Rock Bottom Girl

by Score, Lucy

  I found a laundry basket in the closet and filled it to the brim. Whatever didn’t fit I threw back into the closet and closed the door. I’d deal with that later.

  I found Marley and Homer deep in conversation in the kitchen. There were grocery bags on the counter, and Homer was eyeing a new bag of dog treats every time he surfaced from wolfing down his breakfast.

  “Good morning,” Marley said, beaming at me from across the island.

  Well, shit. So that’s how it felt. Knowing you wanted to do something every day for the rest of your life. That’s what I wanted right now. And it was incredibly inconvenient seeing as how the object of my affection had just reiterated her desire to blow this popsicle stand once her obligations here were finished.

  “Morning,” I said, dropping the laundry basket on the kitchen table and swooping in for a long, hard kiss. She wanted to leave? Fine. But I wasn’t going to make it easy on her. “What are you doing up so early?”

  She laughed and pointed at the clock with a spatula. “It’s 9:30.”

  “On a Sunday,” I pointed out. “For teachers, the weekends are little slivers of reprieve.”

  “Homer woke me with his cold nose and a very insistent demand to go outside,” she said, returning to the pan on the stove.

  My dog was an asshole. But a cute one.

  “Usually I can get a couple more hours of sleep after his demands are met,” I told her.

  “Well, since I was up and you didn’t have anything edible in the house, Homie and I took a quick ride over to the grocery store, and I got some necessities.”

  I felt…cared for. Spoiled. Cherished.

  “Really?” I asked, clearing the emotion out of my voice.

  “Yeah. Cheesy omelets are almost done. Wanna pour the coffee and get the bacon? I put it in the microwave so it wouldn’t get cold.”

  She made me breakfast. Bought me groceries. Took my dog for a car ride. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I was truly fucking sunk.

  And Homer was basically laughing at me with his doggy smirk.

  “Sure. Awesome. Yeah,” I said, digging out a pair of mugs and trying not to think how domestic this all was. Forget haunting. Gram had taken control of my mind. I needed an exorcism.

  “It’s kind of warm outside and not as unclean as in here. Want to eat on the porch?” Marley asked.

  I followed her through the back door, juggling plates and mugs and utensils that she must have washed herself since I’d been using plasticware for weeks now.

  We sank onto the wicker couch and dumped our breakfasts on the little coffee table. Fall was in the air, but summer was pushing back, clinging to the late September Sunday. It would be a good day for a leisurely run.

  “Think you could go for a few miles today?” I asked Marley.

  She forked up a bite of omelet. “Sure. It’ll have to be this afternoon though. Uh, were you serious about meeting my parents?”

  “Yeah. Definitely,” I told her. I shoveled a bite of cheesy eggs into my face. “Whoa. What magic did you work here?”

  She smiled prettily. “It’s all in cage-free eggs and good cheese,” she confessed. “Anyway, you’re invited to dinner tonight. At my parents’.”

  I chewed thoughtfully. Sipped my coffee. “Cool. What kind of hostess gift should I bring?”

  “You’re really into this gift thing, aren’t you?” Marley teased.

  “I am. Stick around, and you’ll be showered in thoughtful trinkets.”

  She grinned, and I decided this was my favorite Sunday morning in recent history. “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you like giving gifts?”

  I bit into a crisp piece of bacon. “Dunno. I like finding something that I know someone will love. You know, put thought into it. Show them I care. I guess.”

  “What’s the last gift you bought?”

  “Mmm. I got this painting for my mom. A custom job of her dog. Got it framed and everything. Her birthday’s coming up. She’s coming out from Jersey for a weekend. We’re doing up a dinner party at my uncles’.”

  “Do you and your mom have a good relationship?” she asked.

  By going to school with me, Marley would have a general knowledge of my messy teenage years. My dad dying. My mom not being able to handle a rebel without a clue. Being shipped off to bumfuck Pennsylvania to live with my uncles I didn’t know well. It had been the best thing she ever could have done for me. But it had taken me some time to come to that conclusion.

