Junk Love, page 14
“Samson. What’s the polite thing to say if a baby’s fugly? My first nephew was hideous, outdid his dad in the hair department. If this one’s ugly, should I say he’s ‘striking,’ or ‘stunning,’ or straight up lie?”
Her smile resisted speech. “Haven’t you ever seen something so ugly it’s cute?”
“Good call. I’ll say he’s cute no matter what. You women are so wise.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Will flowers? There’s one on the chair for you. It might be hard to run with.”
In the seat where the bouquet had been, a yellow rosebud remained.
“And now you have my number.”
Plucking up the rose, she said, “I thought you cops had to pass psych evals. You’re clearly a stalker.” The flower had a perfect poignant pungency, like prom silk and victory laps. “I’ll be sending all future calls to the junk folder.”
“Junk?”
“Fine. But you’re not supposed to call a girl when you’ve had her number less than five minutes.”
“Who made that rule?”
“It’s common knowledge.” Holly brushed the skin-soft flower on her lips.
“If you’re dating. Don’t get the wrong idea from the rose. Yellow is the color of friendship.”
Holly
Monday, July 4, 2016
Courtney’s left elbow knocked Holly in the ribs.
“Hey!” Her stride was thrown off as she pressed the sore spot under her green tank top, passing other runners with numbers on their chests.
“Sorry, love.” Courtney twitched her head to their right. “Two o’clock. Glad I wore my good running bra.” By “good,” she meant a lacy raspberry red push-up and no shirt, so she’d pinned her number to her leggings.
Of course, Courtney had slept in and made them late to the fun run, and of course, she was now trolling for men rather than enjoying time with her friend, who might have news to share about a guy she’s interested in instead of being an ear for Courtney’s never-ending tales of—
“Dibs on the shaved one,” she continued, lowering her voice. “I hope he shaves his chest, too.”
The bald man with broad shoulders bobbed in a baby blue shirt beside a bearded man in a red shirt and baseball cap. The first man turned, searching the crowd. It was Jacob. Holly’s lungs pinched with the shot of cool morning air. They were in his blind spot but coming up fast.
“You saw Lisa yesterday?” the man in red asked him.
Lisa?
Jacob nodded.
“How’s she doing?”
“Holly,” Courtney said. “Do you think we should—”
Jacob spun around. “Samson!” As Courtney jogged up between Jacob and Holly, he grinned around her. “Thought you might be here. This is my brother, Mark.”
“Hi Mark.” Holly waved from the left flank.
“This is Holly.” Jacob’s stride was easy. “Mom’s dietitian.”
“Thanks for helping Mom.” Even through the beard, Mark’s smile reminded her of Vicki.
“My pleasure. You two lucked out in the mom department.”
“No argument here,” Mark said.
“Courtney,” Holly held out an open palm. “Jacob and Mark.”
“Nice to meet you, boys.” She extended a princess hand to Jacob as they jogged, and he gave it a quick shake. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No problem.” His glance bounced off Courtney’s bobbing cleavage before he said, “We were talking about our sister who had the baby.”
That’s Lisa. Of course. Sharing a smile, admiring Jacob’s shadow beard, her heart did a little shimmy. The playground they were passing smelled of freshly cut grass.
“They’re well?”
“Think she’s keeping it. We’ll have to find you another one.”
“Holly told you she wants to adopt?” Courtney batted her eyes. “I admire mothers so much. But I like sex too much to settle down.” She leaned around him to Mark. “Are you married?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mark held up his left hand.
“Do you have kids?”
“Two.” He smiled, looking ahead.
“No more blow jobs, right?”
“Courtney!”
“They know I’m playing. Mark’s not going to answer that anyway. He’s way too respectable.” To Mark, she said, “Forgive me. Your wife’s a lucky lady.”
Holly rolled her eyes. “Come on, Courtney. These nice men don’t deserve this.”
“We have thick skin,” Mark said. “Feel free to leave us in the dust though. It’s bad enough holding up my little brother.”
Turning her face away from the men, Courtney said, “A little rest might be nice.” After she raised one victorious eyebrow, the other joined it in a wiggle, her standard cue for a wingman.
Smoking hot friends suck. Was she going to have to watch Courtney shamelessly flirt with her crush? She could pull her aside and ask her to back off—
Jacob interrupted her brainstorm. “Did you two run this last year?”
“We did the 10K.” Courtney’s gaze lingered on him.
“Stay frosty, brother,” Mark smirked. “These ladies are out of your league.”
“True.” Holly flew ahead and turned to face them, running backward. “Courtney, we’d better pick up the pace or we won’t be able to respect ourselves in the morning.”
“I’m good.” She was probably shooting for a double entendre there. She should be good at sex with all the practice she’d had.
Seriously? Holly huffed, not happy she was being a judgmental hypocrite, but mostly not happy with Courtney.
“You go ahead.” Her friend’s perfectly shadowed eyes looked steely.
