Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

  “He did it faster than even I thought he would,” Walker chimes in.

  Getting to my feet, I grab a few bills and place them on the bar. Fuck this. “I always get laid. That’s never been a problem.”

  “Until now,” Machlan adds.

  “Jealousy is an ugly thing, boys,” I call out, heading to the front door. I pause at the bulletin boards and turn back around. “The rest of that isn’t a tip. Put it on Peck’s tab. He’s the only one of you I like.”

  “Hey, thanks,” Peck calls out as the door slams behind me.

  Climbing into my car, I get situated in the driver’s seat but don’t pull out. I don’t move. I can hear my stomach churning, feel the prickle of something at the back of my neck, but I can’t quite locate where it’s coming from.

  My brain is still a mess—maybe messier than before. I hadn’t realized I haven’t been with a woman in a while until Walker pointed it out. It feels like I have, but I haven’t. It’s my trademark, my hobby. What’s wrong with me? Am I broken?

  My cock still gets hard. I’d still fuck if an opportunity presented itself. I’m not having any unusual symptoms or urges, like monogamy, which would require a medical evaluation.

  Still, something’s off. I can sense it. I can feel it. Hell, I can tell. I didn’t even want to talk to Jessa today at lunch. She called and it got me two things: out of a conversation with a flirty Principal Kelly and into Mariah’s office.

  Mariah.

  “I could really go for a cupcake right about now,” I say aloud with a chuckle. Turning the key, I swing down the street and head home to try to get some work done.

  Six

  Mariah

  “Name something you only do when you’re sick.” The announcer sets his card down as the contestants slam the big buttons in front of them.

  “Puke!” I say, shoving the spoon back in the tub of ice cream.

  The female contestant looks downright smug. “Nap.”

  “Nap? You only nap when you’re sick?” I ask, rolling my eyes. The number one answer flips across the screen—nap. “Where do you find these people?”

  Scooping another helping of lemon cake ice cream into my mouth, I watch the rest of the top answers cross the board. Every now and then it crosses my mind to get up and go pick out my outfit for my date tomorrow night. I respond by taking another bite of ice cream.

  Dating isn’t my forte. Just thinking about it makes my stomach get all squirmy. If I were being introspective, I’d probably conclude that not having to date is one of the major reasons I prefer relationships over one-night stands or hook-ups. Talking about myself is awkward. Listening to someone else explain themselves while trying to be interesting is uncomfortable. Making it through dinner when you have nothing in common is horrific and not many men share my interests. Even if it goes well, hopes go up and, often times, dreams go down. It’s a no-win situation.

  Be positive. Things could always be worse.

  Flipping the television off, I still. There’s a ringing sound coming from down the hall. My pint of lemon cake ice cream goes to the coffee table as I race down the hallway and into my bedroom to retrieve it.

  All the ice cream in my stomach starts to slosh around when I see the name: Mom.

  See? Things just got worse.

  Every time she calls, I tell myself this might be the day. Maybe she was at the salon and someone asked about me and she realized what a missed opportunity our mother-daughter relationship has become. Or maybe she was going through old photographs and felt guilty for not remembering when I won gold at Solo and Ensemble for my flute solo in middle school.

  I let her go to voicemail a lot, but sometimes, I have more hope than brains.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I swipe the screen. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mariah.”

  “Hi, Mom. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine, honey. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I say, biting a nail. “You usually just call when something is the matter.”

  Sighing too hard and too long, I feel the dread build across the back of my neck. I should’ve sent her to voicemail.

  The mattress bends as I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to her go on and on about how she calls and I don’t answer and how disrespectful it is to ignore your mother’s calls. Every other sentence has me biting my tongue with a comeback that, while true, would incense her. As entertaining as it would be to listen to her gasp—I always get a little thrill out of it—I don’t have the energy to see it through.

  “Mom?” I ask, cutting her off. “Did you need something?”