  “Yeah. We’re good now. Things were rocky back when I first moved here. But honestly? I can’t imagine not growing up with Max and Lewis. Those guys took none of my teenage shit and made sure I turned out to be someone they could be proud of.”

  “I like how you talk about them. Like you can just tell how much you love them,” Marley observed.

  “Come to the birthday thing,” I said. “Meet my mom. Meet Lewis. My cousin’ll be there.”

  “I liked Adeline,” she admitted. “And her husband.”

  “Max and Lewis decided they did such a good job with me that they’d adopt. They ended up with Adeline. Now we’ve got a full house for the holidays with her four kids.”

  “Is it nice? Having family nearby?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah. I mean, you go on vacation, you’ve got a cousin’s kid to cut your grass. You’re under the weather, you’ve got an uncle bringing you chicken soup and Gatorade. Your birthday rolls around, and even just dinner turns into an instant party.”

  “That sounds nice,” she admitted, focusing on her plate. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s hard for my parents that Zinnia and I both moved away. You know?”

  “I’m sure they miss you,” I told her, trying real hard not to push the big, shiny red button I was seeing. “But there’s the family you’re given and the family you choose. They don’t have to be sitting home alone on Thanksgiving if you’re not around.”

  She nodded and scooped up another forkful. “Right. Yeah. You’re right.” She sighed. “It’s just, I think maybe they’re a little lonely. They’re both retired now, and they don’t have their office and their school friends every day. I think that’s part of why they decided to do the Airbnb thing.”

  “You think they’re lonely?”

  “Yeah. A little.”

  “What about you, Mars? Are you lonely?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up her coffee and took a contemplative sip. “Yeah. I am.”

  I laid a hand on her shoulder. “Me too, pretty girl. Me too. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “We have each other now.”

  She gave a soft laugh.

  “I’m serious, Mars. We’re dating. We’re banging. We’re basically in a real relationship.”

  “Yeah, until Christmas,” she scoffed.

  We’ll see about that.

  “Well, what’s wrong with not being alone until Christmas?” I prodded.

  “Nothing,” she sighed.

  “Exactly.”

  “So, seeing as how it’s a lazy Sunday morning and we just had an incredible breakfast, what do you want to do?”

  Her face lit up, and she leaned in close. “I have an idea.” Her voice was husky, and my dick was already standing at attention.

  “Why don’t you explain this idea in graphic detail?” I suggested.

  “You and I are going to go inside and…” She leaned in closer and nibbled at my jaw.

  “And?” I demanded, practically breathless with anticipation.

  “And clean your kitchen.”

  51

  Marley

  This was probably a terrible idea. Bringing Jake into my parents’ lives like this. Getting their hopes up that their wayward daughter was finally getting her life in order with an extraordinarily good-looking guy who had eluded other hopeful bachelorettes for nearly forty years.

  I was painting a “look how special and great” I am picture when I knew I’d just be snatching t
his reality away from them in a few short months. I was officially the worst.

  The doorbell rang, and I rocketed out of the kitchen. “I’ll get it,” I shouted. “And don’t touch the roast!”

  “Do you want me to stir the gravy?” Mom yelled back.

  “No! Touch nothing!”

  Skidding to a stop at the front door, I wiped my hands on my jeans. Just a casual meet-the-parents Sunday dinner with Jake who’d fucked me six ways to Heaven in the last twenty-four hours. I was acting like a giddy girlfriend. Hell, I felt like a giddy girlfriend. The fake part of our relationship was getting gray and swampy, and I was up to my hips in the murkiness of it.

  I opened the door and wondered if there was anything sexier than Jake Weston, leaning casually against the doorway looking sinfully delicious in jeans and a button-down and that damn leather jacket. He had his motorcycle helmet under one arm and a gift bag dangling from the fingers of his other hand.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  Yeah, okay. I was swooning inside. So sue me. My body was still on high alert from all those orgasms he’d doled out. It saw Jake and thought of nudity and SpaghettiOs and warm, strong arms wrapped around it. It was biology, plain and simple, that had me slobbering like a dental patient.