Hos before bros, huh? “See you at the finish line.” Flinging frustration behind on the asphalt, she could go as fast as she wanted now. But she wished Jacob might catch up.
* * *
That afternoon in her kitchen, after Holly poured cucumber-lemon water into a glass while her washed hair dripped into her robe, she checked her phone, hoping for but not expecting an apology from Courtney. One missed call from Jacob. No voicemail. Sipping her water, she choked down the possibility that he might be calling for Courtney’s number, then she typed:
Were you calling for bail money?
“That’s stupid.” She was deleting the unsent text when the phone rang, startling her. At least it fell on the table and not the floor. It was Jacob.
“Hello, this is Holly.”
“Samson. Missed you at the finish line.” His voice lit up her brain like dark chocolate.
“I had a Gingerbread Man thing going. I made good time.” She paced to the front window and considered the yard that needed mowing.
“I’m sure you did.” A chuckle bubbled under his words.
“I hope Courtney behaved better after I left.”
“Not really. Mark decided not to press charges.”
With a clenched gut, she said, “She’s single if you want her number.”
“No kidding. When I want a beautiful woman’s phone number, I get it myself.”
Awwww! Her smile almost broke her face.
“When you and Courtney get together,” he continued, “does she do all the talking?”
“You must bring in tons of criminals with your Sherlock Holmes instincts.” Holly paced to the dining room. “Hang on, you’re not a detective, are you?”
“Well done, Watson. But sometimes, off-duty, I can be an idiot. Happy Independence Day.”
“You too.” She gazed at the backyard. “Your brother’s cool.”
“He’s married.”
“Dude!”
“That’s not a thing we’re doing, announcing people’s relationship status?”
Jacob’s voice made her stupid: no comeback.
“What’s your 4th of July tradition? Go to big displays, have family picnics, light illegal fireworks?”
She smiled. “You’ll have to grant me immunity first.”
“That’s a D.A. thing. You’ll feel better once you get your crimes off your chest. Hold on. Record button’s acting up again.”
“What was the question? My 4th of July traditions?”
“The question is, do you want to come to my folks’ house for their annual barbecue?”
“That was not the question,” she said, and dropped onto her sofa. Her gratitude journal on her coffee table stared back at her.
“The one I was getting to.”
“You’re not asking me to meet your family.” Running her fingers over the wide journal’s leather cover, she hoped that didn’t sound presumptuous. He had said they were friends. But he had also said she was beautiful.
“Just hang out with the ones you’ve met, plus my dad and some friends. Lisa’s not coming, newborn and all. Do you have other plans?”
“Not really…” She stood. Meena wouldn’t mind if she didn’t join them for fireworks; she’d be mad if Holly turned him down.
“When can I pick you up?”
“But…” If Jacob was interested in her, this was a different kind of fast.
“But?”
She paced. “I’m washing my cat?”
“Samson. This is not a date. It’s a party—a Davis 4th of July party. On a fun scale of 1 to 10, it’s a guaranteed eight or above.”
“Dang.”
“Right?”
“Let me think about it.” She wandered toward the front window.
“I respect that. Call you in 5 minutes.”
“10? Actually—”
“Better idea—”
“Go ahead.”
“No, you.”
“What time is this thing?”
“Open house.”
Mark’s gravelly voice rang in the background.
“Are you there now?” she asked.
“It’s no problem to come get you. I need to head into town anyway.”
“For what?”
“Mom needs a couple of things.”
“Beer!” Mark sounded close to the phone.
“And Mark’s concerned about the beer supply.”
It embarrassed Holly a little, like they were junior high boys calling a girl. “You shouldn’t miss out on the party to come get me.” She headed to her bedroom. “I can bring beer and whatever Vicki needs if you want to text me a list.”
“You’re coming?”
“I’ll need the address.”
“You’re a triple threat, Samson. Logical, independent…”
“What’s the third thing?” She eyed her closet.
“Speed. Obviously.”
* * *
The lower number on the signpost registered as Holly sped past it, hugging the curvy wooded road.
“Shit.” She scanned ahead for a space to turn around, inhaling fresh air from the open windows.
Finally where she was supposed to be, the driveway peaked at a canopy of trees shielding Vicki’s sprawling home and a wide gravel parking area. Boy, they had a lot of friends. Holly parked on the periphery.
When her hands dropped from the steering wheel, her bare thighs made her reconsider her denim shorts. Would Vicki disapprove? Cleavage peeked out from the silky red blouse, so she pinched one more button closed, then took her purse from the passenger seat, pulled its strap over her head, turned out, and gasped.
A big dark thing was right there, skulking, with a huge hairy face, Holstein eyes under coppery eyebrows, a black nose, and a long lolling tongue.
Aww! With her hand on her chest, she smiled at the mountain of dog and gained control of her heart, which beat faster than the rhythmic crunching of gravel getting louder.
“Bernice!” Jacob called. “Sit.” Bending down to the window, he smiled, “We won’t bite.”
Holly burst out of the car and crouched. “You are adorable!”
The hairy tail whipped.
