Text Appeal
: Chapter 8

A crash of thunder wakes me. My heart is instantly pounding. Bright light flashes behind the thin bedroom curtains as another boom rocks the building. I don’t mean to shriek. But the loud-ass embarrassing noise escapes me just the same.

“You okay?” asks Connor from down the hall.

Maybe I should have offered to share my bed with him. But after the excessive sexual tension at the bar, putting him and his clever fingers in a different room seemed safest. Especially given the way he seemed unaffected by the sex show. Best not to confuse things between us any more than necessary.

“Yes,” I say. “It just startled me.”

“First coastal storm?”

“That it is.”

Since we’re both awake, I may as well view the show from the front windows. There’s enough ambient light from the street to replace my way. No need to turn on the lamp on my bedside table.

The smooth wooden floor is soothing and cool beneath my bare feet as I pad down the hallway and into the living room. A heady scent of flowers fills the room. Connor is supposed to be on the sofa. But instead, the dark shadow of his body is stretched out on the rug. The man is sleeping on the floor.

“That cannot be comfortable.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “The couch was too short. I can spread out down here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He does indeed sound fine. But I need to see for myself. We both wince when I switch on a lamp. Hope my bed hair isn’t too bad. In deference to the platonic overnight guest, my usual panties and an old tee have been replaced by proper pajamas. A plain gray silk shorts and tank set.

Connor is sprawled out in just his jeans. There’s so much skin. Truly it’s a sight to behold. One that is apparently shocking enough for me to blurt out, “You’re half naked.”

He blinks and looks up at me. “Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“You sure you don’t want me to put my shirt on?”

“No,” I say with much vehemence. This statement absolutely deserves his raised brows. “I mean…it’s fine, Connor. I am still half asleep. A shirt isn’t necessary.”

He doesn’t appear convinced. But he does let it go. Half-naked is a good look on him. He has such a nice upper torso. Wide shoulders and defined musculature. Flat brown nipples and a scattering of chest hair. But friends don’t ogle friends.

Thunder crashes again and I jump like an idiot. “Shit.”

“It’s a big one.” He smiles in commiseration. “No sign of hail though, thank goodness.”

“Your car is parked outside.”

“It’ll be okay.”

The wind whistles and howls as it races by the building. Half of my view is taken up by the hotel across the road. But a handy little side street gives me a line of sight to the water. Jagged streaks of lightning appear in the sky and overhead, the big old roof groans and sighs. I am almost certain the building won’t break. Almost.

“What would you say the odds are of the roof flying off and us dying?” I ask in a nice calm tone.

“This place has stood for over a century. I think we’re okay.”

“But you’re not actually an architect or an engineer so you can’t say for sure, right?”

“Take a deep breath, Riley.” Connor joins me at the window. “You don’t like storms, huh?”

“No. Not really.”

He doesn’t press for more. Which makes me want to give it.

“Mom got called into work one night,” I say. “Half of the staff at the restaurant was off sick with the flu. The neighbor who usually kept an eye on me was away. But I was thirteen. Old enough to stay on my own.”

His gaze shifts from the sea to me.

“This huge monster of a storm rolled in, and we lost power. The whole neighborhood was out. No sign of life for miles. I was sitting alone in the dark for hours with this thing raging. It sounded like the world was ending.”

“That would have been enough to freak me out at that age.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It was just me and this celebrity prayer candle.”

His gaze narrows on me. “Celebrity prayer candle?”

“You know, those faux religious ones inside a glass tube with a sticker on the outside of someone dressed as Jesus. Mom’s friend bought it as a joke. But it was the only candle I could replace.”

“Which celebrity was on the candle?”

“Jack Black.”

“And did you pray to him?”

“No, Connor. I did not. Do you think it would have helped?”

His mouth kicks up on one side. “Guess we’ll never know.”

“I probably would have been okay if I hadn’t watched a movie Mom had said was too scary. But she was out, and all my friends had seen it, so…”

“Which one?”

“Paranormal Activity,” I say. “Scared the absolute crap out of me. I kept thinking something was standing beside my bed watching me. Hardly slept for a week.”

Laugh lines crinkle the corner of his eyes.