  “Hey. Hi,” I said, playing it super cool. I wasn’t fooling him. He crooked his giftbag-holding finger at me until I stepped closer. I knew what he wanted, and I was only too happy to give it to him.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I made sure my parents hadn’t materialized behind me before I pressed a soft kiss to his hard mouth.

  He gave a little growl of approval, and I thought about taking my pants off right there in the foyer.

  “Well, look at you two lovebirds,” a voice boomed behind me.

  “Dietrich, you remember Jake, right?” I said, reluctantly pulling back from the kiss.

  Jake put down his helmet, and they performed a manly good-to-see-you handshake.

  “Marley!” Dad yelped from the kitchen. “The gravy bubbled. Should I add more cornstarch?”

  “Don’t touch anything!” I shouted.

  “You might as well come on back with me,” I told Jake. “You and D can grab beers while I finish up.”

  They followed me into the kitchen.

  “Your lady can cook, my friend,” Dietrich said.

  “Don’t I know it, man,” Jake agreed.

  I felt little wings of happiness at the praise. Cooking had been my way of coping with new places and jobs and so many new starts. Every few years, it was a complete reboot, and I ended up in a new city or a new town knowing no one. I’d spent more birthdays alone than I cared to admit.

  Cooking had given me a hobby, an outlet. A way to create something. And I took pleasure in feeding the people who did enter my life.

  “Jake’s here,” I said unnecessarily as I entered the room.

  Mom was holding a wineglass and poking at the saucepan of gravy with a fork.

  Dad guiltily closed the oven door. They were as fascinated by my prowess in the kitchen as I was baffled by their inexperience.

  “Jake! Good to see you,” my dad squeaked, offering him his hand.

  “Mr. Cicero,” Jake said, repeating the dudely handshake.

  Mom gave me a very unsubtle wink as if she could smell the hormones that were pumping off me. “That sweater I lent you,” she began over the rim of her wineglass.

  “Will never be returning to your closet. I have a replacement arriving on Tuesday,” I promised.

  “Good girl,” she said to me before opening her arms for my boyfriend. “Jake, sweetheart. It’s so nice to have you here for dinner.”

  “Jessica,” Jake said, miles of charm exploding out of his skin cells. “Thank you for having me. I brought you a little something.”

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Mom said as she ripped the bag open in her haste to get to the gift. Mom and I were like toddlers at Christmas jacked up on cookies and hot chocolate. Turn us loose on a pile of presents and watch us make the living room rain wrapping paper. Zinnia and Dad were much more dignified in their gift receiving.

  “Dutch Blitz?” Mom said, pulling the card game out of its massacred bag.

  “It’s pretty fast-paced. A good way to burn off calories after a big meal,” Jake said.

  “Fast-paced, eh?” My dad hitched up his Dockers, rising to the challenge. I probably should have warned Jake about the Cicero Competitiveness. It bordered on unhealthy.

  “You’re too sweet,” Mom told Jake. “I can’t wait to kick your ass after dinner.”

  Dietrich snorted. He’d barely survived checkers with my dad two nights ago.

  “Care for a beer, Jake? Dietrich?” Dad asked. Their tiny kitchen was overcrowded with bodies.

  “Why don’t you menfolk go drink your beers in the living room,” I suggested. “Dinner will be ready in five.”

  * * *

  “Blitz! In your face, Jessica!” Jake threw his plow card down with a flourish, just beating my mother’s bucket card. He got up and performed a lewd victory dance with lots of thrusting.

  “Nooooooo!” my dad howled, pounding his fist into the coffee table. “I hate this stupid game!”

  “Damn you, Jake Weston!” Mom screeched. She reached across the table and shoved Jake’s stack of cards onto the carpet.

  Dietrich and I were doubled over laughing so hard I worried that the oxygen would never return to my lungs. Tears streamed down my face as my mom and Jake started slapping each other’s hands as they waded into the piles of cards on the coffee table.

  “I don’t care if you blitzed us. There’s way more buckets in here than stupid plows!”

  “Care to bet on that?” Jake teased.

