Stud in the Stacks

by Pippa Grant

  And if you can’t figure out for yourself what the jockholes and smearleaders called her, I’m certainly not going to tell you. Though I have to agree—being one step from being Smelly Johnson probably would’ve been worse.

  I introduce Gavin and Jack—Rhett and Brooks are on the prowl—and she introduces her husband. David’s a congenial orthodontist whose hair is thinning in that sophisticated way men can pull off. They have three boys under the age of seven, a house not far from the one my parents moved to on Long Island three years ago, and a parrot who apparently thinks he’s a goat.

  I’m not going to ask.

  “I know we said we’d never have children and make them go through what we went through,” Melly says to me, “but the world needs more nice people, so we’re doing our best to raise them right.”

  Something hollow tugs at my heart. “I’m sure they’re amazing. How could they not be?”

  She beams. “And David’s already correcting our oldest’s underbite,” she says with a self-conscious laugh that tugs at my heart again, this time with something more substantial. “I married well.”

  “He seems like a great guy.”

  “I take it you’re not seeing anyone?” she says.

  “Oh, I am,” I say. “He’s stuck at work. I got him at a bachelor auction.”

  We share a look, and we both crack up. Because whether she believes me or not, I don’t know, but it’s actually awesome to laugh with Melly again.

  Jack, surprisingly, has made instant friends with David, saying all the right man-things when David flips out his phone to show off kid pictures, and calls Brooks over to look.

  Not because Brooks likes kids.

  But because we all recognized the look of a Mets fan having a holy shit, that’s Brooks Elliott moment.

  And because my brother isn’t a total shithead, he slips David a signed baseball.

  “Where were you hiding that ball?” I demand.

  He winks at me. “Where do you think balls go?”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Hey, whoa, you’re Brooks Elliott.” One of the former football jocks squeezes his big ass into the Jack-Brooks-David triangle. “Can I get a picture?”

  “You remember my sister, Parker?” Brooks says.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. We go way back,” he says with a glance at my boobs. “Always loved Parker.”

  “Get your fucking eyeballs off my sister’s chest,” Jack growls.

  The jockhole starts.

  “He flushed my trigonometry homework down the toilet once a week and dumped a carton of chocolate milk on me in the cafeteria,” I tell Brooks.

  Brooks hooks his chin at the crowd, where I suspect Rhett is watching us. “Swirly time,” he calls.

  The jock-ass blanches and stumbles back. “Some other time.”

  “When hell freezes over.” Brooks rolls his eyes. “I’m getting bored. When’s Mr. Romance getting here?”

  Melly blinks at me. “Mr. Romance?”

  “Knox,” I say. “My, ah, fiancé. He writes this blog—”

  She interrupts me with another squeal. “Oh my god, you’re Mr. Romance’s fiancée? I love him. I never would’ve tried Carol Pavliska’s Color Me Crazy if it weren’t for him. Love that book. And his blog. It’s so amazing. That letter to the Times editor was just the best.”

  “Melly goes to romance signings every chance she gets.” David smiles at her. “She burned breakfast reading all the comments on that letter Mr. Romance wrote to the Times.”

  “And it was a delicious burned breakfast,” Melly says.

  “Divine,” David agrees quickly like the smart man that he is. “Best breakfast ever.”

  High school really was that bad, but Melly made it more bearable. We chat a while longer, until a hushed buzz of excitement sweeps through the cafeteria.

  “Tell me they’re not crowning a reunion queen,” Melly says with a roll of her eyes.

  I check my phone, because I’m hoping it’s Knox.

  Rhett’s been lurking. Though he doesn’t say a word, he disappears effectively into the crowd, and I know he’s going to find the answer to that question, along with destroying said crown if the answer is yes.

  Because that’s what Rhett does.

  Gavin has drifted away, but I know he’s nearby, most likely staying out of trouble. But possibly causing a little.

  “Parker!” Melly grabs my elbow and points toward the hallway. “That’s Randy.”

