The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Joy,” he deadpans. “Okay, so the moment.”

  Even though he acts like this is painful, I know no matter what, Knox would be there for me. He’s there for every one of us because he’s always been the glue that held us together. The guy we all turned to. Our captain.

  “We were about to go to bed and we had this odd embrace before we took off, not a hug, but more of a touching of sorts.”

  “You touched her boobs?”

  “No.”

  “Her side boob?”

  “No.”

  “Her ass?”

  “No.”

  “Her . . . pussy?”

  “No, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Then where did you touch her?”

  I take a deep breath and think back to how smooth her skin was, how beautiful it was to see her chest rise and fall with her breath so close. On a dreamy sigh, I answer, “Her collarbone.”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  “Did you hear me? I said collar—”

  “I fucking heard you. You touched her collarbone, and you’re acting like you had access to her nipples? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I scoff. “You wouldn’t know what romance was if it tapped at your dick and asked you to fuck it.”

  “That makes zero sense, and I’m two seconds from hanging up. So you touched her collarbone,” he says in a girly voice. “And?”

  “I was going in, man, I was prepping to kiss her but then, I froze. I fucking froze. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to kiss her or what, but when it came down to it, I put distance between us, stumbled over a goddamn table, and then ran away with my tail tucked between my legs.” I drag my hand down my face. “What is wrong with me? She’s so goddamn beautiful and funny, and a force, but when it comes to actually committing the last two inches, I can’t seem to make it happen. I don’t know, I really think I’m nervous.”

  “I can’t handle you right now.”

  “That’s not helpful. What do I do?” I whine.

  “I don’t know, maybe stop acting like a ball-less asshole and actually take what you want? Stop being all talk, and actually take some action.”

  Dottie takes that moment to appear from the gas station.

  “Oh shit, I have to go.”

  “Don’t call me until you’ve done something. We’re back in two days, and you better be at least kissing by then.”

  He hangs up before I can reply. I stuff my phone in my pocket, look straight out the window with both my hands on the steering wheel, holding them at ten and two. The door opens and she takes a seat, going straight to her seatbelt to strap herself in.

  This entire car ride has been uncomfortable. We haven’t really spoken, we haven’t played music, we’ve just sat there in silence. Every time I try to talk to her, she shuts me down quickly. I know how to read a room—or car for that matter—and she’s pissed.

  Yup, really fucking mad.

  She’s tense, she has a pinch in her brow, and she’s curt with me. To say the water is icy over on her side is an understatement. So I’ve stayed far away.

  I clear my throat. “Go pee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you wash your hands?”

  Her head tilts to the side. “What kind of question is that?”

  “A valid one. No one wants public restroom hands all over their car.” Not the way to win her heart, saying she has piss hands, but then again, at least she’s talking . . . right?

  “I washed my hands, and I don’t need reminding from you about it either.”

  “Sheesh,” I say, pushing my luck. “Sorr—eee for asking.” Because I’m curious, I ask, “Did they have the beef jerky I wanted?”

  She glances at me and then lifts her bundled-up sweatshirt to the window and rests her head against it, closing her eyes immediately and shutting me out.

  “I’m going to take that as a no.”

  * * *

  What was supposed to be a relaxing weekend full of fresh air and the sounds of nature flittering in and out of my ears has turned into a tension-filled mess.

  Car is parked. Bags have been removed from the back. And we’re currently exiting the elevator to our respective apartments, Dottie leading the way in an almost all-out sprint.

  Fine my me. I get to watch her ass jiggle in those leggings.

  Might be the last time I get the chance after how uncomfortable things are between us.

  I’m soaking up that jiggle as much as I can.

  When we reach our doors, she’s already unlocked hers and halfway in when I say, “Great weekend, thanks for the—”

  Her door slams.

  “—invite,” I finish to myself. Well, that couldn’t have gone any better.

  I consider knocking on her door, asking her how I could make things better, but I’m pretty sure she wants to be alone right now and honestly, I think I would be a dead man walking if I knocked on her door.

  Kicked in the crotch by her words no doubt.

  Not in the mood, so I unlock my door and start to settle in my apartment. I leave my suitcase in the entryway because even though I might be quite the lady of the house, I can also be a slob occasionally and taking care of a suitcase is never the first thing I do when I get home.

  Nope, I need comfort food.

  I head straight to the kitchen where I pull out a beer, pop the top off, and take a long swig. Pretzel bites, Daddy needs some pretzel bites.

  With queso.

  I rummage through my freezer, grateful I have some, splash them on a baking sheet, and stick them in the oven. I then look through my pantry and spot an unopen jar of queso. Bingo, bango!

  It might have been a shitty last twelve hours, but things are about to be in my favor.

  When everything starts to heat up, I go to my TV and start scrolling through the On Demand movies.

  GASP! Isn’t it Romantic is available. I’ve heard great things about the rom-com starring Rebel Wilson and Adam Devine. Don’t mind if I do.

  Now I just need to get into my flannel jam-jams and this will be—

  Knock. Knock.

  Actually it was more of a POUND. POUND.

  There is only one person who could make such a threatening sound with their fist, and I’m pretty sure they’re a five-foot-six force of nature with black hair and clear blue eyes.

