Follow Your Bliss, page 9
I shrugged, digging out another spoonful. “Not because I think it’s an abomination. They talked about other benefits, like having space to focus on self-improvement, improved mood, better focus—”
“Unless you’re someone with a high sex drive, then it might make your focus and mood worse,” she said, carefully spooning up a ridge inside the top of the carton.
“Huh.” That would explain a lot, actually.
“There are so many health benefits to orgasms. Putting the A in abstinence is in direct conflict with T.” She picked up the paper again. “‘Take care of yourself.’ The oxytocin and endorphins released during sex help battle depression. And did you know that a study found that men who have more orgasms when they’re younger are better protected against prostate cancer when they’re older?”
“Really?”
“That one needs more research, but masturbation has been associated with improved sleep and mood. Not to mention stress relief. And you’re still determined?”
“I mean I’m already celibate. In for an inch, in for a mile, right? I only have four weeks left, anyway.”
“Well, I don’t have to get it to respect it. But thanks for coming to visit. I was just sitting here stewing before you got here.” She finished off the ice cream on her spoon, but it dripped down her hand. She ran her tongue up her finger and sucked the tip of it with a smack and a satisfied sigh.
I let out a held breath and averted my gaze, rubbing my beard like I hadn’t just been staring at her like a starving man.
“Welp, the ice cream’s all gone, and I’m exhausted. I’m gonna go wash all this crap off my face and go to sleep.” She stood up and turned toward the trash can with the carton. The two perfect curves of her ass stuck out below the torn hems of her Daisy Dukes.
Jesus Christ, she was making my abstinence ten times harder. As she washed her hands, I closed my eyes and wracked my blood-deprived brain. What did I want to talk to her about?
Oh right—the storm.
“Have you been watching the latest track for Tropical Storm Oscar?”
“Shit. No. What’s it doing?”
“Yeah. Welcome home.” I opened up my weather app. “We probably ought to be a little worried about it. If it jogs any more east, we could be hit pretty hard. I was planning to leave for Florida on Thursday, but I’m gonna watch the news overnight and reevaluate in the morning. I might have to leave early, and you might want to evacuate.”
“Has the church flooded before?”
“No, but the electricity could be out for a few weeks, and I wouldn’t want to stay around for that.”
“Hmmm.” She pushed her chair in and leaned forward. I kept my gaze on her eyes, but my peripheral vision was deep in her cleavage.
“Why don’t you use your magical celibate bits to ask God to send this storm somewhere else?”
“Bits?” I balked while she cackled. “They’re not ‘bits,’ thank you very much. What’s the opposite of a bit?” I scrounged around in my brain. “Lots. They’re lots.”
She nodded with her eyes closed. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. Goodnight, Jason.”
“Night!” I called after her. “Hey, mind if I take a shower when you’re done?” A cold one.
She popped her head back in. “Nope. I’ll text you when I’m out.”
“Sorry I never thought about having to walk through your bedroom at night. I have content lined up for a few weeks now and I just knocked out a custom, so I’ll make that bathroom in the church my priority starting tomorrow.”
She smiled. “I don’t mind. It makes me feel less alone.” She walked off humming down the hallway, completely unaware that she’d turned my whole evening around.
Chapter 6
Looking for a Sign
Jason
My alarm plucked me out of an apocalyptic dream about a supermarket run by alien overlords. I fumbled for the noise, my brain still in the frozen food aisle of renegades until my phone hit the floor.
I grabbed it from under the bed and tapped the screen. What were all these missed calls and texts?
The storm.
I sat up and sorted through all the notifications. The storm made that significant jog to the east overnight and strengthened into a strong category one hurricane, projected to make landfall on the Louisiana coast as a category three tomorrow morning with huge storm surges expected.
Alex already left with his girlfriend. Mom and Dad evacuated this morning with Becca and Brad to Arkansas, so Mom said I could still use the Florida condo for my trip.
