Kiss the Girl

by Tara Sivec

  Shit. I am a total girl.

  “Anyway,” I continue. “We haven’t done everything on your stupid Cosmo list. I haven’t taken care of him. I’m not going to be some guy’s mother. I’m not taking care of any man. And we haven’t even talked. I mean, not really. Not about anything important. I don’t even know how many skanks he’s slept with,” I continue.

  “Do you really want to know how many women he’s slept with? That conversation never ends well,” Belle says.

  “Fine. No, I don’t want to know that, but still . . . We don’t do deep discussions. We joke, we eat some food together, we watch Netflix, and we haven’t even gotten to the chill part yet,” I remind her—really, really wanting to get to that chill part soon.

  “So, have a deep discussion. Open up to him. You like him and he likes you. You’re dating. Time to step it up and stop being such a pussy,” Cindy orders.

  “We’re not dating. We’re . . . hanging out.”

  “I’m just saying, you’re scooping his cat’s shit,” Cindy reminds me.

  “So?”

  She sighs. “So, you hate cats. And up until recently you hated Eric. You wouldn’t even do something like that for me.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. If you started shitting in a litter box we wouldn’t be friends,” I deadpan.

  “All right, we just pulled in to the party. Talk to Eric,” she says softly.

  “Fine. We’ll see. I’m not making any promises. Also, check the calendar when you’re finished. I just got in two last-minute bookings for this weekend and added one to each of your schedules.”

  I hear Belle groan.

  “I love you, Ariel, but can you please start stripping? I need a day off. Vincent and I have only had sex five times this week.”

  “It’s only Wednesday,” I mutter.

  “Exactly.”

  “Soon, I promise,” I tell her, hearing Eric’s footsteps on the stairs and feeling more than a little guilty that my friends are stressed because of me. “I gotta go. Text me and let me know how the party goes.”

  I disconnect the call and scoop Derrick up in my arms, walking through the living room to greet Eric.

  Jesus H, just throw a frilly apron on me and give me a martini to hand to him, and I’ll be in hell.

  My irritation vanishes as soon as I see him emerge from the stairs. Not even the conversation I just had with my friends, or the texts and phone calls I’m still getting from Sebastian every day that I’ve been ignoring, can ruin the thrill that goes through me every time I see Eric. I swear, he looks hotter each time. Maybe it’s because I know what his hands feel like on my body now, and how his lips feel on my skin, and what he sounds like when he comes.

  Fuck talking—we need to Netflix and chill STAT.

  “What are you doing back so early? I thought you were going to be gone all day,” I say as he stalks across the carpet without answering me, grabs my face in his hands, and kisses the hell out of me. He plunges his tongue into my mouth and kisses me like he hasn’t seen me for days. I move closer to him, wanting to feel his body pressed to mine as he sucks my tongue into his mouth, when a loud yowl sounds from between us.

  Eric and I quickly break apart, and I look down guiltily at Derrick, who I forgot was still in my arms.

  “Sorry about that, buddy,” I say, scratching behind his ears so he’ll forgive me and not come over to my boat in the middle of the night and try to eat my face.

  “Did you buy him a sweater?” Eric asks in surprise, taking Derrick out of my arms and turning him around, laughing when he sees what it says.

  Derrick lets out a low, keening meow, smacking his paw as hard as possible against Eric’s hand, leaving a bloody scratch behind.

  “Son of a bitch!” Eric shouts, putting Derrick down on the floor.

  The both stare at each other in anger for a few seconds before Derrick saunters off, probably to go lick his balls somewhere.

  “It’s not you. I think he’s still a little salty about the sweater,” I tell Eric, wrapping my hand around his wrist and dragging him into the kitchen.

  Turning the faucet on, I let it run for a few seconds until it gets warm, then pull his hand under the water. Squirting some soap into my palm, I gently rub it over the scratch to clean off the blood and whatever nastiness Derrick might have stuck in his claws, then rinsing it off. Grabbing the towel I left on the counter when I washed my hands a little bit ago, I pat it over the top of his hand to dry it off.