  I stand there, in my living room, contemplating if I should answer in a high-pitched voice, “No one’s here,” or if I should answer.

  I take a step forward toward the door.

  POUND, POUND.

  My balls hug each other, collectively protecting my unfertilized children.

  Another step forward.

  POUND, POUND.

  My dick turtles in on itself, uncircumcising its own length.

  One more step.

  POUND. POUND. POUND.

  My nipples shrivel up into dust, leaving a note behind that says “You’re on your own, buddy.”

  One last step.

  POUND. POUND. POUND. POUND

  My sphincter swallows in on itself, soldering my ass cheeks together, making it so there’s no entrance or exit available.

  Swallowing hard, I say, “N-no one’s h-here,” in my best ladylike voice.

  “Open the goddamn door, Jason.”

  I yelp and leap back, feeling the hiss of her tongue lick the side of my neck through the door.

  Demon possessed, it’s the only way one could possibly make an entire body recoil with fear. If I wasn’t so worried about her seeping through the crack under my door and attacking me with her serpent tongue, I’d slowly back away, but a slithering Dottie does not seem appealing, so I open the door to an irate woman, hand on her hip, irritation heavy in her eyes.

  “Oh, hey, didn’t know that was you.”

  She steps up, points her manicured finger at me and says, “Cut the crap, Jason.”

  I hold my hands up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where’s all this hostility coming from?”

  She pokes my ch
est, her finger feeling like an ice pick trying to pierce my skin. “You know what it’s from.”

  “Mind reading seems like one hell of a super power, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to obtain such an anomaly.”

  And then, after that snarky comment, the top of her head pops right off, hair and all. Her eyebrows turn into flames, her eyes morph into green slits with a red ring of death around them, and her mouth hinges wide open, her canines turning into straight-up fangs.

  Hissing and spitting, steam pouring from her ears, her fingers change into death-defying claws. In the matter of seconds, she transforms into a mythical creature that has yet to be discovered in the land of fantasy. A new species, one that’s sole purpose is to destroy any and all men with the name Jason Orson.

  World, it’s been nice knowing you. Please remember me for the following:

  Baseball’s finest ass—firm and tight.

  THE towel picture.

  Perfectly proportioned balls to dick ratio.

  Sensitive man-bear with an uppercut that can rip open a jaw.

  And of course, the most important accomplishment of my entire life, the ability to razzle-dazzle my peers with a combination of mayo, dill, and potatoes. #BestDamnTatoSaladEver

  Through clenched teeth, her jaw so tight, I can see every vein in her once elegant, now scaly neck, she seethes, “Why . . . didn’t . . . you”—her jaw juts out, and I really am terrified for the next few words that take their time to form in her mouth—“kiss . . . ME . . . IN THE CABIN?” She enunciates every word with evil precision.

  Why didn’t I kiss her? Maybe because I knew secretly she had it within her to morph into the thing she is right now.

  I gulp and bump into my doorway as I try to gain some distance, but it’s useless because she follows me. At least when I die, I’ll be in the comfort of my own dwelling. It’s small miracles like this that make me feel at ease with my impending doom.

  “Why didn’t I kiss you? Well, I mean, you’re just so lovely, and look at you—”

  “Jason,” she booms, her voice a combination of James Earl Jones and an unhinged woman on the verge of an all-out mental breakdown. I’ve never heard anything like it, let alone my name spoken with such baritone and hysteria at the same time.

  Kind of wish I could make her say it again, just to study the pitch—

  “Are you paying attention?”

  “What? Of course. You want to know why I didn’t kiss you. Well, you know”—I dig my hands in my pockets, backing up again—“it’s kind of funny.” Her eyes narrow and I swear, I might be delirious, but I swear I just saw her serpent tongue flash before me. “Uh, about the kissing. Well, there’s kissing and then there’s no kissing, you know?”

  “What?”

  “Man and woman, wow, what a combination. The things they can do with their mouths. But also, man with man, woman with woman, man, man woman. Then there’s woman, woman—”

  “I swear to God—”

  “You know.” I tap her shoulder and she nearly bites my hand off. Oh God, don’t touch her, man. “I was just going to say swearing to God could be offensive, but I think I’ll keep that one to myself.” I tap my temple, quick learner. “So, about the kissing. Yes, lips and mouths, they do those things you know. Quite a spectacle.” I lean forward. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

  “Arghhh,” she shouts, tossing her arms to the sky and charging back to her apartment, slamming my door in the process.

  Well . . . that wasn’t so bad after all.

  * * *

  Jason: That conversation was weird, huh?

  Jason: For what it’s worth, you truly held your composure.

  Jason: I wasn’t frightened at all.

  Jason: Okay, throwing down some honesty. I was a little frightened.

  Jason: Just a little, nothing like pissing my pants or anything like that.

  Jason: Did you know you have a pulsing vein in your forehead when you’re angry?

  Jason: I counted its pulse rate and I think you might have high blood pressure.

  Jason: I’m not a nurse, I don’t know about blood pressure, but CVS has one of those arm-pressure-checker things. Want me to take you? #WorriedAboutYourHealth

  Jason: #PulsingVein

  Jason: #SerpentTongue

  Jason: ^^ Oh shit that was for Knox.

