The Test (The List series)

by Fenske, Tawna

  “I want that,” I say out loud.

  The three women look at me, then each other.

  “The limp carrot?” Missy points and starts to hand it to me, but I shake my head.

  “No, I’ll pass on that. I meant— Never mind.”

  Hell. I didn’t mean to bring this up. To talk about my growing feelings for Dax. But the way my sisters are eyeing me says they’ll get it out of me one way or another.

  “Speaking of limp carrots, how are things with Dax?” Sarah says with a faux casual air.

  I give an unladylike snort-laugh and grab a radish off the sideboard. “His carrot is most definitely not limp,” I assure her. “And honestly, it’s more like a late-season zephyr squash or a Costata Romanesco zucchini.”

  Missy’s eyes widen, while Cassie busts out laughing and swipes a slice of radish off my cutting board. “I thought you had that look about you.”

  “What do you mean?” I demand, swatting her away from my pile of thinly sliced veggies.

  “You’re all cheerful and glowing lately,” Cassie says. “Like a woman getting laid well and often.”

  Sarah grins and heaves an intentionally dramatic sigh. “Lucky bitch.”

  It’s the nicest compliment anyone’s paid me in a long time, and I try not to let it show how pleased I am.

  Ever the peacemaker, Missy reaches across the counter to pat Sarah’s hand. “Someday your prince will come.”

  “And then, so will you,” Cassie adds. “Over and over and over—”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about the multiple orgasm thing?” I blurt out the question before thinking it through, but I don’t regret it. Honestly, I like that I finally have something substantial to bring to the table of girl talk.

  Three pairs of eyes swing to me, and everyone stops laughing. “What?” Missy says.

  Heat creeps into my cheeks, but I’m determined to press on with the risqué girl talk. I’ve never been part of it this way. I’ve listened, sure, but I haven’t had something noteworthy to contribute until now.

  “I—uh—I guess I never realized it was possible to—” I give a flourished gesture with the knife, hoping at least one of them will fill in the blank.

  Cassie grins and picks up her wineglass. “I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned—” She gives an exaggerated flourish to mimic mine, making my cheeks heat up again. “So to speak,” she adds. “Didn’t you believe me?”

  I shake my head, torn between feeling embarrassed and excited. Like I’m part of the club or something. “I guess I never realized,” I say. “I never thought it could be like that.”

  Missy studies my face, her eagle eyes missing nothing. “You’re talking about sex, right? Just sex? That’s still all it is?”

  They’re all watching me, like they know the secret thoughts I’ve been having all week. Like when Dax called Tuesday night to make sure I got home safely from a job over in Gresham, and we stayed on the phone talking until almost midnight. It wasn’t even phone sex, which—FYI—should probably be on my sexual bucket list.

  If I keep adding things, maybe The Test will never end? Like maybe I could propose an extension beyond the thirty days we agreed to at the start.

  The ladies are still staring, so I force myself to keep a neutral expression as I pick up Cassie’s carrot and start to peel it.

  “Right,” I say slowly. “It’s still just sex.”

  I focus all my attention on the carrot, reminding myself to keep it that way. Sex without love, that’s what we agreed.

  There’s a knock at the door, and Sarah glances down at her phone. “Oh, that’s Simon and Junie.”

  “Don’t worry, I already told him he can’t stay,” Cassie says. “This is girls’ night. He’s just dropping off Junie.”

  But as she gets up and opens the door for him, it’s clear she’s thrilled to bits to lay eyes on her fiancé. Her whole body seems to float, and she greets him like they’ve been apart six years instead of six hours.

  Lucky bitch, indeed.

  “Hi, everybody!” Junie says as she hustles into the room. Her T-shirt is emblazoned with an electric guitar, the logo for the National Down Syndrome Association, and the words, “I’m rockin’ this extra chromosome.” She marches in wearing a Mariners cap and holding a plastic bag of produce. “I told Simon to stop at the store so I could buy things for the friendship salad,” she announces as she thrusts the bag at me.