  “I don’t think you’ll need a Band-Aid. And I’m pretty sure you can’t die from cat scratch fever,” I tell him, tossing the towel aside and inspecting his hand. “Wait, actually, I think you can. Are up to date on your shots?”

  I giggle to myself, and when he doesn’t answer me, I look up from his hand to find him staring at me.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I just . . . I’ve never had anyone take care of me before.”

  I really want to start cursing and throw things, since I just got done telling Cindy and Belle that I’m not taking care of any man . . . but I can’t. Not with the way he’s looking at me right now. Like he’s amazed. Like he’s grateful. Like I’m the best thing that’s ever told him to eat shit and die.

  Dropping his hand before this gets even heavier and I do something stupid like cry, I take a step back from him and lean my hip against the counter.

  “You never said why you’re home early,” I remind him.

  His face lights up with a smile.

  “I cut out early when I found out something awesome was happening today. Get dressed. We’re going out,” he tells me.

  I look down and myself and then back up at him, narrowing my eyes.

  “I am dressed.”

  Well, sort of. I’m wearing red yoga pants with a giant coffee stain on them, and one of Eric’s T-shirts, which I stole from his drawer, although I absolutely did not go snooping through his stuff to see if I could find something weird and kinky, and just happened to find a shirt that smelled like him. I’m definitely not dressed to go out. I’m dressed to work from home, complete with a messy bun that has started tipping to one side of my head. But after the little intense moment we just shared, I feel the need to lighten things up.

  “Um . . . I . . . yeah, of course you are!” He laughs nervously. “And you look beautiful, as always.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mutter. “Fine. Then I’ll just slip on a pair of Crocs and we can be on our way.”

  His eyes widen in horror, and he quickly tries to hide it with a smile.

  “Super!” he says with entirely too much excitement.

  “Great. Then I’ll just go put on my Crocs.”

  I slowly start to walk away from him, my eyes never leaving his, until I get a few feet away and he finally cracks.

  “For the love of God, please don’t make me go out in public with you wearing Crocs! I’m serious, you look beautiful, even though I know you probably think I’m lying. I’m not. You could leave this boat wearing a fucking potato sack and you’d still be the most beautiful woman wherever we went. But please, if you care about me even a little bit, leave the Crocs at home. SHOES SHOULD NOT HAVE HOLES IN THEM, ARIEL! IT’S NOT RIGHT! IT’S JUST NOT RIGHT!”

  The sheer panic in his eyes as he yells is enough to make me completely lose it. I laugh so hard I have to bend over, clutching my waist.

  “What the hell?” Eric mutters when I finally get it all out of my system and stand back up, a few stray giggles coming out as I walk over to him and pat his cheek.

  “I’m totally fucking with you. Like I’d ever wear Crocs. Jesus, get your shit together, Sailor,” I tell him with a shake of my head as I turn around and walk to the stairs. “I’m just gonna take a quick shower. Come over and get me in twenty.”

  “You are an evil, evil woman, Ariel!” Eric shouts after me.

  “Just making sure you don’t forget it!” I yell back as I head up the stairs.

  Chapter 17: I Want the Fucking Fairy Tale

 
“Oh, my God,” I whisper, staring in awe out the front windshield of Eric’s SUV as he pulls into a parking space.

  “Is that a good oh my God or a what the fuck are you doing oh my God?” Eric asks.

  I glance away from the sight in front of me to see him staring at me with a nervous smile on his face, and it makes me feel all soft and mushy in the general region of my chest.

  I am feeling soft and mushy for a man.

  I wait for the little voices in my head to tell me to stop being so weak and pathetic and not to fall for the same shit from a different guy, but they never come. Because there is nothing similar about this shit. This is all new shit. This is bigger and better shit. This is sweet shit. Hot shit. Important shit. Romantic shit.

  You scoop one litter box and now you can’t stop thinking about shit.

  “It’s definitely a good oh my God,” I tell Eric, quickly grabbing my purse, reaching for the door handle, and jumping out of the SUV, meeting Eric at the front of the vehicle. “I can’t believe you brought me here.”