“I don’t usually tell people that story,” I say. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Everyone’s scared of something.”

“What are you afraid of?”

Without missing a beat, he says, “Women with blue hair.”

“We are fearsome. Though writers in general are way scarier.”

“Why is that?”

“Research. We know shit.” I turn to face him and lean my shoulder against the wall. “For instance, are you aware that an exposed human body can be reduced to bone in as little as ten days?”

“No,” he says slowly.

“Deterioration is up to four times faster in the water. But you must remember to weigh it down. Bodies don’t float at first, but gases from deterioration build up inside and they rise to the surface. Would you like to hear about dissolving bodies with acid and other solvents?”

“Not really.” His forehead is a mess of furrows. “You’re terrifying. Why do you know these things? Are you a serial killer?”

“A character in one of my books was a true crime aficionado.”

He shakes his head in wonder. “Thank you for trusting me with your story about the storm. Your secret’s safe with me, Riley. But I mean it when I say you better not be a serial killer. I’ll be so pissed if you’re lying to me.”

“Like I even have the energy for that sort of thing.”

Standing side by side with him at the window watching the storm makes me feel safer. My childhood fears are pacified. For now. Though we’ll see how long it lasts.

“You’re staring at my left nipple,” he says out of nowhere.

“Sorry. Would you prefer I stared at the right?”

He shrugs. “I guess either is fine when you put it like that.”

Lightning flashes and I flinch. That was a short reprieve.

“You are safe, Riley. I promise.”

“I want to believe you,” I say. “But my lizard brain says I should probably go hide under the bed.”

“Is there room under there for two?”

My smile fails in all the ways. What I need is something to take my mind off everything. We didn’t talk much earlier. We drank wine, ate pho, and watched the first three episodes of Arcane. A favorite of mine. How he could have missed such a great series is a mystery. But a fine time was had by all. Or it seemed to be. It’s hard to tell with his trick of withdrawing into himself and disappearing in plain sight. He seems much more open and present now.

Which makes it an opportune moment to pry. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“You kept frowning at Nicole’s choice of songs at the party. Were you not vibing with them? I mean, you obviously weren’t. But what exactly was that about if you don’t mind me asking?”

His eyebrows descend, and his jaw tightens.

I am the ultimate mood killer. Just watch me go. “Tell me and I’ll let you have half of the bed. Or you can keep sleeping on the floor. Your choice.”

“You’re so mean.”

“I am curious too. Take it as a compliment.”

He sighs. “The floor is really hard, and I am actually quite delicate.”

“I’ve heard that about you. I believe fragile was the word they used.”

“Wouldn’t it be weird, us sharing a bed?”

“No.” I shrug. “I mean, nothing’s going to happen. We’re just friends.”

He looks at me and I look at him and this goes on for a while. But eventually, he says, “Okay.”

“You can have the side next to the window.”

“I promise to protect you from the storm.”

“Thanks, friend.”

Heavy footsteps follow me through the apartment. I leave on the lamp. A little illumination is good on a night like this.

There’s nothing particularly sensual or erotic about my boudoir. Just a big bed with sensible cotton sheets, a duvet, a couple of throws, and a varied selection of pillows and cushions. Comfort matters.

He pauses. “You like a lot of stuff on the bed, huh?”

“Do you want to go back to the floor? Is that what you’re telling me?”

He mutters something about me being mean as he rearranges the cushions before stretching out on his allotted section. Then he lies flat on his back with his hands behind his head. The way this makes the muscles in his arms pop is impressive. Same goes for what the pose does for his chest. There’s just a whole lot of seductively smooth skin on display. Even the tufts of hair in his armpits seem soft and inviting.

I must force myself to look away. My hormones are out of control and the shame I feel is immense. The moment he and I are done with our deception, I’m going to replace me a hookup and get some.

“Your bed is soft,” is his next comment.

“Is that good or bad?”

“After the floor, it’s good.” He turns his head to inspect the pillow some more. “Very good.”

“Okay. Are you…are you sniffing my pillow? Stop that.”

“It’s a normal thing to do.”

“Not really.”

“Smells like you.”

