by Score, Lucy
“She’s married.”
“Jake’s hot.”
“We’re not really dating,” I confessed.
She clapped her talon-like hand around my wrist like a slap-on bracelet. “Those words had better never be uttered aloud again, Marley Cicero!”
“What? Why? We’re not. It’s totally fake. He came to my rescue with that buffoon boys coach and Amie Jo when she was ready to claw my eyes out over the dye incident.”
“You are Culpepper’s hometown hero right now. You stood up to the Hell Beast and lived to tell the tale.”
“Amie Jo or Vince?”
She ignored my question. “Plus, you land Jake ‘Never Had a Relationship Longer Than Three or Four Orgasms’ Weston.”
“Fake, Vick. It’s fake.”
She slapped her hand over my mouth. “You will not speak that word again in my presence. You kissed him. You have a history with him. He waltzes into battle to make sure you don’t get your face punched in by a steroid-swilling orangutan or your eyes clawed out by Evil Barbie. Then he willingly signs a contract saying he will date only you for the rest of the year. A contract that he could get fired over if he defaults.”
“Semester,” I cut in. I was only here until December. Let’s not prolong this into something it wasn’t.
“There’s a lot more real than fake in that chain of events,” she pointed out.
We both turned to watch Jake as he walked his team through a cool-down of foam rolling. Some of my girls had joined them and were drooling over his meaty thighs. I couldn’t blame them. Part of me wanted to snack on those thighs.
“I can’t be in a relationship with Jake Weston,” I insisted. I felt the panic rising in my throat. “I’m a mess. A hot mess. You date guys like that in your prime, not twenty years past it.” Jesus, when was the last time I’d had a bikini wax? Or a freaking haircut? Besides, the man couldn’t be trusted. He’d thrown me over for something blonder and shinier before.
“No. Nope. This can’t be real. He’s just helping me out.”
“Why? Marley, why would Jake just help you out?”
“We have a deal. He’s going to keep Amie Jo off my back and help me brush up on my teaching and coaching.”
“And in return you have dirty, dirty sex with him?” she prodded.
“In return,” I elbowed her hard, “I’m going to teach him how to be in a relationship.”
“Why would he want to know what that’s like?” she asked.
“He says he’s ready to settle down.”
Vicky sucked in a breath and choked on her gum. I thumped her on the back until she started breathing again.
“You say that like it’s not the most momentous thing that’s ever happened in Culpepper,” she wheezed.
“What’s the big deal? I’m thirty-eight and have never been married either.”
“But not for lack of trying. You’ve dated. You’ve lived with men. You’ve been on that track.”
I winced. I’d been on that track and then fallen off of it. Repeatedly.
“Jake’s never shown any interest in doing anything resembling a relationship. Do you know how many bridesmaids and flight attendants have been spotted leaving his house at all hours of the night?”
“So he changed his mind. Big whoop.”
Vicky pinched the bridge of her nose. “How can I put this so you’ll understand? It’s like if Hostess Snack Cakes came out with a fat-free, calorie-free Twinkie that was good for you. But only one person in the world could have them.”
“I’d annihilate the competition,” I breathed, staring off into the distance, imagining such a beautiful thing.
“Jake Weston is the fat-free, calorie-free Twinkie. And only one woman can have him.”
26
Jake
I flopped down on the couch and kicked my feet up on the coffee table. Homer rolled onto his back on the cushion next to me to give me better belly-scratching access. I obliged, scruffing his tummy.
“You need another haircut, fur face.” He was part Goldendoodle, part who the hell knows what, and his pretty little curls had the tendency to get unruly. Homer grumbled at me in agreement. He had a crush on the lady who ran the groomers. I’d drop him off before work, and he’d follow her around, mooning after her with his dopey brown eyes for the day.
My phone dinged from somewhere, and I went digging for it, finding it between the couch cushions.
Marley: We need some ground rules if we’re still doing this thing.
I laughed. “Women, am I right, Homes?” His tail tapped out a beat against the armrest.
Me: Whatever pleases m’lady.
I could hear her rolling her eyes across town.
Marley: I’m serious. What are we doing here? How are we going to pretend to be together for an entire semester? Are we supposed to make out on lunch duty?
Me: We should definitely do that.
The dots appeared, signaling she was replying, and then disappeared again. They did twice more before my phone rang.
“Hey, girlfriend,” I answered cheerfully.
“What are we doing, Jake? This is stupid.” Her voice was husky, grumpy. A unique combination that I apparently found very attractive.
“What’s stupid?”
“This scheme. We’re adults. Adults don’t pretend to be in a relationship.”
“You’re operating on the assumption that there’s a standard adulthood that we all subscribe to. You think it’s grown-up to go tattling to the boss over a co-worker relationship? Is it grown-up to throw your weight around and steal some other team’s practice field? We’re all just overgrown teenagers running around trying to be happy.”
There was silence for a beat on her end. “That’s oddly deep.”
“What can I say? I’m a deep guy.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I can have deep thoughts,” I argued. “What’s the real problem here, Mars?”