  “That’s perfect, Junie, thank you.” As I stretch my hand out for the bag of tomatoes, she studies my face with interest.

  “You’re in love?” Junie’s expression is earnest, and her words so startling they halt the rest of the conversation in the room. Everyone stops talking at once. The room goes silent, and all eyes fix on me again.

  “What?” My cheeks go hot, and I suspect they’re the same color as these tomatoes. “No, of course not. Why do you think that?” I glance from Missy to Cassie to Simon and back to Junie again, waiting for one of them to rescue me.

  Unfazed, Junie continues to study me with intense curiosity. “I think you love somebody,” she says. “You look like you do. Like when Simon and Cassie started to love each other that way.”

  My cheeks go hotter, and I decide to focus on the tomatoes. I set to work washing them—the tomatoes, not my cheeks—and hope no one notices how awkward I’m being. “I’ve been dating a man, sure, but it’s nothing serious,” I say in a breezy tone that sounds like I sucked on a helium balloon. “You met Dax. The guy with the motorcycle? He’s really just a good friend.”

  My voice wobbles a little, and I’m certain it doesn’t go unnoticed. I glance up to see Junie smiling like she’s just uncovered life’s greatest truth. “You love him,” she repeats.

  It’s a statement this time, not a question, and there’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder if she’s onto something.

  “Come on,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Let’s get this salad put together so we can eat.”

  Junie smiles, and my stomach does a funny somersault.

  I’m pretty sure I’m fooling no one, least of all myself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dax

  The phone rings at noon on Wednesday, and I’m annoyed with myself for feeling so damn elated to see Lisa’s name.

  “Hello, hot stuff,” I say.

  She laughs, and I flip up the shield up on my welding visor and wonder what she’s wearing.

  “Hello—crap, I can’t think of any good pet names for you,” she answers.

  “Pookie?” I offer.

  “Ew.”

  “Custard bunny?”

  “Gross.”

  “My steaming hunk of man meat?”

  She laughs again, and it’s a sound that leaves my body humming. I settle back against the workbench in my warehouse and set down the welding torch I was messing with when she called.

  “Now I’ve forgotten why I called you,” she says.

  “It wasn’t just to hear my sexy voice?” I say. “Or for phone sex?”

  “That’s a terrific idea, actually,” she says. “Can we schedule that in sometime before The Test is over?”

  “You don’t schedule phone sex, Lisa.” I ignore the pang in my gut that comes from thinking of The Test ending. I’m not ready for that yet, and we still have ten days to go. “It’s not something you put in your day planner and color code with stickers.”

  She giggles again, and I think I could do this forever. Not just cracking jokes on the phone to make her laugh, but this. This easy camaraderie and companionship filled with humor and banter and lots and lots of good sex.

  “So, what’s up?” I ask, figuring I should get on with it before I go too far down that rabbit hole.

  “Well, next week is my birthday.”

  “Oh. Shit, I should have known that, huh?”

  “No, no—that’s not what I meant. I’m not fishing for gifts or anything. I usually keep my birthday low-key. Maybe a spa getaway with my sisters or an overnight tr
ip to some luxury resort.”

  “That’s your idea of low-key?”

  She sighs, but I can tell she’s not really pissed. How have I reached this point where I can read her demeanor over the phone without a single word?

  “In honor of The Test, I had an idea for something I’d like to try for my birthday,” she says. “I was hoping you could help with that.”

  “Sure,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Whatever you want. Anything.”

  Jesus, Kensington. Desperate much?

  I clear my throat and try to play it cool. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about roughing it.”

  “Roughing it?” Visions of whips and chains swirl through my head, and I imagine Lisa tied spread-eagle on my bed with silk scarves.

  “Not like that,” Lisa says, and I wonder if she’s read my thoughts. “Camping,” she says. “I’ve never gone camping, and I thought I’d like to try it.”

  “Camping,” I repeat, erasing the spreader bars from my brain and replacing them with tent poles. “You’ve never been camping?”