No idea what to say to that. I climb on the bed and get comfortable on my side. All the better to watch him. Rain crashes against the window and a tree limb, waving about in the storm, casts spooky shadows on the curtains. But it’s fine. I am not alone. I can ignore the strange noises coming from the building holding against the storm. It’s just going to take some practice. Or another distraction.

The sudden groan coming from the man at my side seems dredged up from somewhere in the depths of his soul. Way down deep amongst the mire. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. “Truth is, there’s a couple of reasons for the way I reacted at the party. The first one we talked about. I’m not used to them having my back. It’s nice, but it’s new, you know?”

“Right.”

“But mostly, I just still fucking hate that you and me and my family have to make a big deal about this in public for anything to change.”

Nothing I say can make it better. Best to keep my mouth shut and listen. I also don’t want him to stop talking.

He turns to me and says, “It’s not easy being a reformed people pleaser.”

When he goes no further, I ask, “Is that what you used to be?”

“Yeah.”

“Why was that?”

“It’s complicated,” he says.

The sounds of the storm own the room for a while. It seems the rumbling thunder is moving away from us. Heading farther out to sea.

“My father was an asshole who hurt people,” he tells me in a low, quiet voice. The kind meant for sharing secrets in the small hours of the morning. “Stealing, cheating, getting into fights—it was all fun for him. Then one day he disappeared, and it was the best fucking day of our lives. Mom stopped crying herself to sleep. Stu and I didn’t have to keep watching out for his fists.

“I was only twelve when he left, still just a kid. But my brother was older. He had a growth spurt that summer and suddenly, he was tall and broad and looking a hell of a lot like our old man. Folks started watching him when we went places. Whenever he walked into a store, someone would follow him around to make sure he wasn’t stealing. Parents warned their kids to keep away. I saw that and I didn’t want it happening to me. Though there was nothing I could do about the principal at our high school. He put us in detention just for breathing.”

“That’s awful.”

“Dad had slept with his wife and one of his daughters looked an awful lot like Stu and me.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah,” he says. “The family left town a couple of years later. I don’t know what happened to her. But she’s probably not the only half sibling we have out there. Dad couldn’t keep his dick in his pants if his life depended on it.”

“That’s a lot for you to deal with at such a young age.”

“Stu got angry and leaned into his bad reputation. He was always smoking pot and drinking out at the old lighthouse on the point. Nic and him got into all sorts of trouble. Then she was pregnant and decided to keep the baby.”

“Good that she had a choice.”

“Yeah. Stu talked a neighbor into giving him a job at his car repair shop and Nic stayed in school. She busked around town on the weekends to make money. They made it work. While I did the opposite,” he says with a grimace. “You couldn’t replace a more polite and helpful person in existence. I smiled till my face hurt. Did anything to disprove the shit they were saying behind our backs.”

“I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

“It wasn’t all bad. School wasn’t my thing outside of playing ball. But Stu got me some hours at the repair shop, and I worked my ass off. Then as soon as I graduated, I went full time,” he says. “My obsession with being accepted used to drive her wild, though.”

“Ava?”

“Yeah. We fought about it a lot.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“No.” His smile is brief. “I spent two decades being the nice guy. My life looked exactly how I thought it should. And I realized, I wasn’t happy.”

“Was that last Christmas?”

He nods.

“Nice is such a strange thing. It’s a social lubricant that doesn’t mean anything. Not really. Nice is just performative. Kindness on the other hand…that’s harder. I struggle with that one sometimes.”

He grunts.

“Do you think perhaps you overcorrected with the cranky?”

“It’s possible.” He thinks it over. “I spent so much time trying to prove I wasn’t my father that I never got around to being me.”

I stare at the ceiling and listen to the rain pattering against the window. Things sound calmer now. Not so bad. “It’s funny because I picked up on the exact opposite thing about you. I even told your grandma that you seem so genuine and real that it freed me up to be completely myself when we’re together. Maybe I felt that connection because we’re both searching for happy. That’s something we have in common.”

Another grunt.

“What would make you happy, Connor?”

“You coming with me to the high school reunion.”

I perk right the heck up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. “After last night’s demonstration, we’re probably going to have more people on our side. I didn’t want to take up all your time this weekend. But having you as my date would really hammer it home.”