  My pulse launches itself like a rocket, my toes go numb, and the pit of my stomach threatens to crack open and let all my internal organs splat to the floor. I try to be casual about glancing over, but I’m suddenly back in the gym, sporting a crooked blue graduation cap and hearing Madison Farthington and Brittany Fellow behind me whispering. I wonder if they did it. What do you call bumping uglies when they’re so much more hideous than just ugly? Like, humping hideouses? Their kids will probably have buck teeth and hunchbacks and deformed privates. I heard he couldn’t get it up. Not that she’s worth getting it up for…

  “Do you still keep in touch?” Melly asks.

  I shake my head. Of course she knows about our…thing.

  But I never told her about the letter. I didn’t tell my family either.

  You ruined my life, Parker. Don’t ever come near me again.

  “What the fuck is he wearing?” Brooks says.

  I squint. “Is that—”

  “A lettuce suit?” Melly finishes for me.

  It is.

  He’s pulling a vegetarian Lady Gaga. And his wife, who was a total babe in their engagement picture, is sporting a matching, though significantly more revealing, outfit made of…spinach?

  No, kale.

  Those are definitely the scalloped edges of kale covering her hooha and her anorexic supermodel-sized breasts, which makes her knockers smaller than mine, but nobody cares, because she’s working a bedroom smolder, Botox lips, shampoo commercial hair, and a kale dress.

  I square my shoulders.

  I’ve worked in organic foods for the last fifteen years, and my target has just entered the building sporting vegetables.

  It’s showtime.

  33

  Knox

  By the time I’m done playing nice with everyone who wants to talk to me, Parker’s reunion has already started. I’m about to dash out the door and grab a cab when Dorky stops in front of me.

  “Mr. Moretti.”

  I grit my teeth. “Yeah?”

  “We need to discuss a few things.”

  I’m doing my best not to look at the clock, but I don’t need the clock. My blood pressure’s telling me everything I need to know. “Look, I’m running late—”

  “To meet you girlfriend,” Dorky finishes.

  Now my temper’s doing a tango with my blood pressure, and it’s a bad combination. “I’m off the clock,” I tell Dorky. “You want to talk, we can talk Monday.”

  “We can talk now, or there’s no reason for you to come in on Monday.”

  I was a fucking angel today. He wants to pull this bullshit? Today? Now? When I’m supposed to be at Parker’s high school reunion with her? I’ll call that fucker’s bluff, and then I’m out. “Shove it, Dorky. Don’t bother waiting for me on Monday. I quit.”

  I don’t have a fucking clue if he replies, because I’m gone. I have to get to Parker’s reunion.

  The plan called for a suit, but I’m so fucking late, I don’t bother. I’m also still so fucking pissed at Dorky I almost fail at pulling off the charm at the registration table to get me in the door, but finally, I’m strolling into the cafeteria at Julian Oakland High.

  “You’re late.”

  Leave it to the Elliott family SEAL to track me down. I’d bet my whole last paycheck that he knows exactly to the millisecond how long it’ll take us to get to Parker.

  “My boss is a dick,” I say. Ex-boss. Fuck. Plenty of libraries in the city. I’ll find a new one.

  He grunts. Probably had a few of those
himself. “The Pickle has landed. Upset my sister and I’ll kill you with my right calf.”

  I don’t ask how that’ll work, and frankly, I don’t care. I spot Parker—holy hell, where did that red dress come from?—and leave Rhett to whatever it is he does at these things.

  Almost all the attention in the room is centered on a couple swaggering toward the refreshments table wearing lettuce. No doubt that’s her ex, both because I can see her calculating the straightest path toward the refreshments table too, with her head high, shoulders back, and eyes determined—that’s my girl—and also because if she has any other former classmates who would wear the blandest greens on earth as formal attire, then I’m suddenly questioning her entire high school experience.

  I reach her side. “So sorry I’m late, love.” I can’t keep my hands to myself, because she’s wrapped in red satin, with shoes that make me wish I could see more than just a hint of her calves. Her hair’s tied up in a messy knot that screams sex kitten, and while her face is light on the makeup, the lipstick and whatever she did to her eyelashes since she left the library are making my cock strain my pants. “You look…wow.”

