreams and send me creeping into the doorway of the living room. There are several bras piled on the table Officer Miller’s dry humping, his navy blue man-thong practically falling off under the weight of so many dollar bills.
“Where have you been?” Jacinda shouts over the music.
“Just talking to a guy from work—”
“Dildo!” the entire room screams, stopping me in my tracks for a few seconds.
“It’s times like these that make a lap full of vomit seem almost appealing,” I mutter before heading back out into the throng.
I so need a Jell-O shot, or five, to get through this night.
Two hours later, I’m finally home. My sister texted me twice, just to check in, but I don’t text back. I haven’t broken the news to her about dropping out of my classes again. She’ll blame Dad like she always does. And I get it. It’s his fault, partially. And mine, of course. But I’m too exhausted to think right now in the dingy dimness of our apartment, especially since I never did those Jell-O shots after all.
The daughter of an alcoholic with a string of intoxication-related failures and arrests does not tempt fate by drinking even a little and driving.
Dad is snoring on the recliner, his arm hanging over the side, his fingers curled around the glass neck of his Evan Williams bottle like a child clinging to his cherished lovey.
Being a semi-famous rock star who still lives in the area where he got his start means my dad trips over die-hard fans every day of his life. He’s the sort of charming guy who can make a fawning admirer feel like a life-long friend— A friend who’s more than willing to provide ample amounts of booze. For the people who fell in love with my dad’s music, it’s worth the cost of a little alcohol to hear my father tell stories about his glory days. If he drinks enough, he’ll even pull out his guitar and start jamming.
Which means all my efforts to hide his alcohol, dump it, refuse to buy it, or persuade him not to drink it are a lost cause. My father relies on me for everything, but he doesn’t need me to provide the one thing that’s killing him slowly.
I pull the bottle out of his hand and screw the cap on, making sure to tilt it away from me so I don’t catch a whiff. It’s not that I don’t drink, but I loathe the smell of whiskey. Just one whiff will make my stomach roll and churn. Smelling the thing that turns the person you love and respect into a blubbering mess will do that to you.
I throw a blanket over him, one of the dozens my mom knitted before she left. He won’t get rid of any of them, even though the weather in our area doesn’t really call for blankets most of the year. Also, they make him even more pathetically depressed.
But I think he revels in sadness. I guess it’s the whole “tortured artist” thing.
I tuck the fringed end under his chin, the chin that used to be so strong and handsome. It’s lost in the extra weight all the drinking added to his body. His skin is pale with smatterings of broken blood vessels and a greasy sheen that always makes him look sweaty and unwashed. He looks old. Pitiful. But still like the dad who used to lie on the floor with me, reading from piles of books until I fell asleep pillowed on his arm.
I blink hard. I want that dad back. I want him so badly I’ve stuck it out when thi
ngs seem too rough on the off chance that he’s still there, deep down. Maybe he just needs one more night to drink, one more day to mope before he’ll stand up and say, “All right, pumpkin pie, let’s get the yard cleaned up. Get the lead out.”
And I’ll be here to help him when he does.
Except that fantasy is pretty hard to imagine now that the yard he loved was sold long ago because he couldn’t handle the mortgage on his own after the divorce. And all his yard work was done with Mom’s complicated diagrams tucked in his pocket back then anyway. She’d come lean off the deck and say, “It looks amazing. I wish I had your green thumb, babe.”
And he’d say, “But you got the sugar palm. You married the green thumb, smart girl.”
He’d wink and she’d blush and go make some delicious baked thing that would knock us all out. It’s weird that their inside joke would become her business, Sugar Palm Baked Goods, and her business would lead to the end of their marriage.
I tiptoe to the dimly lit galley kitchen, where nothing sweet has ever been cooked, at least as long as Dad and I have lived here. I didn’t inherit my mother’s sugar palm or my father’s green thumb. Did I inherit anything useful or good?
Some days I feel like I’m just the outline of a person, with no real shape or substance.
My sister, Rowan, would tell me to let go of the past. Quit being a martyr. Let Dad face his responsibilities. But she’s tough and strong, like our mother. To the point where they’ll do what it takes to survive, no matter what they have to let go of.
I’m not like that. Dad and I are softer. Givers. We get bumped and smashed by life, and while Mom and Rowan could build a ship during a storm and then navigate a steady course home, Dad and I would cling to driftwood for dear life, constantly in danger of drowning.
I grab a bottle of water and some Ritz crackers and head to my room, then close the door tight and drop my bag on the bed.
My party favors spill out.