Hope really is a heartbreaker. Just an all-round jerk. I take a deep breath and paste on a smile. “That does make sense.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Sure. Why not? It’s all good research, right?”

“Thanks, Riley,” he says with a smile. “You’re the best.”

Golden sunlight fills the room when I wake. My sleep was deep and full of strange dreams. Sex dreams mostly. But restful just the same. General feelings of contentment and wellbeing fill me. My body is warm, and my muscles relaxed. It takes me a minute to figure out the where and when and why of my situation. Where is Port Stewart. When is Saturday. And why is…I am not actually sure.

I am lying on my back while my platonic friend is wrapped around me. He’s using my left breast as a pillow with his arm slung around my middle and one of his legs thrown over both of mine. There’s a bulge pressing into my hip. But let’s ignore that. Though I doubt I can ignore anything about this. It feels too good. Like scarily right. The line of his spine rises and falls with each deep, even breath. How to get out from underneath him is the trick, however. Because I really need to go to the bathroom.

I play with his hair while I think it over. Twining a lock around my finger. It is, as expected, a tactile delight. Thick and luscious and lovely. Damn him for having such great hair. Mine is no doubt flat as fuck.

Without moving, he asks in a voice rough with sleep, “The storm’s gone. You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“I need more than Pop-Tarts and cereal. Let’s head over to the coffee house.” He lifts his head. “Hey.”

“Good morning.”

He slowly sits up and cracks his neck. The awkwardness of the situation dawns on him ever so slowly. Which is hilarious. First comes a vague frown. Followed by many furrows on his forehead. Like he can’t quite remember how the situation arose. Then his gaze shifts from my breast to my face and back again. The breast that he was just using as a pillow for no doubt important reasons. One I am unaware of at present.

“You didn’t tell me you were a cuddler,” I say. “Seems like the sort of thing you should warn someone about.”

“No. I am not. It must have been you.” He reaches out his hand as if he’s about to shape or plump something. “Did I flatten it a little?”

“Now that would be crossing a line. Let’s leave the boob fondling for now.”

His hand stops in midair. “Right. Sorry.”

“It was definitely you.”

“No,” he says again. And he sounds so convinced.

“Dude, you were sprawled out on top of me. How much proof do you need?” I climb off the other side of the bed and make for the bathroom. “Besides which, I require space to sleep. Touching while unconscious isn’t really my thing.”

“But you were asleep, and we were touching.”

“Hmm.” I close the bathroom door, see to the necessities, and wash my hands. Then I brush my teeth because morning breath. He’s stretching his back, standing beside the bed, when I reappear with a new toothbrush in hand. “For you.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have a history of cuddling? Is this something you tend to do?”

“It’s really not,” he says again with an even heavier frown this time.

“How about with she who shall not be named?”

He shakes his head.

“Sex friends?”

“I don’t spend the night.”

“You only sleep over when you’re in a relationship, fake or otherwise?”

“Yeah. Are you going to get dressed?” He looks me over and says almost to himself, “Even your toenails are blue.”

“It’s called Malibu. Isn’t it great?”

“It’s very blue,” he says, like that isn’t exactly what’s brilliant about it. “That another place you’re interested in? Malibu?”

I shrug. “Don’t know. Probably not quite the vibe I am after.”

No comment from him. “How long does it usually take you to get ready?”

“Not long.”

“Hmm.” His stomach grumbles loud and proud. “Can you give me an estimate?”

“No.”

“Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen?”

“It takes as long as it takes, Connor. Are you always this annoying in the morning?”

He thinks it over and nods. “Pretty much.”

“Did you used to pretend not to be?”

“Tried to. But pulling off the mister nice bullshit before nine is hard work.”

“I bet it is,” I say with a smile. “Go make yourself a coffee and work on losing the frown. You can’t walk into the café with that look on your face. People will think I am bad in bed.”

“God forbid,” he grumbles. “We can’t have that.”

The man’s lucky he’s so pretty. Honestly.