  “Marley, your boyfriend is clearly a cheater,” Mom insisted, counting up her cards. “I bet he’s been stealing my buckets and hiding them in his sleeves so I don’t get credit for them.”

  “Man! I didn’t even get two cards off my blitz pile,” Dad whined. He crossed his arms over his skinny chest and pouted.

  “Mars, did you even count your cards so I can rub my victory in your face?” Jake asked, sitting back down next to me.

  I wiped the tears from my eyes. “I think I’m going to declare the game over at this point before there’s any bloodshed.”

  “I bruised my thumb,” Dietrich said, showing us his digit.

  “Look at that. You guys injured your guest. This could affect his review.”

  “Ha! I beat you!” Mom shouted, holding up one last bucket card in Jake’s face. “You’re a looooooser! A looooooooser!” Mom’s victory dance didn’t involve a lot of gyrating, but it did involve some disco moves.

  “I demand a recount!” Jake grabbed Mom’s stack of cards and thumbed through them.

  “Well?” she asked smugly.

  “Shit.” Jake threw the cards onto the table and flopped over backward onto the carpet. We were all too old to be sitting on the floor, but the violence of the game made it too hard to play at the dining room table.

  I unwound my legs and stretched out beside Jake, still laughing.

  “Since I am the queen of Dutch Blitz, I suppose I can cut the coffee cake,” Mom said. “Come on, Ned.”

  “I hate that stupid game,” Dad griped as he followed her into the kitchen.

  “Well, I’ll just, ah…go do something that isn’t in this room,” Dietrich said, ambling out.

  I grinned at Jake.

  “I think I overdid it,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t have ‘in your faced’ your mom at our official meet the parents dinner.”

  I laughed again and wiped at the corners of my eyes. “I had no idea you would get along so well with them.”

  “They won’t hate me for this?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re their people, Jake.” I rolled to my side and pressed a hard kiss to his cheek. “This was really great.”

  “You’re really great,” he said, suddenly serious. He cupped my face in his hand and kissed me lo
ng and slow.

  My lady parts sent up flares of interest. I opened my mouth for him. This was a real kiss. All of this felt too real. I was in over my head, but I didn’t feel interested in saving myself. I was content to drown.

  “Cake’s cut!” my dad yodeled from the kitchen.

  “Come home with me tonight,” Jake said roughly.

  “Again?” We had work in the morning. I needed my coaching gear and lunch.

  “Come on, Mars. Don’t send me home alone.”

  “Aren’t we moving a little fast?”

  “What other speed is there?”

  52

  Marley

  I tried to run off my nerves about meeting Jake’s mother. Four slow miles later, I still had a bellyful of anxiety, but I could afford all the calories that a birthday dinner entailed. So I considered it a win.

  I showered, changed my outfit four times, and did a reasonable job on my hair and makeup thanks to the tutorials my team posted on our message board.

  “Meeting the parents is a big deal,” Natalee had explained sagely.

  They explicitly told me not to half-ass my preparations. I felt obligated to post a picture of the finished product for their approval.

  The picture was met with a series of thumbs-up emojis and several “You’re going to be late!” messages.

  I swung by Jake’s house and picked up my two handsome dates for the evening. Jake was sexy as sin in jeans, a tight waffle-weave shirt, and a down vest. I wanted to strip him naked and lick every inch of his spectacular body. But we were running a little late. After a very thorough kiss, he and Homer—wearing a celebratory bow tie—joined me in my car, and we headed across town with Jake directing me to his uncles’ house.

  We pulled up in front of a classy, two-story brick home with a portico and creative landscaping. I took my time checking my makeup and grabbing my purse.

  “You don’t have to be nervous,” Jake said from the passenger seat where he was watching me with amusement.

  “I’m meeting your mom,” I insisted. “If I weren’t nervous, I’d be considered a sociopath.” Andrea had walked me through my nerves yesterday at school, and I wished I would have retained more of what she’d told me. Something about me being an adult and a nice one at that. So I should go into the situation expecting to like them and be liked in return.