  Jason: I wasn’t saying you have a serpent tongue. I’m sure your tongue is normal. Not one ounce of evil in it.

  Jason: Okay, I was talking about your tongue.

  Jason: I feel like since you’re not texting back I might be digging myself an even bigger hole than before. Am I right?

  Jason: I’m going to take your silence as a yes, which in that case, you don’t have a serpent tongue. Love that pulsing vein, and not once was I frightened. There. *Wipes forehead* Glad we cleared that up. Have a good night. #GodBless

  Jason: P.S. Don’t know why I said God bless, just go with it. #PrayerHands

  Jason: P.S.S. I’m wearing my flannel jam-jams. I like when they ride up in my crack. #FeelsNice

  Chapter Nineteen

  DOTTIE

  Sitting in a third grader’s seat, my lunch spread out over a desk that belongs to Juniper apparently, I watch as one of my best friends laughs hysterically to the point of tears streaming down her face, her head buried in the desk across from mine, her shoulders shaking so hard and so fast that I’m afraid she might hurt herself.

  I’m unamused.

  So I sit back in the tiny chair, arms crossed, and wait for Lindsay to catch her breath.

  It takes a while because every time she starts to talk, she lets out another roar of a laugh, denying her ability to talk through her hysterics. There’s no point even trying to understand her so I reach out, dip a carrot into my guac, and chew.

  And chew.

  And chew.

  “Enough, Lindsay, it’s not that funny.”

  She waves her hand in front of her face, her other hand clutched to my phone. “Oh . . . my . . . God . . . I’m”—hiccup—“dying.”

  That’s obvious; she didn’t need to announce it to the empty classroom.

  After last night’s mental crisis—that’s what I’m calling it now—I decided to have an emergency lunch with Lindsay to find out what I should do with the barrage of texts I received from Jason last night.

  I was surprised to even get anything from him after his mumbling about mouths and lips and men and women. What the hell was that? For a minor second, I thought he was having a stroke but then realized, it’s just him.

  So far, coming here to ask Lindsay for advice has been pointless.

  “If you’re just going to sit there and laugh, I’m leaving. Hand me my phone.”

  She shakes her head and clutches the phone to her chest. “I need to screenshot these and send them to me.” She laughs even harder, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Hashtag God bless.”

  “Fine, I’ll just buy a new phone.” I stand but she snags my hand.

  “Pull the stick out, Dottie, and sit down.” She tugs on me just enough that I’m forced to take a seat.

  “Can you stop laughing? This is serious. I have no idea what to do. This guy is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t know what to do with him.”

  She wipes her tears away and sobers up. “It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with you either. So no reason why he didn’t kiss you?”

  “None.” I sigh.

  On the way home from the cabin, I was texting Lindsay, telling her everything that happened, well, everything that didn’t happen. She was as confused as I was, and then when I filled her in on last night and showed her the texts, she lost it—clearly.

  “It seems so”—she pauses, her mouth falling open—“oh my God, Dottie.”

  “What?” I ask, sitting a little taller. I know that look on Lindsay’s face; that’s the look of understanding.

  “He’s gay.”

  “What? No, he’s not gay. Emory would have said something.”

  �
��Yes, he is. Why else would he recoil after being so close to you? Moments from kissing?”

  “But I saw him staring at my breasts.”

  “Of course he did.” She slides my phone to me. “He was probably curious since he usually sees man pecs all the time.” She whispers, “He’s gay, sweetie, which oh boy does that put a kink in your plans for dating him. Deeply and passionately in love, if he comes out, the Carltons are going to call bullshit.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “He’s not gay . . .”

  Is he?

  No . . .

  But . . . no.

  “He’s not,” I say, trying to convince myself even though Lindsay planted a seed of doubt.

  She shrugs and takes a bite of her bologna sandwich. “Suit yourself, but he’s gay.” What? She cannot be serious. Jason Orson . . . gay. No, I can’t go there, especially when I consider his words in the cabin, and how they turned me on more than anything else in my life.

  “Your body heaves, your spine straightens and with one small flick of his tongue over your right breast, you tumble over into ecstasy . . . you’re calling out his name, begging him to make it last longer.” It was so hot. But . . . he had ample times to touch me, kiss me. I felt his body hard against my back. He leaned into my neck while helping me make gnocchi. I offered him my body. But . . . he didn’t kiss me. He didn’t take what I offered him. Hell, is he gay?

  Huh, that would explain the obsession with his potato salad.

  * * *

  Plants are watered.

  Sweats have replaced my pencil skirt.

  And my hair is knotted on the top of my head.

  On a deep breath, I push up my glasses and raise my hand, knocking twice on the door across from mine.

  I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. That I was going to drop the entire façade of trying to date Jason and get him to be in a relationship with me. It’s become such a big mess, and honestly, is the Carlton account really worth it?

  But then I got an update on the plans we’ve been mapping out for the acreage and hope and excitement bloomed inside of me.

  So, here I am. At the threshold of Jason’s apartment, with one question on my mind . . .