  The shock that someone has the audacity not to just sit and listen to her ramble has her tongue-tied. “I … Well … Excuse me?”

  “Did you need something?” I ask it slowly. Looking around my room, a cozy nest of light greys and pinks, I wonder if I should change my sheets. I just bought a brand-new set of flannel ones that I wanted to try and the temperature at night must just be on the cusp of making it acceptable. “I’m in the middle of something, so if you could just spit it out, that’d be great.”

  As soon as I say it, I wince and prepare for her retort.

  “Spit?” she balks. “Oh, Mariah. When are you going to start acting like a lady? I didn’t raise you like this.”

  “Can we just … cut around all this and get to the chase?”

  I despise the pleading tone in my voice, but I hate even more the pause that stretches between us. It’s filled with the unspoken disappointment she feels at being my mother. The silence is pregnant with how misfortunate she feels she is and an awkwardness that’s made even worse by how our relationship dictates how we should interact with one another.

  There aren’t tears anymore, just a muted acceptance of the situation. I am who I am and it’s not good enough for her. But it’s good enough for me.

  “My birthday is this weekend,” she says finally. “I’d like you to come have lunch with me.”

  This throws me a little. “Wow, Mom. Okay. Where do you want to meet?”

  “I’m having lunch brought to the house to mark the occasion. It’ll be Betsy’s first time here and I’d really like to make it special.”

  “Betsy?” I ask, trying to remember which of her friends this is. I’m sure she’ll lambast me for not remembering it’s her tennis friend or the one she just took a trip to San Diego with, but I truly don’t remember.

  “The baby, Mariah.”

  Blinking in super-slow motion, I realize she went there. She’s usually decent enough to not openly bring up Chrissy or Eric or the pregnancy that I found out about from a mutual friend’s social media post, a baby whose name I didn’t even know until now.

  Tears come, wetting the inside corners of my eyes, as I realize Chrissy has taken our grandmother’s name. A hollowness echoes in my chest, each thought bounding around an area inside of me that should be filled with a feeling other than loneliness.

  For a fleeting moment, I imagine walking into my mother’s house and seeing my sister holding a baby. She never even wanted kids. I was the one who wanted a huge family and she beat me to it, just like she tried to one-up everything I ever did.

  “I gotta go,” I say past the lump in my throat.

  “Stop it.” Her tone is cold, brash, void of any empathy for me. “It’s time you grow up, young lady.”

  “Grow up? Are you kidding me right now?”

  “Eric and Chrissy are incredibly happy and they now have a beautiful little girl.”

  “I … good for them,” I say in disbelief.

  “Yes, good for them. You should try to emulate their happiness a little instead of spending all your time in a library.”

  This snaps me out of it. “Well, Mother, I was trying to do something similar and then my sister stole my boyfriend.”

  “You can’t steal a person,” she charges back. “He was in love with her. Not you. Maybe if you had been
a little more interesting, fixed yourself up a little more—”

  “Nope. Not doing this today. Goodbye, Mother.”

  My thumb swipes the call off and holds in the power button until the screen goes black. I look at the wall. After deep breathing for a few seconds, I shove all of that garbage out of my mind.

  Rummaging through my closet, I know exactly what I’m looking for. The jeans I never wear, the ones Whitney says makes my ass look great, go flying onto the bed. A soft crimson sweater that hugs my curves and I feel good in joins it. It takes more time than it should to find my nude-colored heeled boots, but they’re cozied up in the back of my closet with a pair of black pumps. Both go on the bed.

  “There. That should do it for tomorrow night.”

  The satisfaction is short-lived. So, I do what I always do when I can’t settle down: head to the kitchen to bake something sweet to cancel out the bitterness.

  Seven

  Mariah

  “I should’ve worn the heels.”

  Twisting around to see the back view in the full-length mirror, I decide the jeans I laid out last night look fine. The top is cute. The shoes, though, might be too relaxed. Then again, I really have no idea.