Shit. A few hours ago would’ve been the ideal time to evacuate. I threw on a shirt and sandals. Now that I had a renter, what did I do about evacuating? Some of my big trees were ticking time bomb water oaks that I hadn’t taken down yet. The kind that tipped over, roots and all, in a bad storm. I didn’t have my solar powered generator installed yet. No way would I get stuck here without air conditioning, not with the one-hundred-eighteen-degree heat indexes we’d been having.
I headed toward the rectory. Last night when I walked out of the bathroom, Rose was already asleep over the covers, her body wrapped around a long pillow. I’d watched her for the few seconds it took to pull the bathroom door closed quietly, making sure I didn’t disturb her. Her sleep shorts exposed her whole leg, the slant of the bathroom light illuminating a butterfly tattoo on her ankle I hadn’t seen before, and the ceiling fan gently ruffled her hair in the dark. And that jerk in New York City not only dumped her, but cheated on her. How could he do that to a literal angel? I both wanted to punch him and shield her from anyone ever hurting her again.
If she were my girlfriend, I’d treat her like the goddess she was. We’d spent a lot of time together this week, and the more I got to know her, the more I desired her. She wasn’t just sexy and beautiful; she was smart and fun. She made magic with silky fabrics, and she even showed promise as a woodworker. When I laid down every night after spending time with her, my cheeks hurt from all the laughter.
And my body ached from wanting her. After last night, though—I rubbed my whole face. Knowing she was single was a brand-new kind of torture. Unless she was just a shameless flirt, she was attracted to me, too. But our outlooks on love hadn’t changed. I was looking for my forever, and her last relationship was only about sex. If that was all she wanted, then pursuing her was a bad idea on so many levels.
So why did she feel like home?
I stopped and knelt before the statue of St. Dorothy in the courtyard. Patron saint of florists, brides, and newlyweds. St. Dorothy, I prayed silently, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I really, really like Rose. She’s an amazing person. I don’t expect anything from her, and her friendship means the world to me. She just broke up with her boyfriend, and I’m not a vulture. She’s probably not even interested. But… I studied St. Dorothy’s face, serenely smiling at me, as if encouraging me to go on. She just feels so right. I’m having a hard time letting it go, even though I probably should. Would you give me a sign if seeing if she’s interested is a good idea, for both of us? Seriously, any sign. And please keep us and our families safe in the hurricane. Amen.
I brushed off my knees and went in the kitchen door. Music played from down the hallway.
“Morning, Rose!”
“Morning!” she called back.
“Can I come talk to you?”
“Sure!”
I found her in her workroom, cutting out fabric on her new worktable. My heart backflipped seeing her so happily using something we made together. How fun would it be to make more with her?
“Have I told you lately that I love this table?” she asked, her silver scissors slicing through silky white fabric. Her curls defied last night’s straightening, poking out from another bun wrapped on top of her head.
“I’m glad!” I leaned against the wall to watch her work. She’d been the only bright spot in a week full of aggravations, like running into that costly pipe-routing problem in the choir loft bathroom construction and worrying about whether Big Dick Tools would officially offer. The plans for my community room had consumed me this week, too. I tried to make progress designing it on Wednesday, but all I got for my trouble was dozens of discarded attempts littering the floor that I couldn’t bring myself to throw away.
I’d gone straight to talk to Rose about it and found her cooking red beans because she remembered me saying I’d been craving them. And she reassured me that I’d not only figure out the community room puzzle, but I’d knock it out of the park. Later that day she popped up in my bathroom construction and went nuts over my tile selections and smooth sheetrock, making me feel like the god of reno.
Such simple things, but they were things I’d been starved for.
“Have you seen the weather?” I asked. “Hurricane Oscar’s coming for us. Are you evacuating?”