“Thanks,” he said, smoothing his blue-and-white plaid shirt.
“I’m not talking to you.” She offered two open palms. “Can I pet you?”
The fluffy mammoth knocked Holly onto her ass.
“Bernice! Sorry.”
“You gorgeous beast.” While she rubbed her hands through the downy white chest, voices and music came from the other side of the house.
Jacob held out his hand. “Why am I having déjà vu? Off.” He took her hand and zipped her up.
“Is she yours?”
“She’s my folks’ dog, but I’m her favorite. Or was.”
“She’s beautiful.” Smiling up from the panting hound, she found Jacob grinning at her, then she retreated toward the trunk of her sky-blue Mini Cooper. “Got your beer.”
“You’re a godsend. Cute car.”
“Thanks.” She stopped and faced him.
He almost walked into her; she almost forgot what she was going to say.
“So ugly it’s cute, or just cute?”
“Cute,” Jacob smiled, standing really fricking close. “It suits you.” His hand on the closest white stripe made her jealous. “How many tickets have you gotten in this thing?”
“Don’t you have to read me my rights?”
“Do you feel free to leave?”
Free, yes. Willing, no. Resisting the urge to stay close, Holly resumed her short walk to the back of the car.
“Not until I give you your beer.” The trunk door rose. “And the pie.”
“Pie? You are not free to leave.” His smile turned into a cringe. “Does it have cauliflower crust or something?”
After shooting him a disdainful look, she retrieved the shallow box with the pie in a nest of dishtowels. “Cauliflower can serve as a delicious substitute for many things.”
“Great.” He crossed his arms.
“Mashed potatoes, risotto…but never, ever pie crust. Or steak. Roasted cauliflower is tasty with enough butter and seasoning, but why call it ‘cauliflower steak’? That’s inviting disappointment.” She handed him the cardboard box, proud of the close-to-perfect golden crust of scattered stars and wavy stripes that peeked through the plastic wrap.
“Tell me you didn’t make this.”
Holly grinned. “‘You didn’t make this.’”
“You made this.” He raised the dish and inhaled. “Apple?” Bernice adjusted her hips to get him to notice how nicely she was sitting. “No beg.”
When she dragged the box of beer bottles by its cutout handle, he stepped up and stacked the pie box on top of it, lifting both. He smelled better than the pie. She reached in for her red ice chest.
“Do you realize what you’re doing?” he asked.
“What?” She grabbed her University of Utah cooler with the big white U.
“This house is full of Aggies.”
Utah State Aggies. “Aggies who like pie?”
Jacob nodded.
“I’m willing to risk it.”
“If it gets ugly, I’ll throw the pie, and we’ll make a run for it.”
Holly nodded.
“Help me understand: paleo-touting dietitian by day, vigilante pastry chef by night?”
“Not every night.”
“Does the mayor shine a croissant shape in the sky when the city needs you?”
She chuckled. “Stress baking.”
Back to the trunk, he deposited the boxes and sat, ducking under the open hatch door. “I’m not going to break your car, am I?”
She shook her head.
“Why stress baking?” He patted the tiny space beside him. The dog planted her furry ass on the ground, but Holly stayed where she was.
“You get a lot of confessions, don’t you?”
“It’s the Columbo eyebrows.” He waggled them and pinched an invisible cigar.
“Groucho Marx, you mean?”
He shrugged. “It’s okay if you—”
“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing fostering babies.”
Jacob froze, then twisted to peer into the backseat and said, “If you have one now and forgot it at home, then no.”
“What if I fall in love with it and have to give it back?”
Standing and towering over her, he guided her to the back of the car, where he sat her down. “Didn’t want you falling on your butt again.” He circled a palm in her direction. “A lot going on right now.”
“Or what if I get one of those drug-affected babies? There’s a ton of them, you know. I could be horrible at figuring out what it needs. I’ve been taking the classes, but…”
“You’re a perfectionist.”
She consulted her sizable mental list of ways she failed on a regular basis. “Not really.”
“Exhibit A,” he said, sliding the pie into her view.
“That’s just fun, decorating. It’s probably prettier than it tastes. Don’t start with a big slice. When I stress bake, I do things like forget an ingredient or measure wrong.”
“How are you not in sales?” He had the cutest dimple.
“It’s all about managing expectations.”
Jacob braced his hand against the car. “What are the other fruits of your stress baking, besides attractive, inedible pie?”
“I’m only committing to short-term fostering.”
“Smart. Build your confidence.”
The long black fur on Bernice’s back, warm from the sun, slid between her fingers.
“I haven’t turned in the papers yet. I’m still thinking.”
“No more thinking today,” he said, pulling her to stand—an easy order to follow since his touch and his proximity overwhelmed her. “You’ve exceeded your quota.”
“One last question.”
“Walk and talk.” He took the stacked boxes.
After she gathered her load and closed the hatch, her car beeped while they crunched over gravel toward the house.
“Do you think a person can love an adopted baby as much as their biological child?”
“Yep.”
