by Rye Hart
That fresh start and new chapter in life also included leaving my old job behind and doing something I always dreamed of doing, owning my own restaurant. Business was booming, it had been a smart choice to do it when I did. My restaurant was a hit around the city and I couldn't be happier.
“Daddy! Emma! The ocean is right there!” Zoey said, screaming with delight as she stared down at the beach from our cozy little hilltop. “We can surf whenever we want now, Emma!”
Emma laughed and looked over at me. Zack lost interest and ended up quitting the surfing lessons after a while. That became Emma and Zoey's thing and Zoey was getting really good at it too. Emma kept telling Zoey that she was going to be really, really good and that sponsors would be knocking down her door any day now, something that never failed to make Zoey beam with pride
Zack just didn't have any interest in surfing. He preferred walking along the sand and collecting shells on the beach to playing in the waves, much like his daddy. That was exactly why when he told me he wanted to quit, I hadn't forced him to stay. I was just grateful that Zoey had someone in her life to share that newfound passion with.
Hand-in-hand with Emma, we walked over and opened the patio door. Both kids rushed out with us, nearly knocking us over in their haste to get to the patio. The sound of the crashing waves was heavenly, and I knew Emma appreciated it as much as the kids. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath of the fresh sea breeze and smiled.
“Life is wonderful,” she said.
“Yes, yes, it is,” I said, kissing her hand. The ring on her finger caught the sunlight and sparkled dazzlingly.
“When you and daddy get married, you should do it right here, on the beach,” Zoey said.
“That's the plan,” Emma said, squeezing my hand.
“Yes!” Zoey said, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Now let's go see our rooms!”
We followed the kids inside and upstairs, although, they were in such a rush, they beat us upstairs by a wide margin. The kids each had their own rooms with a shared bathroom between them. They marveled at their rooms, obviously pleased, and then we showed them the rest of the house.
“And this will be daddy's office,” Zoey said.
“No, my office will be downstairs,” I said. “Off the living room.”
“Then what will this room be for?” Zoey asked. “It's just extra.”
With a smile, Emma knelt down, putting herself eye level with my little Zoey and said, “Well, we were thinking it would be a nursery someday,” she said. “For a little brother or sister. Would you be okay with that?”
Zoey's eyes went wide. “Really? A baby?”
“Maybe,” Emma said with a laugh. “One day. Hopefully once we get settled in and after the wedding, we'll talk about it.”
Emma had told me she wanted lots of kids. We agreed to maybe having three or four total, including Zoey and Zack . Our new house was big enough to allow us to grow if we wanted to. And we did want to, which was something that surprised me. I didn't think I'd ever have the desire to have another child, especially since that child wasn't going to be mine and Gina's.
But as she'd done with so many things in so many ways, Emma had helped me see it all very differently.
Emma stood up and I kissed the side of her head. I so badly wanted to grow my family with her, but she was right; we needed to wait. The first step in our plan was to buy a home for us. Now that we’d done that, we could look forward to the rest. The next of our plan was the wedding, and that was happening in a few months. After that, we'd start trying for a baby of our own right away. By that time, Emma would have her early childhood education degree and could work with kids or she could stay home with our little horde. The choice was up to her.
Either way, this was our family.
The End
Rock Hard Lumberjack
A Lumberjack And A City Girl Romance
CHAPTER ONE: SAM WASHINGTON
OMG I HAVE THE BEST PRESENT FOR YOU!!!
As soon as I see the text message from Lacey I know that I’m in for an interesting afternoon. Not only does Lacey not traffic in subtlety, I’m not sure she’s ever considered the alternative.
Back in junior high, while I was a junior and Lacey a senior, she made an effort to cheer me up after my first hangover. Lacey covered the car of a boy who had jilted me in graffiti. She was on the verge of slashing his tires when the high school rent-a-cop startled her.
I, of course, didn’t know this until later. It did cheer me up. I’m not sure if that says more about Lacey or me. But we take our fun where we can get it.
Life is meant to be lived, right?
Or, in my case, I take whatever fun comes my way. This is one of my problems- I have always relied on other people to bring the excitement into my life. I’m not so good at drumming it up for myself. Good thing, most of the time, I have people like Lacey around to send cryptic texts that I know will have volcanic consequences.
But for now, you’re probably wondering what I needed to be cheered up about. Honestly, cheering up isn’t quite the word. Here’s the least you need to know for now: I had been dating a guy named Owen for a year. I knew him well before that, but we only dated for about a year. Owen was…jeez, I’m not sure how to put it - except to say that Owen was Owen. He was just…there. Kind of like how gravity is just there. You don’t really think about it, and since it never leaves, you forget what life is like without it.
Owen had a coin collection. Has. I’m sure he hasn’t gotten rid of it. I initially thought it was a cute hobby but it revealed itself as more of an obsession. He used the word “numismatics” constantly. That means coin collecting. Maybe you already knew that, but I didn’t. Over time I began to suspect that the only reason Owen started collecting coins was that he learned the word numismatics, couldn’t find a way to work it into a normal conversation, and could not therefore use this addition to his chick-slaying arsenal. Stupid Owen.