The café is busy. We managed to get a table in the corner as an older couple were leaving. One of the women winked at us while the other smirked. Word has spread of our semi-obscene behavior at the party last night. Which was absolutely to be expected. But I have come prepared. I’m wearing a floaty white midi dress with shoestring straps. The color of innocence. And I’m doing my best to appear sweet as can be. So saccharine it hurts. Though I doubt anyone is convinced. The dress was one of those sale purchases that made sense at the time. Such a bargain. Seventy percent off. Then too late you recall you can’t be trusted not to spill crap on yourself, and it was a total waste of money. As proven by the coffee-colored spot on my skirt.

“Want some?” asks Connor, loading up his fork again.

“No, thank you.” I wrinkle my nose. “Never really thought of oysters as being breakfast food.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

He is downing a plateful of eggs scrambled with oysters, bacon, green onion, and cheese at an alarming rate. The look he gives my cinnamon bun French toast is similarly unkind. “I never understood people preferring sweet over savory at this hour.”

“But pancakes,” I say. “Waffles.”

“Are both great with eggs and bacon.”

“No maple syrup?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Wow. How does it feel to go through life being wrong all the time? Is it a burden?”

“I sleep just fine, as you’re well aware.”

I smile at him, and he smiles at me, and everything is great. So great. Just me and my new friend having breakfast together. I sit back in my chair and relax. Guess I am adjusting to being a public spectacle. People giving us side eyes and whispering comments in our direction. Or it’s just too early in the day to care. Connor’s car remains parked on the street outside and he’s wearing last night’s clothing. No way have the town gossips missed such salient details. Our imaginary sex life is safely established. Job well done.

Shanti and a barista are working their butts off behind the counter. Occasional noises drift out from the kitchen. My love affair with Port Stewart is deepening every day. Despite the weirdness of the last week, I feel at home here. Today the sky is an endless blue with no trace of last night’s storm. My stomach is full and my mood is chill and the music they’re playing is perfect. Jung Kook is always a good choice.

“If you could only have one, which would you choose?” asks Connor, nodding in the general direction of the dueling tip jars on the counter. “Coffee or beer?”

“I feel like life without coffee would hurt more.”

“But summer without beer,” he says, sounding mildly horrified.

I shrug. “In all honesty, cider works just as well for me. I don’t think I’d miss it that much.”

He sadly shakes his head at me. “And you say I am wrong all the time.”

Over by the bar, Harold stands and clears his throat. “If I could have everybody’s attention for a minute!”

“What’s going on?” asks Shanti.

“There’s something I want to say. No, I need to say it.”

Harold is once again decked out in his fishing gear. His worn and windswept face is earnest as he waits. Gradually the sounds of chatter and silverware scraping against plates fall quiet. Shanti turns down the music. Even the barista, the waitress, and the cook in the kitchen pause their work. So does one of Ava’s friends from last night. She sits at a nearby table with a child busy downing a milkshake.

Which is when Harold turns toward us. We both freeze like a pair of deer caught in headlights, only the oncoming car isn’t a vehicle, it’s a freight train and we are fucked. So much for a nice, relaxing breakfast.

“The thing is, we owe you two an apology,” he says, loud and clear. “I am sorry you weren’t welcomed to town properly, Riley. You should never have had to walk in on us all discussing and judging you when we hadn’t even met you yet.”

“Thank you, Harold,” I say with a polite smile.

Then he turns to Connor. “Son, seeing you sitting there smiling and happy with your new girl makes me feel ashamed of myself. You know your own heart and mind. We should have respected that instead of believing we knew best and shoving all our opinions at you all the time.”

Connor says nothing. He just tips his chin. But there’s a slight sheen to his eyes. Like the old man’s words mean more to him than he’s willing to show. This situation has isolated him more than I imagined. He takes a deep breath and drains the last drops from his cup.

“Nicely said, Harold,” says Shanti.

People nod and smile. Conversation starts again in low voices. The big shiny coffee machine hisses and steams as the barista gets back to work. I’m happy my fake date’s been validated. It’s long overdue. However, thank goodness that’s finished. There’s a chance I underestimated how many times I would have to perform in public in front of an audience. Fake dating is harder than it seems.

I lean forward and smile. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yeah,” says Connor, pushing back his chair and standing.

But alas. Harold isn’t done yet. As evidenced when he picks up his glass of water and strikes the side loudly with his spoon. He announces at the top of his voice, “Let’s see you two kiss!”