  She cups my cheek and presses a kiss to my jaw. “You’re right on time. Randy just got here.” She grips my hand so tight, I wish I’d been here an hour ago. “Knox, meet Melly and David. Melly and I were close in high school.”

  I notice for the first time that she’s not alone.

  “Ohmygod, it’s really you,” Melly gushes.

  Parker smiles, and—Jesus.

  She still has no idea how much she lights up a room.

  “Melly’s a big fan,” she tells me.

  “The biggest,” Melly agrees.

  “Second-biggest,” Parker counters with a saucy wink, and both women giggle.

  Gavin, who’s apparently been playing bodyguard in my absence, makes a gagging noise. David just smiles good-naturedly.

  “Plan?” I ask Parker as I glance back at the couple in greens.

  “Working on it.”

  Randy Pickle is sporting the swagger of a man whose pocketbook is bigger than his dick. His beak’s pointed too high in the air to pull off sophisticated snootiness, he’s wearing a necklace that looks like hops plants, and the shaggy beard combined with the iceberg lettuce says homeless bridge dweller more than it says eccentric millionaire.

  He and his wife reach the refreshments table, sniff disdainfully, and he pulls her into his body for a dance.

  “Is there music?” Melly whispers.

  “Nuh-uh,” Parker says with a head shake.

  The people around them spread and give them a wide berth, gawking at the show. Parker’s eye has started twitching. She slips a card to Melly. “Call me. I’d love to get together. I’m going to go say hi to Randy.”

  “Oh, me too,” Melly says. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  Parker’s palm is sweaty in mine, but she’s maintaining her chin at a reasonable level, and she has the advantage of her dress not being in danger of wilting or flaking off piece by piece.

  She’s got this. Which is good, because one of us needs to end the night with our job still intact.

  Her brothers are prowling about us. All four of them. I jerk my head at them, a silent I’ve got her, you cover everything else. They nod and all blend into the crowd, circling so they’ll be close, but not obvious.

  Three of them and I had a nice midnight snack together after I left Parker’s house on Tuesday. And by snack, I mean they teamed up, got me in a headlock, tied me to lamppost, and held a lighter at my dick until they were convinced I was both normal and just as concerned about Parker’s well-being as they were.

  Good times. Too bad Rhett was off saving the world that night, or apparently he would’ve joined us too. Pretty sure they told her we went out for coffee.

  We reach the edge of the section of the room that Randy and his bride have commandeered. Parker hesitates.

  Understandable. I can’t quite track the music in Randy’s head either to join along, and it’s not like you can accidentally bump into someone twirling in the middle of their private, wide-open, silent dance floor.

  But I can make some music of my own.

  I slide my phone out, dial up Ed Sheeran just like I did in my apartment two weeks ago, and offer Parker my hand.

  A blush tinges her cheeks and brightens her freckles. Her smile’s perfect though—she remembers too. I take her in my arms, and we glide onto the dance floor. Melly and David follow.

  Randy squints at us.

  Parker waves. “Great idea,” she says. “I love dancing.”

  He nods. “Parker.”

  We angle closer, and she smiles. “So good to see you, Randy. Congratulations.”

  He spins his wife away. She says something to him in Italian, and he laughs too loud.

  “Are you sure they’re married?” I ask softly.

  “The only thing I’m sure of is that I hope she’s wearing underwear, because her kale thong is wilting.”

  “Who knew the three of us would be the life of the party?” Melly says with a smile as she and David sway beside us.

  “The geeks and freaks always grow up the best,” Parker replies. They hit their foreheads with matching L’s, and both women giggle again.

  Music to me. Randy’s ears are turning red.

  “Hey, Chad!” somebody yells. Undoubtedly one of the former jocks Parker’s hinted at a time or two. You can always pick them out by their beer bellies and egos. “Nerd bowling!”

  “Fuckin’ A, Brad,” someone calls back.