You might be asking yourself, “What kind of woman gets turned on by a coin collection? Or a collector?” Well, silly me, that’s who. But before you relegate me to the pathetic bin of women who don’t aspire to enough, just know that Owen was my first real relationship. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. And coins weren’t really what did it for me. I actually fell for his inner nerd. I don’t want to be too harsh on him, since I was the girl that chose him in the first place. He shouldn’t take all the blame.
That’s not actually true.
In my calmer moments I keep forgetting that Owen cheated on me. The problem is, really, that I’m not good at being harsh on people. My best friend Lacey, on the other hand, is a different story. When you ran afoul of Lacey you placed yourself in the path of a pitiless kamikaze, which would have terrified a legion of Spartans. A good person to have on your side.
I met her downtown at a hotel bar called The Morocco. I don’t know what it has to do with Morocco except that the waiters have to wear those curved knives on their belts like they were sultans or sheiks. Okay, full disclosure before returning to Owen’s nerdiness and shortcomings: I am a history buff. Well, buff doesn’t really do it justice. All I ever want to do is read about history and take myself back in time. Lacey says this is because I “can’t tolerate the present.” Maybe she’s right.
When I get there Lacey is already a couple of minutes (and probably a couple of drinks) into a conversation with a hunky Maître D.
Knowing her, she will have him in her bed as soon as we end our gift exchange or whatever this is going to be. I’m not always jealous of her lifestyle, but a part of me honestly envies her confidence.
As soon as she sees me she sends him away. He scurries into the corner like he has been waiting for her command his entire life.
“Sam!” she says, jumping to her feet. Her dress has so many sparkles on it that it’s like seeing a sequenced hourglass rush towards me. I needed the hug more than ever. Stupid Owen.
“That stupid piece of garbage,” says Lacey as soon as we sit down. �
��He has no idea what I’m going to do to him. Oh, but he will.” She tightens her grip on her glass and her knuckles turn white.
“Maybe, let’s not go there yet,” I say, trying to get the bartender’s attention. “Let’s talk about my infinitely lame stories at the tabloid. I’ve got to do something to land a real gig, or I’ll claw my own eyes out from boredom.”
Lacey clears her throat and taps the oak bar with one long-nailed finger. As if she has turned on a switch in his brain, he comes over and smiles at her with a dopey look on his face like he just drank too much cough syrup.
“This fine lady is going to have as many of whatever she wants on me,” says Lacey. “And if you hurry, there will be a gargantuan tip in it for you. Go. Show me how fast you can move.”
It’s like she has waved a checkered flag. He races away and then returns, putting a whiskey sour in my hand so fast that I barely even remembered ordering it. While I sip at it, Lacey reaches into her purse and takes out a package that looks like it has been wrapped by a pro from Saks Fifth.
I see myself in the bar mirror. I look good. Tall, nearly 5’10.” Gorgeous auburn, thick hair that goes almost to my waist. Smooth, clear skin. Green eyes.
Stupid Owen.
“Oh my God I can’t wait for you to open it!” says Lacey. To prove it, she starts tearing at the bow herself. I wrench it away.
“This is my cheering up present,” I say. “And as thoughtful as it is, maybe you should let me open it.”
“Okay, just hurry. I’ll sit here and think about how to get back at Owen. You’re better off, believe me.”
Actually, I already do feel that way.
Owen cheated on me. That’s how it ended. And we’re all better off without cheaters, right? The fact that I had been so bored with him seemed like it should have mitigated the blow, but there’s really just no easy way to be utterly rejected, even if it’s by someone who thinks finding a Buffalo Eagle coin from the nineteenth century is like winning the lottery.
Owen’s actions said … I don’t want you.
You’re not enough for me.
I’m better off without you.
You’re not as good as she is.
She’s better in bed than you are.
Okay, so that last one was in my head, mostly.
“Once you told me that he couldn’t get you off I started praying for him to cheat on you,” says Lacey, ordering herself another drink.
I get the bow off and start tearing the corner of the wrapping paper. “Guess that’s proof that God exists.”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you who I was praying to,” says Lacey. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
The first time Owen and I had sex—and the second, third, or the hundredth, for that matter—I thought to myself: Is this it? Can that really be what all the romance novels are about? What caused the Peloponnesian War and the siege of Troy? This is why Romeo and Juliet died? This is why Lacey is always glowing and looking for her next conquest?
The easiest answer was to blame myself. I was probably the one doing something wrong. Owen had always seemed to be enjoying himself. During, I mean. But he enjoyed sex the same way he enjoyed coins and ramen noodles: with gravitas and decorum. Not exactly the stuff to set anyone’s bed and panties ablaze.
“It’s high time you get some satisfaction,” says Lacey.
“Oh, what’s the occasion?” says the bartender, coming over to watch the festivities. The Maître D appears at his side just in time for me to remove the lid from the box.
Inside is a vibrator which looks like it’s about the size of a Nerf football.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” says Lacey, pulling it out of the box and pointing at my face. “Owen who? That’s what you’ll be saying. Tell her, boys!” She waves the vibrator at the two guys who are now receding into the background, vanquished by the suggestion that their anatomy is now superfluous to our conversation. “This is what you need to be writing about. Owen 2.0 right here. You’re bored with all the local gigs? Take this bad boy for a spin and you’ll burn the damn front page down.”