She sighed. “I thought I’d have it figured out by now.”
“It?” I knew what she meant, but I wanted her to talk it through.
“Life. Job. Relationship. I never thought I’d be in this situation this close to forty. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing by now.”
I could tell she regretted the confession and the vulnerability it exposed.
“You feel like you’re failing?” I asked, sneaking the question in before she could rebuild the walls.
She was quiet and then, “Yeah. Over and over and over again. Jobs. Relationships. Personal accomplishments. It’s like I missed the day in school when they told us how to be an adult.”
“I’m gonna throw something out here that’s probably going to melt your mind. Are you ready?” I asked, stroking a hand over Homer’s silky ear.
“Hang on let me get a notebook and a pen,” she said dryly. Man, I was so into her.
“What if none of those things were right for you?”
“What if I wasn’t right for any of those things?” she shot back.
“What’s the difference? If a job or a guy didn’t fit you or you didn’t fit them, the problem’s the same. The fit was wrong.”
“No. It’s not. Because if it’s not them, it’s gotta be me. Maybe I don’t fit anywhere. Ugh. This is stupid. I’m stupid. I don’t know why I called.”
“Because you wanted to talk. So talk, Mars. There’s no judgment here. You think I’ve got my shit together? I’ve got my feet up on a three-week-old box of pizza. And it just moved on its own. I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve had a few one-night stands that extended into a week or maybe a month. But I’ve never met a girl’s parents. Hell, I’ve never even bought a woman I wasn’t related to a Christmas present.”
“You ever think that maybe you just don’t want that?” Marley suggested. I imagined her laying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, kicking one of those nice long legs up.
“I didn’t. Now, I’m not so sure.” I glanced around my grandmother’s living room—my living ro
om. Maybe it was her ghost that was pushing these new, weird feelings at me. She wanted her grandbabies settled, married, pumping out their own babies and organizing carpools and bake sales.
“Do you feel like you’re missing out?” she asked.
Did I? “I don’t know. Kinda. But I don’t know where it’s coming from.”
“I feel the same way,” she admitted. “But now I’m starting to wonder if I’m just meant to bounce from job to job, boring monogamous relationship to boring monogamous relationship.”
“Sweetheart, our monogamous relationship might be fake, but I can guarantee you it won’t be boring.”
She laughed softly, and it made me smile.
“Back to this fake relationship,” she said. “What does it entail?”
“I don’t know. What does a real relationship involve?” I asked, picking up a tennis ball that I used to work out shoulder kinks and tossing it in the air. Homer eyed it lazily.
“Dates. Dinner. Movies. Lazy Sundays. Spending time together.”
“Sex?” I asked.
“Usually.”
“Cool. Sign me up for that.”
“We’re not having sex in a fake relationship, Jake,” she groaned.
I tossed the ball up again and caught it one-handed. “Would it matter if I told you that I actually like you?”
“Why wouldn’t you? I’m a catch.” The sarcasm was strong with this one. “I think we’re complicating things enough with a scheme that we have to perpetuate until the holidays. Let’s not add a bigger mess to it,” she continued.
I let my gaze travel the perimeter of the living room. Speaking of messes. Maybe it was time I stopped living like I was a transient teenager.
“Let’s keep it simple then. Friends who occasionally have to hold hands and make out in public,” I suggested.
“That sounds…acceptable.”
“Good. We got a deal? I’ll give you some pointers on coaching and teaching. You be my relationship guru. And we hang out.”
“You’re not going to throw me over for Amie Jo again, are you?” She said it lightly like it was a joke, but there was something serious in her tone.
The tennis ball nailed me in the forehead, and Homer grumbled when it bounced onto his belly. “Throw you over for Amie Jo? When did that ever happen?” I demanded, doing a quick history search in my memory banks.
“Never mind. Got any actionable words of wisdom when it comes to coaching?” she asked, changing the subject. “I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get them to get along.”
I laughed. “Well, you did kinda get them at the worst possible time for a team or a coach.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“They didn’t tell you?” I knew the district had been in a hurry to fill the position, but I didn’t think they’d intentionally leave something like that out. I mean, a new coach deserved a heads up.
“Tell me what?”
I could hear the dread in her voice.
“Their old head coach died of a heart attack halfway through the season last year.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Eesh. I had no idea.”
“He died during a game,” I added.
“That’s horrible!”
“An away game. They watched him turn blue and quit breathing on the sidelines and then had to ride home with just the bus driver because their assistant coach went to the hospital with the head coach.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“And if that wasn’t traumatizing enough, one of the team moms took over coaching for the rest of the season, and she went all Hitler on the team. Dividing them right down the middle into favorites and undesirables.”
“That’s beyond horrible,” she said. “But it’s also making me feel a little better. I thought I was the problem.”
“Mars, believe me, you ain’t even half that team’s problem.”
She blew out a breath.
“So how do I undo an entire season of disaster that happened before I got here?”
“One practice, one game at a time,” I suggested.