  There’s an oof, then a shriek, and both Brad and Chad disappear.

  “I was always sad your brothers weren’t a little older,” Melly says to Parker. “I knew there was something special about them.”

  Parker drops her forehead to my chest, and that shaking either means she’s laughing or crying. Ed’s almost done crooning when she glances up, and there are tears in her eyes. But these tears?

  They’re the icing on the Laughing Parker Cupcake.

  “Best reunion ever?” I ask.

  “Ohmygod, it’s awful.” She’s smiling, eyes sparkling.

  I squeeze her tighter. “Sorry I missed the beginning.”

  “I’m not,” she whispers. “I can do this, Knox. Thank you. For everything. Without you, I couldn’t—”

  “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” suddenly explodes out of my pocket, we lock eyes, and we both crack up.

  “Go on, Tarzan.” She pushes me away, moment over. “Show me your moves.”

  I shake my ass and grab my lapels, shimmying my shoulders as I tease taking off the jacket. “Like this?”

  “Ohmygod, it’s Mr. Romance!” someone squeals.

  I pump my hips and drop the jacket. Parker’s laughing again, shaking her own ass in time to the music. David’s slipping off the dance floor, but Melly’s getting into it too, mashing those potatoes and doing an awkward running man. Two more women angle onto the dance floor. I finger my top button. Parker shimmies over and shoulder-bumps me. “Leave it on, studmuffin,” she says quiet enough for only me to hear, a flirty smile dancing in her eyes. “You’re going to be on YouTube in about two minutes, and I’m not having you lose your job over this.”

  Aw, fuck. Lovely reminder there. I’ll deal with that tomorrow. For now, though, I snag her at the hips and pull her in for a kiss. A short, non-pornographic kiss—YouTube probably wouldn’t be kind to my job search otherwise—though her lips always prompt action in my crotch rocket. “What would I do without you?”

  “Not be here?”

  “You’re worth it.”

  I twirl her, dip her, catch her when she loses her balance—seriously, what would I do without Parker Parker Elliott in my life?—and kiss her again because it’s impossible not to kiss her when she’s laughing like that.

  It’s not until the song’s over that I realize Randy Pickle has left the dance floor.

  And he’s left a lettuce trail behind.

  A scree
ching noise announces a sound system being set up, and “Baby Got Back” blares through the room. A cheer goes up, sixty couples rush us, and Parker shrinks against me.

  “Drinks?” I say.

  “Can’t hurt.”

  34

  Parker

  By ten, it’s clear connecting with Randy is a bust. Every time I spot him, he disappears again, and I’m almost positive he’s already left. But the weirdest thing has happened—I’m enjoying myself.

  Not because my brothers are playing private bouncers, and not because Knox is with me.

  Okay, yes, some because Knox is with me. It’s impossible to not have fun when Knox is around. But connecting with Melly? And April and Simone and some of our other friends in the loser geek squad?

  I wish I hadn’t lost touch.

  They’re all good people, and none of them care—or ever cared—about my brief, not-actually-legal marriage to Randy, and they’re all working cool jobs, in committed relationships, most of them with kids.

  They all got over high school a long time ago.

  I should’ve too.

  And hearing Melly talk about her kids, and Simone too—it’s making something painful spring to life deep in my belly.

  Like maybe I’ve been looking at the world all wrong the last twenty years.

  My old friends aren’t faking it. They love their lives, they love their jobs, they love their families. They have it all. And they’re actively working to do something beyond working and hanging at bars.

  Yes, yes, juice bars are my thing, but it’s still a bar. Shut up.

  The important part is, everything I thought I knew a month ago suddenly doesn’t fit. And even though I’m going to miss my chance to talk to Randy tonight, I’m not sorry I came.

  I needed this.

  I give Knox the be right back, then we can get out of here smile, escape the cafeteria to slip into the bathroom, and ohmygod.

  Why is it always the bathroom?

  “Parker,” Randy says. He’s washing his hands at the sink, his lettuce suit drooping, a row of urinals along one wall, and I spin and beat a retreat.