“Oh my God.” I grab it away from her, stuff it back into the box, and put the lid on. In my haste I manage to knock the box off my lap. When it hits the floor the vibrator spills out at the feet of an elderly couple who has just arrived.
“Good for you, dear,” says the woman of the pair. “Variety keeps everything revving.”
Lacey gives her a high five while I drop to my knees and quickly snatch up the colossal vibrator to hide Owen 2.0 back into his box.
“But I have to warn you” says Lacey, “You’ve got to beware of its powers. It’s not going to be a substitute for a real man forever. But it’s more than a match for all these weenies who would rather flip a coin than give it to you the way you deserve.”
The thought of coins make me gulp down another drink. I don’t want to think about Owen at all. Lacey’s definitely right about one thing, though: I’m bored with my journalism job and would do just about anything to escape the local beat for a while. Maybe Owen 2.0 is just the ticket.
As soon as Lacey leaves (the Maître D in tow), I go home with my consolation prize - determined to treat myself to a night of…well, I guess I would just have to find out.
***
After my meeting with Lacey, I go home and fire up Owen 2.0. Once I get over the whirring noise—the contraption sounds like it’s about to take off from a launch pad—and as I dial it down to its lowest, least-intimidating setting, I’m able to induce something like pleasure in myself. But Owen keeps intruding on my fantasies. This is one of the problems with being so inexperienced: I don’t have a wealth of mental material to draw from when it comes to pleasuring myself, and I’m not that good at inserting men I have never been with into the scene. The Maître D, for instance, or anyone from True Blood.
Later that night, I have weird dreams. Owen is chasing me around, begging me to take him back and begging me to look at his latest coin, something from Prague. When I wake up, I feel extremely hung over.
I glance at my bedroom clock and gasp. I only have an hour before I have to be to work. Given the commute—two trains and three blocks on foot—it’s going to be a hell of a sprint. I jump in the shower and jump back out before my hair can even start to get wet. I get into my clothes so fast that it’s like I’m doing it to win money during a challenge on a game show. Breakfast isn’t the most pitiful it’s ever been—which was once a handful of croutons and pickle chips—but neither is it sumptuous. It’s a dry bagel that I chomp through on the elevator down to ground level, leaving brittle flakes and crumbs in my wake. Oh well, I pay a ton and my place sucks, so they can clean up after me.
I manage to make it into the meeting room two minutes late. I’m one of the only ones there, which means either everyone else is late or I made a mistake and there’s no meeting today. Turns out it’s the latter.
My boss, Trinity, looks up and says, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sam here to…wait, what exactly are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be covering the firehouse thingy? No, scratch that - that was someone else. Let’s talk. Readers are complaining that we’re not entertaining enough and drying out. Let’s come up with new ideas, and I don’t want to hear about anything you’re already working on.”
This dizzying display of confusion and managerial expertise at an end, I sit and put my purse down.
“So how’s it going?” says Trinity. “I can tell you’re bored so don’t bother lying to me. I just want to know what’s boring you.” She picks up a pen and starts chewing the cap while locking her eyes onto mine.
“Well, as long as we’re being frank,” I say, trying to come up with something to say. “I guess I’m bored by…everything?” I hate the rising note at the end of my sentence. I used to be driven, like all youth. Jesus, listen to me, I’m only twenty-five and I make it sound like I’m just counting the days until my retirement. But it was true. “Yeah, basically everything.”
Trini
ty puts the well-chewed pen down and crosses her arms. “So what’s going to make it better? You’re one of the best writers we’ve got, but it’s clear we’re not challenging you enough, or using your assets as best we can.”
Trinity continues to chewing the pen cap before she finally raises her head.
“So I’ve got some good news for you, cub reporter of mine. It just so happens that there’s a job, far off the local beat, that nobody else wants to do.”
“Oh, this sounds wonderful. Please tell me everything,” responding in a cynical tone. Was this what it had come to? She offers me a job that no one else wants?
“Don’t say it like that. This is good stuff. It won’t win you a Pulitzer, but let’s face it, that’s not really what we do here.”
She’s right. Our tabloid, The Inner Eye, is just a notch above The National Inquirer and about ninety rungs down from everything else. We write for people who think that David Icke’s lizard people sound outlandish and too stupid to even discuss, but who clamor about news of Bigfoot and the Illuminati. Pulitzers are most definitely not in our foreseeable future.
“It’s in Washington,” she said.
“Oh! Is it a political story? Why wouldn’t anyone want that?”
“Because it’s not a political story and it’s not Washington D.C. No, I’m afraid I speak of good old Washington state, the northernmost part that’s still habitable.”
“North of Washington is Canada and it’s almost all habitable. It’s not like the world stops at the top of Washington.”
“See, this is why it should be you! You already know half this shit.”
“I don’t even know what shit we’re talking about. I just know where Washington and Canada are.”
“I like you. I always have.” Trinity picks up the pen again, but doesn’t chew it this time. She scratches something down on a notepad. “There’s only one problem.”