She glanced up from her work. “No, I don’t like evacuating. My family called in the middle of the night to ask me to go with them, but I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“I really think we should go this morning.” I stepped away from the doorframe. When did she and I become we in my head? “That thing’s gonna be a direct hit over the New Orleans area, and I’ve got all these big trees—”
She sighed heavily, looking around at piles of fabric as she grabbed her pin cushion. “You can go, but I’m gonna stay. I have so much to do, and I can’t afford to lose any more time.”
“You can’t get any sewing done if we lose power, right?”
“Fair point, but I’ll get more done than if I leave, for sure. I’ll be fine, really. I don’t have a car anyway, so I’m kinda stuck here.”
“Come with me,” I blurted. “I’m already going to Florida, and I have room in my car.”
“Oh my God, no! I’ve already used up all my favors with you, remember? And most of these turn out to be nothing. When I lived with Heather, she used to talk us into evacuating for every little storm. We’d drive to Baton Rouge or someplace for the weekend, and I’d spend the next week playing catch-up.” She carried the fabric to her sewing machine.
“But what if a tree comes down on your apartment? What if the power goes out for weeks, and nobody can get in or out because of flooding?”
The hum of her sewing machine continued. “I’ll be fine.”
Why hadn’t I watched her sew before? It was mesmerizing watching the needle go up and down, a neat seam outputting from the back of the machine. “Rose, please come with me? I don’t want you to be alone if something happens.”
Her fingers poised over a folded hem. She shifted her leg off the foot pedal, and the machine stopped. “To Florida? I don’t want to impose on your vacation.”
“It’s not a vacation. I have a business meeting on Friday not far from my parents’ condo. There’s plenty of room.”
“Won’t it take forever to get there? The interstates are probably all backed up, even with contraflow.”
I wasn’t looking forward to driving on interstates that had all been converted to all outflowing traffic. But deep in my gut I knew it was the right call. “Yeah, it might take a long time, but I really think you should come with me. This storm could be bad.”
She looked around and sighed, defeated. “Okay. I guess you’re right.”
“And I’d feel better if we moved all your dresses you’re working on into the church. I’m gonna go throw some things in a bag. Pack up. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”
I gave her fifty minutes, mostly because it took me longer than I expected. I had to pick up everything loose outside that could be a flying hazard in high winds, and then transfer Rose’s garment rack, fabrics, and supplies into the church. The whole time I picked up, humid wind fluttered the trees in an unmistakable pattern that only natives to hurricane weather could discern on a gut level.
In the kitchen, I threw road snacks into an oversized bag, and then I sought Rose out in her workroom again. This time she was packing up. “You ready?”
“Almost. I packed a bag for me, but I wanted to bring some things to work on. I still need to use the bathroom and grab my iPad.” She zipped up the duffle of sewing supplies, and I took it from her.
“Okay, go ahead. I’ll grab your bag and put it in the car. Where is it?”
“It’s on the floor in the bedroom. The purple one.”
“Alright. Lock up the kitchen door for me on your way out, okay?”
“Will do!”
I spotted her purple bag on the floor, added it to my shoulder, and went to the car to wait.
And wait.
“Come on, Rose,” I muttered, flipping through the photos on my phone. Thankfully I was ahead of schedule with my social media posts, so leaving town early wouldn’t mean a lag. And I had photos from Becca’s party, Rose’s table, and a bathroom cabinet I was building. I could turn those into posts, too, if we had to stay away past Friday.
I swiped back further—Rose’s camp Polaroid and bucket list, the only things I’d taken photos of from the capsule before reburying it. I meant to text them to her. Surely she’d want them, even though she rushed out that night without seeming to care and without even looking at the second half of her list. But instead, I’d printed her list out on paper and used it as inspiration to start my own.
Even though I’d started learning how to take care of myself, seeing Rose’s list made me realize that the pain of losing my future with Kasey had made me stop looking too far ahead. Instead, I’d had my head down, working hard. But it was time I made a conscious effort to make sure I got what I wanted out of my one life.