Marley sighed. “Thanks for getting me up to speed. I can’t believe no one mentioned this before. This is Culpepper. There are no secrets.”
“Well, now you know. Besides, that was last school year. We have the attention span of mosquitos.”
“Everyone still remembers our Homecoming,” she pointed out.
“Well, that was worth remembering.”
She groaned. I found it oddly endearing that the event that she felt some level of guilt over was the event that made her a town hero.
She yawned into the phone. “Look, the Airbnb guy just got out of the bathroom. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Airbnb guy?” I asked, intrigued.
“It’s a long story. Goodnight, Jake.”
“Night, Mars. Sweet dreams.”
27
Marley
I was standing there in front of my entire senior class wondering how in the hell I’d left home without pants while trying to cover my nether regions with my biology binder when I was rescued by a distant ringing.
“’Lo?” I breathed into my phone.
“Up and at ’em, girlfriend.”
“Jake?” I sat up in bed feeling a combination of relief at knowing I had not just been naked in front of half of Culpepper and annoyance at his chipper tone.
“That’s me, baby. Come on. Your life lessons start right now. Get dressed. Running clothes. Meet me outside.”
“You’re here?” I was horrified. I flew to the window and yanked back the curtains. And there in his shirtless glory stood Jake Weston on my parents’ front lawn.
“Cute jammies. Hurry up, peaches. I ain’t got all day.”
“It’s 5:30 in the morning.”
“And if you try to crawl back into that bed, I’m going to ring the damn doorbell and wake up your whole house.”
My parents’ first Airbnb guest would probably protest with a bad review. Byron from Seattle. He had glasses and a briefcase and began every sentence with “I don’t know if you know this, but…”
“I hate you,” I told Jake.
“Get your ass down here.”
I hung up and spent thirty seconds debating whether or not to crawl back into bed before dragging on a pair of clean shorts, a sports bra, tank, and sneakers. I slothed my way out of the house to where Jake was stretching his really spectacular quads.
“What are you doing here?”
“Meeting my girlfriend for an early run,” he said as if it was obvious.
“How is torturing me like this going to keep She Who Shall Not Be Named at bay?” I yawned.
“You’ll see. Besides, your health should be your number one priority. If you’re gonna coach a team of girls in a sport that’s ninety percent running, shouldn’t you know how?”
“I know how. Move legs. Stop breathing. Puke. Repeat.” I was hilarious at the ass-crack of dawn.
“Come on, Mars. I’ll go easy on you the first time.”
Oh, that devil may care grin. I might have been mostly asleep, but even not fully conscious that bad boy smile was lethal.
“Whatever. Just tell me what to do,” I said pretending not to be enthralled with those really nice muscles peeking out of his shorts. V cuts, I believe those delectable lines were called.
“Submissive. I like it,” he teased, jogging in place.
“You’re disgusting.”
“We’re gonna warm up for ten. A nice light jog,” he said, jerking his head toward the sidewalk. “Come on, pretty girl.”
I was annoyed by the warm appreciation that coated my stomach like honey at the nickname.
Following him down the sidewalk in the pre-dawn light wasn’t the worst early morning experience I’d had. His legs chugged along in front of me hypnotically. The muscles in his back bunched and tightened. Too bad my lungs were burning as if I’d just inhaled ammonia.
“I can hear you puffing like a cha
in-smoker.” He slowed his pace until I gasped my way to his side. “Lesson One: The Breath.”
“Teach me, Obi-Wan,” I wheezed, mustering the energy for an eye roll.
He shoulder-checked me, and I tripped, landing in Mr. and Mrs. Angstadt’s pink flamingo flower bed in their front yard. I took a beak to the gut and made one hell of a racket.
“Christ, Cicero. You’re a freaking disaster,” Jake snickered. He pulled me to my feet.
“You pushed me, you jackass.”
“As I was saying, the breath is important because if you don’t have that, you ain’t got nothing.”
“Did you ever think of teaching English?” I asked, righting a dented flamingo.
“Shut up and run.”
We took off again slowly. The beak break had been good for my breath. I had some now.
“Good girl. Now, breathe in for three steps. Nice and steady. And out. In for three. Out for two. This is called rhythmic breathing.”
Sucking and gasping, I survived his thorough scientific explanation on footfalls, breath, and stabilizing core muscles on the exhale. We navigated a few more blocks, and I was moderately pleased when the side stitch never made it beyond a vague nagging in my right side.
He was sweating, little beads that formed on his chest and shoulders before melding together in sexy little salt rivers. I had a good sweat on too, and I hated to admit it, but I felt…okay.
We turned back onto my parents’ block.
“Three houses to go. Sprint it out,” he said, not even remotely winded.
Mainly just to save face, I let my legs unspool and listened to the whistle of wind in my ears as I eeked out a respectable medium speed. I arrived at my parents’ walkway several steps behind him and bent at the waist to gulp in air.
“Don’t do that,” Jake told me, pulling me up. “Walk it off. Let your heart rate come down naturally. Don’t ask it to come to a screeching halt.”