  “Not once. And you seem like the kind of guy who’d know how.”

  “There’s not much to it, really,” I say. “Just throw a tent and some sleeping bags in the car, pack a cooler with camping food, and head out into the wilderness.”

  “That sounds so—exotic.”

  I smile to myself, charmed by how easy it is to impress her. To introduce her to something totally mundane and have her experience it for the first time. Forget the antiquated triumph of deflowering some simpering virgin. The thrill of de-virginizing Lisa with an array of new life experiences beats that hands down.

  “So how about next weekend?” I suggest, restraining myself from suggesting we jump in the car right this second and drive off into the mountains together. “Are you free?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. My birthday is Saturday, and I like the idea of falling asleep under the stars.”

  I picture myself there beside her, the two of us snuggled up inside sleeping bags zipped together. Her bare ass is cradled spoon-style against me, and her hair smells like campfire.

  I tell myself to knock it off when I catch myself inhaling.

  “That sounds perfect,” I say. “I have all the gear—tent, sleeping bags, air mattress, camp stove—the whole works. I’ll even get the sleeping bags dry cleaned before we head out.”

  “Oh,” she says, like the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “You have a pair of sleeping bags. Does one of them belong to Kaitlyn or something?”

  I bark out a laugh, not sure if I’m more surprised she remembers my ex’s name or at the idea of Kaitlyn going camping.

  “Kaitlyn has definitely never been camping,” I tell her. “You’re one up on her there.”

  And in so many other ways, I think but don’t say.

  “Well. Okay, that’s good. I mean—I’m glad.” She sounds flustered, and I think about how strange this must be for her. In a quest for new experiences, is she ever worried about losing herself?

  “I can bring the camping food,” she offers. “I have a cooler I’ve taken to potlucks, and there’s this great cookbook I found on haute cuisine for campfires.”

  “Is that a fancy way of saying hot dogs?”

  “No hot dogs,” she says. “But I definitely have a surprise or two planned.”

  My heart speeds up, and I wonder what she has in mind. Is it sexy, culinary, or something else entirely?

  Truthfully, I don’t care. I’m just excited to spend a whole weekend with her.

  Keep it together, I remind myself. Don’t get carried away.

  Deep down, I think it might be too late for that.

  I think I’m falling for Lisa Michaels.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lisa

  “Aren’t you glad I made you go back and change clothes?”

  Dax’s words are teasing, not smug, but I still seize the opportunity to smack his shoulder before I return to the task of scraping melted marshmallow off the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

  “Fine,” I say, ignoring the desire that flutters through me from contact with his shoulder. Good Lord, the man is ripped. “You’re right that it’s a lot easier to get marshmallow out of fleece than cashmere.”

  “And aren’t those sneakers more comfortable than those high heels would have been?”

  “They weren’t high heels, they were wedges. But yes,” I admit grudgingly. “I’m glad you had me change clothes.”

  “And I’m glad you let me watch.”

  “Even if it did result in us hitting the road an hour late.”

  “Totally worth it.” Dax grins, then bends down to add another log to the campfire. He stirs things around with a stick, giving me another chance to appreciate those deliciously broad shoulders, which are visible even through his lumberjack flannel.

  He sits back, and I try to pretend I wasn’t staring. I focus instead on arranging the perfect layers of chocolate on my graham cracker, while he reaches into the Tupperware container for another marshmallow. “I still can’t believe you made marshmallows from scratch.”

  “And graham crackers,” I point out. “And the Guittard Ambanja chocolate is way better than that Hershey’s crap you wanted to bring.”

  “Bonus points on the food,” he says. “Does that make us even?”

  “Maybe. You haven’t tried the wine yet.”

  He laughs and reaches for the decanter. “For future reference, most people bring cans of beer and Dinty Moore stew when they camp,” he says. “Not an entire Riedel stemware set and an eighty-dollar bottle of port.”

  “Taste it.”

  Dax pours us each a glass and takes a sip. “Damn,” he says, eyes wide. “What is that?”