I pulled the printout from my wallet. She said she’d grown out her bangs and been to NYC, but that meant she hadn’t made it to Paris, had never waltzed with a cute guy. I smirked at “make J.S. fall in love with me.” I was thinking about her all the time, but love? I still wasn’t sure that was a good idea.
From the second half of her list, she’d definitely gotten a tattoo, in fact, several sexy ones. She’d probably learned to drive, and she was already a wedding dress designer. But had she kissed under mistletoe? Had she ever seen a waterfall?
Rose stepped out of the kitchen door and locked it, and I folded the list back up and tucked it away in my wallet. She slid into the passenger’s seat with a backpack and a pillow, wafting in that sweet smell of roses and casting a worried gaze to the sky.
“Are we going to make it? It looks like some rain bands are already moving in.”
I grimaced. “Yeah, they’re saying on the news we have time if we head east, and if we leave…this morning. We’re a little behind on that, but I think we’ll be okay.” I pointed at the pillow. “You know we have pillows at the condo.”
“I go nowhere without Princess Sleeparella.” She gave the pillow a squeeze before stowing it in the back.
“Princess Sleeparella?”
“Best pillow ever. I have a hard time sleeping without it.” She fastened her seatbelt and rearranged her bag by her feet. “Sorry it took me a minute. I couldn’t find my tablet, but it was in my backpack the whole time. Here, I grabbed us each a bottle of water.” She picked up the end of my phone charging cable as I took the bottle and murmured, thanks. “Can I plug my phone in? I’ve only got ten percent.”
“Yeah, sure. Oh and here.” I grabbed a Deck Daddy shirt from the dashboard. “This is your prize from the epic Nerf gun battle. It’s new, so I washed all the chemicals out for you.”
She took it from me and opened it up. “Thank you! Yesss. This is the one I wanted.” She hugged it and sniffed it. “It even smells like you.” She sniffed it a second time.
Something warm filled my chest at her knowing what I smelled like. And liking it enough to go in for another whiff.
She folded the shirt into her lap and fished a prescription bottle from her purse. “Listen. This is a little embarrassing, but if we’re sharing a condo…” She bit her lip and met my gaze. “You should know I sometimes have anxiety attacks.” She shook the bottle, and the pills inside rattled. “And panic attacks. And I don’t always think about taking my medicine when I get that way. So if that happens, would you help me remember?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, putting them away.
“Hey, your table video is scheduled to post today, so hopefully that’ll bring you some new followers. I posted a teaser reel this morning.”
“Oh crap, am I in it?” She opened her phone as I started out on the road.
“No, it’s just video of Strawberry Jello, blueprints, woodpile—that kind of thing.”
She shook her head, scrolling. “Every time I visit your page, I wonder how your super religious mom feels about Deck Daddy.”
I glanced back at her. How many times does Rose visit my page?
“My mom…has a love/hate relationship with it. She’s been one of my biggest customers, but she hates the Deck Daddy shtick. At least I only hear about it once a week when she catches up on my posts, or when somebody new at church brings it up. She really hates that.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. That’s so unfair. You’re building something amazing here. Look at all the engagement you get. And yeah, a lot of them are just thirsty, but even more are praising your work or thanking you for your help. Listen to this one. ‘Dude you rock. Thanks for the plans for this table. It’s the first thing I made on my own and my wife thinks I’m a god now.’ And this: ‘Thanks Deck Daddy! Your advice on drying up sap with nail polish remover was a godsend—it’s been a month, and no more ooze. Hot, talented, and brilliant’ with a hot face emoji. Okay, that one was both.” She laughed. “But don’t let anyone throw shade on what you’re doing.” Her hand landed warm on my arm. “I hope you’re really proud of yourself.”
Her praise warmed my heart, and her touch heated my face. “Thank you.” I smiled at her and slipped my sunglasses down over my eyes, which were tearing up. Damn, it felt good for someone in my life to be proud of me, no mockery even in her laughter. Rose was always in on the joke, never making me feel cheap or dumb or embarrassed.