  The doorbell rings as I pick up my heels. I look at my reflection. I can’t see my heart pounding out of control but I sure as hell can feel it.

  “Why did you agree to this?” I whine.

  The bell sounds again as if the man on the porch is reminding me I did agree to the craziness of a blind date and now I have to follow through.

  Each step toward the front door seems to cover a mile. The knob is in my hand before I have time to come up with a plan. I freeze. Peering into the peephole, I determine he’s cute, but in a television doctor kind of way. Crew cut blond hair, cobalt blue eyes that match his scrubs impeccably, and a tall, lean body that screams he ran a half a mile this morning for fun, all make him appear harmless. Although, I remind myself as I open the door, that’s what all blind dates look like at first.

  “Hello,” I say, smiling as naturally as I can despite the ruckus in my head. A silent prayer goes up that I don’t look like one of those dogs in memes with my lips sticking to my gums in a fake smile.

  His assessment is quick, yet thorough. I must pass because his broad shoulders ease. “Hi. I’m assuming you’re Mariah.”

  “I am. You must be Jonah.”

  “Correct. Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I got held up in the operating room.”

  His words are stilted. There’s some relief in knowing he’s equally as unsure about this as I am.

  “No worries,” I tell him. “Let me grab my purse and we can go?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Closing the door just in case he is a serial killer, I find my purse on the couch. A quick inventory confirms the small can of Mace in the hidden pocket, as well as extra cash for a cab. There’s also a tube of lipstick just in case I’m wrong about this whole thing and the date goes well enough for a quick freshen up in his bathroom.

  He’s standing where I left him when I return. I flash him a smile while I lock up and wait for any indication there might be some sort of crackling energy between us. My keys hit the can of Mace when I drop them into my purse.

  Noted, Universe. Noted.

  “Whitney said you like Peaches,” he says, a couple of steps in front of me. “I checked it out online. It’s not fancy but, since I’m in scrubs, I thought it might work.”

  “It’s my favorite. Have you been there before?”

  He opens my door. One point, Jonah. “I haven’t. I’m from Springfield originally and haven’t been here long enough to see much more than the inside of Merom Memorial. The life of an intern, I guess.”

  “I guess. Thank you,” I say, as I slip in the front seat of his sports car.

  I wonder if he actually hosed the interior with antiseptic spray or it’s a coincidence that the car smells like a janitor’s closet. By the looks of the spotless floorboards and streak-free windows, I lean toward the spray.

  He grins at me while he climbs in. “Buckle up. Seat belts are one of the easiest and most effective ways to prevent injuries in automobile accidents.”

  “All right. Thanks for the tip.” The lock slips into the latch and I try to focus on the considerate side of him. Not the one that made me want to include, ‘Yes, father,’ at the end of my sentence.

  The drive to Peaches takes forever despite only being a few minutes from Linton. Every topic feels like we have to move a mountain to get through the conversation. Going from discussing his job to my career back to his job is way more work than it should be.

  By the time we pull in the parking lot, I want to bash my head against the window but I’m afraid if I bleed on his interior he may freak out. On the other hand, it would be more exciting than spending another hour or two like this.

  We enter my favorite little place which is nestled behind a tennis court. It’s cozy inside Peaches, a joint famous in these parts for their margaritas. Jonah asks me to order him a water and excuses himself for the restroom.

  “Do you have a seating preference?” the hostess asks.

  “Table, please,” I say, looking around. There are a few that overlook the parking lot and drive-through. At least by the window I’ll have something to watch. “Can we sit over there?”

  “Sure. Follow me.”

  Setting my purse on a chair by the wall, I thank the hostess. “Can I go ahead and order drinks?”

  “Sure,” she says, taking a small pad out of the apron around her waist. “What can I get for you?”

  “Water with lemon for him and a Coke, extra ice, for me.”

  “Got ya.”