  “It’s a 2007 Ferreira vintage port dessert wine from Portugal.” I beam, pleased to have nailed it, even if I did overdo things just a little. “I polled my wine club on the best possible wine pairing to go with s’mores, and that was the winner.”

  He shakes his head and threads another marshmallow onto his roasting stick. “That is fucking amazing,” he says. “So are you, by the way. You’ve made the best camping meal I’ve ever had in my life. Maybe the best meal I’ve had, period.”

  “Thank you.” I try not to beam too wide. I know it should rankle my inner feminist to have a man praise my culinary prowess, but you know what? I’m a damn fine chef, and a kickass domestic goddess all around. It feels good to be acknowledged for it.

  It also feels good to have Dax slide his arm around my shoulder as he extends his roasting stick into the fire. We’re quiet, which is pleasant, too. Crickets chirp in the distance, and the smell of wood smoke and pine needles swirls around us in a fragrant cloud. Darkness is falling, bringing with it vast swaths of stars strung across the sky like twinkle lights. It’s as though we’re the only two people on the planet. I shift in my camp chair—another thing I had no idea existed—and lean into the warmth of Dax’s body.

  “Do you want to know about the wolf?”

  His voice is so low that I almost don’t understand the question at first. I glance up to see him staring into the fire. His jaw is set, and I’m not quite sure how to read him.

  “The one in your studio, you mean?” I ask. “Your sculpture?”

  “Right. But I meant the story behind it.”

  “Oh. You said it was your high school mascot?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the whole story.”

  He takes a deep breath, and I wait. Something tells me the words he’s about to say don’t come easily. That there’s a reason he wants to share this story. The hairs on my arm prickle, and I know I can’t blame the chill blowing off the lake.

  “My mom ran off when I was ten, so it was just my brother, my sister, my dad, and me living by ourselves in this tiny little trailer at the scrapyard.”

  I rest a hand on his knee. “That must have been hard.”

  Losing his mother, I mean, but al
l of it. The trailer, the scrapyard, the sort of poverty he’s alluded to. I don’t get the sense Dax had the best childhood.

  He nods and continues. “We’d had a rash of thefts at the junkyard. Sounds stupid, but it’s actually pretty common—junkies stealing scrap metal to sell it. Anyway, my old man decided we needed a guard dog, so he went out and got the meanest sounding dog he could find. Some sort of cross between a pit bull and a wolf.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “Probably not, but that never stopped my old man.” Dax clears his throat. “Anyway, the dog looked all wolf to me. Killer was his name.”

  “Killer?”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, he didn’t live up to that name.”

  “How do you mean?”

  A log rolls over in the fire, and he takes his time rearranging it. My s’more sits forgotten on a napkin in my lap, and I find myself holding my breath as I wait for the rest of the story.

  “Killer turned out to be a total teddy bear,” Dax says. “Loved belly rubs and dog biscuits and wrestling with kids. Sweetest dog you ever met in your life.”

  The softness of his voice washes over me in waves as flames flicker in my peripheral vision. I can picture it in my mind—a huge, furry body with a wagging tail and a goofy, wolfy smile. I imagine ten-year-old Dax with his arms around the shaggy neck, a smile on his face for the first time since his mother left.

  “What happened to Killer?”

  The second the words leave my mouth, I know without being told that this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

  He doesn’t answer right away. “My dad said he was getting rid of him,” he says. “Said he wasn’t keeping some pussy puppy dog around.”

  “Oh God.”

  Tears prick the backs of my eyes as Dax keeps talking. “Took his hunting rifle and the dog and drove off in his shitty pickup truck. When he came back, he had a fifth of whiskey and no Killer. I didn’t ask questions.”

  “Oh, Dax.” Tears spill down my cheeks, and I reach over to grab his hand. I clutch it so tight I worry I’m hurting him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He also doesn’t notice his marshmallow is starting to smolder. I say nothing, letting it burn. I’ll make him a whole tray of marshmallows. Pounds of them, as many as he can eat.