  Giddy excitement rushes through me, and if I weren’t in public where someone might witness me looking like an asshole, I would be jumping up and down, clapping my hands together and squealing. Like a peppy cheerleader. Like a girl.

  Eric brought me to a flea market. I know, I know . . . I just mentioned romantic shit, and flea markets do not really scream hearts and romance, but this is me we’re talking about here. I don’t need love poems or candlelit dinners or a dozen roses. If you want to woo me, bring me to the largest pop-up flea market in twenty counties, with the biggest collection of antiques you’ve ever seen, which only comes around once every three years.

  “When I was grabbing a coffee this morning before work I saw a flyer for this thing on their bulletin board. It sounded like something you might like,” he tells me.

  “Might like? This is the kind of thing that will get you laid.”

  I can already feel my neck getting red and hot and itchy as soon as the words leave my mouth. Sure, we’ve been making out pretty hot and heavy lately, but it’s never moved beyond that, and we obviously haven’t talked about it like normal adults because that’s just stupid. I don’t know how this shit works. Am I supposed to ask for it? Am I supposed to initiate it? I know I’m all about being a strong, independent woman, but sometimes, you just need the guy to take the fucking lead and read your mind so you aren’t questioning everything.

  While I’m waiting for a hole to open up in the parking lot and suck me down into the pits of hell to put me out of my misery, Eric slides his arm around my waist and pulls me against him. He changed out of his business suit while I was showering earlier, throwing on a pair of well-worn jeans and a fitted grey raglan T-shirt with red three-quarter length sleeves. He paired it with a red baseball cap that he put on backwards, and as I stare up at him, with my body pressed tightly to his, the soft and mushy feeling in my chest catches on fire. But not in a bad way. In an “I want to fuck you like a porn star” way.

  “Is this your way of telling me flea markets make you horny?” Eric asks, smiling down at me, the hand pressed against my lower back starting to inch closer and closer to my ass.

  This is my way of telling you that YOU make me horny.

  “Obviously. The smell of pottery, the sound of a ticking grandfather clock, the feel of a porcelain vase in my hands . . . makes me want to hump the table they’re sitting on.”

  See? Look at how adult I’m being.

  Eric chuckles, removing his arm from around my waist, and all my hope of having sex in the parking lot is gone. I mean, not that I would do that or anything. Allegedly.

  Grabbing my hand, he laces his fingers through mine and tugs me towards the huge field beyond the parking lot, where row after row of tents and tables have been set up.

  “I still can’t believe you brought me here. This is my favorite place in the entire world. Well, all flea markets pretty much are, but this is the queen of all flea markets. I usually have a countdown on my phone telling me when the next one will be, but I guess I forgot about it this year,” I tell him, slipping my purse strap over my shoulder as we stop right at the edge of the grass to take in all the tents.

  Fuck, why am I lying to him?

  Cindy and Belle told me I needed to get deeper with him. Open up and talk to him. Keeping everything locked up inside of me isn’t the way to do that. I’m quickly realizing that I don’t want whatever this is between us to just be on the surface. I want more. I want to trust him, and I want him to trust me. It scares the holy hell out of me, but I can’t keep living in the past, just waiting for him to break me like Sebastian did.

  “That was a lie. I totally knew this was happening today, I just didn’t want to think about it. Especially since I got an email last night that all my stuff is going to auction this weekend and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it,” I tell him in a rush.

  “Shit. I’m an asshole. We can leave. This was a really stupid idea. I just knew you loved antiques, and I hate that you had to leave everything behind, and I thought this might make you happy. I had no idea the auction was already happening.”

  I quickly squeeze his hand reassuringly and bump my shoulder against his.

  “It does make me happy. I just didn’t want to think about it because the idea of walking around here alone, when I don’t have a store anymore and I don’t have an antique collection to add to anymore, kind of depressed me,” I explain. “The last time I was here, I was shopping for the store, and, yeah, it’s kind of sad that I don’t get to do that anymore, but I miss talking about antiques. I hate that I’ve been pretending like this wasn’t a huge part of my life just because blocking it out made it hurt less. It’s always going to suck that I lost something really important to me. But I’m glad you brought me here. I’m glad I get to do this with you.”