  I get situated in my seat, shooting Whitney a text asking her what the hell she was thinking. When Jonah gets back, I drop the phone into my purse and smile at my date.

  “Drinks are ordered,” I chirp.

  “Great.” He grabs a menu off the table. “How long have you known Whitney?”

  “Since elementary school. She moved to Linton in third or fourth grade,” I say. “I got hit in the face with a dodgeball and she helped me to the nurse’s station. We’ve been best friends ever since.”

  The waitress stops by with our drinks and takes our order. She bats her lashes at Jonah and I’m surprised to see that he flirts back, albeit ineptly. Sipping my Coke, I try to care. I don’t. With a final breathy giggle, she’s on her way and he directs his attention back to me.

  Silently judging my choice of beverage, he lifts his glass of water with lemon to his lips. “Dodgeball should be banned from schools. There’s no reason to risk a broken nose over an immature game that doesn’t involve skill.”

  “We always lobbied to play it, so I’m going to have to disagree. It was fun.”

  “It’s pointless.”

  “I loved it,” I offer, holding back an awkward laugh. “Anyway, that’s how I met Whit.”

  “She’s a terrific nurse. What is it you do again?”

  Blinking slowly, I wait for him to laugh. “I’m a librarian at the high school.” I enunciate each syllable, wondering how on Earth this man is going to be a doctor when he can’t pay attention for shit.

  “I think you told me that.”

  “I did.” Twice already. “I’ve always had a minor fascination with the medical world. I considered medical school myself, but there were too many people involved.”

  “There are definitely a lot of people involved,” he laughs. “That’s kind of the point. We’re the ones who get in, elbows deep, and clean up the world. We do the work that matters.”

  Our plates are placed in front of us. Jonah gets a little extra smile with his. I just cannot find it in me to be bothered.

  Slicing into my chicken breast, I attempt to tune them out. The waitress’ giggle is abrasive and Jonah’s try at conversation so painful I almost wince. If it weren’t completely rude, I’d yank out my phone and ask Whitney how this guy is going to be a doctor when he has virtually no p
eople skills. Less than even I do.

  There is some weird chemistry between the two of them though, so I turn towards the window. As I chew my chicken, I’m kind of happy for him. I can’t imagine that he finds this kind of thing any easier than I do and Lord knows how much I struggle with dating. Or how much I would struggle if I did it regularly.

  I hear the waitress leave. I decide to direct my attention back to Jonah and make an attempt at this date, when I stop. My fork falls to my plate and clinks off the china. From the other side of the window, in the drive-thru lane, sits Lance. His window is rolled down and he’s looking at me.

  One eyebrow lifts as he takes me in. He ignores the guy honking behind him as he holds my glance for a few long seconds like he’s not sure what he’s seeing. Something must catch his eye because he turns his attention to something else.

  He looks across from me.

  To Jonah.

  Oh God.

  There’s no hiding his amusement when he slides his eyes back to mine. The asshole has the audacity to laugh. The car behind him honks again as I glare at him through the glass. I can imagine the snicker that’s undoubtedly toppling past his smirk as he pulls away.

  Sagging back in my seat, I struggle to find room in my chest to fill it with air. It’s like all the oxygen was sucked from me and replaced with curiosity about Lance. My brain races through potential situations—where is he going, who is he with, who was he getting dinner for? My stomach sours.

  “You okay?” Jonah’s voice drifts across the table, barely audible through my haze.

  “Sorry,” I say, pasting on a smile. “It’s been a long day.”

  “You didn’t hear anything I said, did you?”

  My cheeks heat, like I got caught with my hand in the candy jar. “Uh, no. Can you repeat that?”

  “I was saying I just got a text from the hospital,” he says. “There’s a new procedure scheduled in an hour I’d like to observe. It’s only performed at a few hospitals nationwide and I really think it’s important I stand in and see what it’s all about. It would be great for my career.”