  Fuck. Someone take away my strong, independent female card. I just became an open, oversharing woman.

  “This is going to sound cheesy as fuck, so please don’t point and laugh at me. But I’m glad you get to do this with me too. I want to know what’s important to you. I want to be part of your world,” Eric tells me.

  “Are you gonna break out into song?”

  “It’s possible. I might even have a choreographed dance ready to go if need be.”

  I laugh and shake my head at him, tightening my grip on his hand and pulling him towards the first aisle.

  “So, how do we do this? Just go up and down the aisles until something catches our eye?” he asks as I take a map of the flea market from the table right by the first tent.

  “Jesus God, no,” I tell him, studying the piece of paper with the name and booth number of every tent, as well as a two-sentence summary of what items they are selling. “There’s a strategy to this. Usually, I make sure I’m one of the first people to get here when they open up at the ass crack of dawn; that’s when all the antique dealers show up. Actually, a lot of business happens out in the parking lot before the flea market even opens, it just depends what kind of treasure you’re looking for and if it’s a hot item other dealers are looking for.”

  Seeing that booth number one hundred and twenty-five has vinyl records and vintage record players, I decide to head in that direction first, since I feel like those wouldn’t bore Eric to death—unlike the booth I see that has a wide selection of lace tablecloths. Something tells me his balls would shrivel up and die if I made him stand there staring at lace tablecloths.

  “How do you even know something is worth money? Not to sound like a complete dick or anything, but it kind of all looks like junk to me. I mean, not crappy junk. Just . . . junk. Stuff people found in their grandmother’s attic after she died that they don’t want to deal with,” he says as we stop by the record booth.

  I hand him the map to hold on to and reach into my purse, pulling out a cloth bag that I carry with me everywhere.

  “Tools of the trade,” I tell him, holding up the bag, pulling out each item for him to
see. “A loupe for antique jewelry. When you’re dealing with silver, you want to see a tiny little imprint of the word sterling on it, or the number 925, which indicates the silver content. It’s also useful for looking for maker’s marks, signatures, and wear patterns.”

  He takes the small, black, circular magnifying glass out of my hand and holds it up to his eye before handing it back.

  “Next, we have a pen flashlight,” I tell him, clicking the light off and on. “Pretty self-explanatory. It helps you see distinguishing marks, especially when you’re at an indoor flea market and the lighting is poor. We won’t need this today.”

  I shove it back inside the cloth bag and pull out a rectangular black magnet.

  “This is actually pretty cool. A magnet helps you detect real silver. It won’t cling to the magnet like steel and iron do. And, the best tool out of everything here . . .”

  I reach into my purse and hold up the item.

  “A cell phone?” he laughs.

  “Duh. Google is the shit. Also, I had an appraiser for the store. If I found something and I couldn’t find any information about it on Google, I’d snap a picture with my phone and send it to her, and she’d get back to me on whether or not it was a good find.”

  I stuff the bag back into my purse and Eric grabs my hand again as we flip through the carton of vinyl records. He even asks a few questions about a vintage Victrola record player that has one of those cool trumpets as a speaker.

  It’s strange having someone so interested in what I’m telling them and taking part by interacting with the booth owners as we move down the row. My family, as much as I love them, just didn’t get my obsession with antiques or why in the world I would ever want a store filled with, as Eric put it, someone else’s junk. And I purposely kept this part of myself hidden from Sebastian because I knew he would find a way to ruin it.

  With Eric, I find it hard to keep my mouth shut and my excitement to a minimum, because he actually cares. He’s actually paying attention to the things I tell him, and even though it’s not his thing, he’s listening, because he knows it’s important to me. When we get to a booth filled with jewelry, he doesn’t even ask, he just digs into my purse, grabs the loupe out of the bag, and goes to work studying everything on the table, letting out a frustrated breath when he doesn’t find anything with the correct markings.