Wasted Words (4 page)

Bayleigh sighed and pulled away. “That’s true. I’ve just ended up with a long line of scumbag douchers, and I’m kind of done.”

“Well,” I said, “be glad you weren’t here earlier, because the doucheking was in here with Tyler a bit ago.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah — Kyle Churchill.”

Her eyes widened. “The same Kyle Churchill who plays for the Giants?”

I wagged my finger at her. “Ah, ah, ah. That’s exactly the look that will end up getting douche all over you. Go for Greg. He’s a catch, just ask Rose.”

She nodded. “It’s true. He and I went on a couple of dates, but I was still hung up on Patrick. He’s one of the good ones.”

“Well, then why doesn’t he have a girlfriend?” Bayleigh asked, still suspicious.

Rose shrugged. “It’s not for lack of trying. He’d hit the online meat market looking for someone, but that didn’t pan out, and then his dad got really sick and passed away a few months ago, before we opened.”

“I had no idea,” Bayleigh breathed.

Rose nodded. “Yeah. So he’s really busy outside of work. But I’m sure if you can be patient and understanding about his family life, it could definitely work out.”

Bayleigh’s big, brown eyes were soft. “Yeah. It’s really admirable that he would sacrifice so much.”

“It
is
admirable,” I said. “He’s an admirable guy with muscles and tattoos and a great smile, which is
exactly
what you need. And you, my gorgeous, loving friend, are exactly what
he
needs.”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing yet again. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” I bumped her hip with mine. “I’m always right.”

Tyler

I’d come home to the quiet apartment and changed out of my slacks and button-down, opting for sleep pants and a T-shirt before settling into the couch to read.

Or:
try
to read.
 

The only books I’d ever read were for school, never for entertainment or leisure, and on hearing that truth, Cam made it her personal mission to find a book I’d love.
 

Over the last year, I’d read —
tried
to read — dozens of books, from a slew of graphic novels to high fantasy, sci-fi, and even romance. But so far nothing had captured my interest, not even the one in my lap —
The Martian.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like it, because I did. It was fascinating, but I kept getting bogged down by the science, which made me feel dense, and when I tried to skim forward, I felt like I’d missed something.
 

I’d started and stopped the page I was on probably three reading sessions in a row, and that night, I abandoned the story, opting instead to troll my phone. I was in the middle of an article on predictions for college ball that week when Cam walked in the door.

She smiled cheerily as she removed her key from the lock and made her way inside. “Hey. What’s up?” She glanced in my lap, and when she saw the book, she lit up like the Fourth of July. “You’re reading!”
 

Her bag hit the ground with a thump, and she bounded around the couch, flopping down next to me so we were shoulder to shoulder. Or more like shoulder to bicep.
 

“Tell me stuff.”

I made a face, not wanting to admit defeat, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t pick it up again. “It’s kinda … science-y.”

Her smile fell, slipping into a pout. “Dangit, I really thought this one would be it. I mean, it’s a major motion picture, for goodness sake.” She flicked the bookmark. “You did good on this one. Look how far you made it.”

“It’s not the book,” I said in encouragement. “It’s just me. I think I just don’t like to read.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone likes to read. You just have to find a book that turns you on.”

I raised an eyebrow, and a flush blossomed across her cheeks as she looked up at me.

“Not like that, perv.” She laughed and socked me in the arm to divert her embarrassment. “Imaginatively. Everybody has that one book, that first book that just, like … unlocks their brain.”

I sank a little deeper in the couch. “So what was yours?”

“
The Hobbit,
” she said without hesitation and propped her feet on the coffee table. “It was the first novel I read that wasn’t written specifically for kids, and once I read it, I devoured everything I could get my hands on, even sneaking some of my mom’s novels. The ones on the high shelf. With penetration.”

I laughed as she continued on.
 

“Some kids played baseball and rode bikes. I read books. Books were what I asked for for Christmas and birthdays. They were what I spent my allowance on.”

“I think that’s the best use of allowance that I’ve ever heard. I blew mine on baseball cards and Bomb Pops on the ice cream truck.”

She shrugged. “I was weird, but so were my parents. I think it’s just an Emerson thing. But I didn’t really care, you know? I lived a thousand lives to escape from real life, because real life is boring and shitty. There’s no adventure, not like we get with Tolkien or Lewis. It’s fun to escape into a book, and I want you to experience it, so back to the drawing board we’ll go.” She picked the book up with a sigh, her fingers grazing my thigh without a thought, and she shook her head at it. “I really thought I had it this time.”

“I bet next time will be the one.”

She patted my knee and gave me a patronizing smile. “You’re sweet.”
 

She settled back into the couch and sank a little into the crack of the cushions. Her thigh was pressed against mine from hip to knee, and she let out a sigh. I echoed her with a sigh of my own, comforted by her warm body against mine.
 

“Damn, it feels good to sit down,” she said, leaning into me a little more.

“I bet.” Instinctively, I wanted to put my arm around her, but stopped myself. “Still not used to being on your feet so much?”

“Does one ever really get used to that?”

“Dunno. I figured they’d have to, right?”

“Well, if it happens, I’m not there yet. I spent most of my time managing the comic book store from the comfort of a stool behind the register. Even when we did inventory, I sat on that stool. A tired butt I can handle, but tired feet are the worst.”

I chuckled.

“Tomorrow is another long one — a meeting with everyone in the morning, managing all day, and then singles night that night. You’re still coming, right?”

“Only for you,” I answered, and that was true, even though it was sure to be a good time. I wasn’t the most social creature these days. For a long time, really. But with Cam, it was always easy.

“It makes me feel better that you’ll be there.”

“How come? You’ve got this locked with your eyes closed.”

“I dunno. You just make it easier. Like my magic feather.” She smiled up at me, and the apples of her cheeks touched the frames of her glasses.
 

I nudged her with my shoulder, smiling back. “Same here.”

“Anyway. I think this one will be even better than the last. Everyone loves dressing up, and dressing up as comic characters is the absolute best kind of dressing up. Is your costume settled?”

I nodded. “Just put the finishing touches on my shield.”

“Good. You’ll make a better Captain America than actual Captain America, as far as I’m concerned.”

I laughed.

“I’m serious,” she said. “You look straight out of a poster for cigarettes from the 40s. They always used the hottest models for those.”

I smirked to cover the fact that I was suddenly very aware of her thigh pressed against mine. “Aww, you think I’m hot?”

She gave me a look. “Anyone with functioning corneas would say you’re hot. I shouldn’t even limit it to that. I’m pretty sure I saw a blind guy give you a double-take the other day.”

A laugh burst out of me, and she smiled, looking smug. “Well, thanks, Cam. You’re not so bad yourself, you know. I’m pretty sure I saw a guy at Wasted Words who was one set of batting lashes away from a proposal.”

She made a noise in dissent. “Please. The only guys who think I’m hot look more like Jabba the Hut than Han Solo.”

I snickered. “Aw, come on. You’ve dated some decent guys.”

Cam laughed. “It’s true. I mean, I only date nerds, but they’ve been mostly decent, if not forgettable. But I’ll take what I can get. I mean, guys who play Magic aren’t all bad, although they’re usually serious babies when I beat them.”

“Nobody likes a sore loser.”

“Nothing hoses off the libido like a grown man in a My Little Pony T-shirt throwing a tantrum over Magic cards.”

The visual made me smile. “You should teach me how to play.”

She raised a brow. “I dunno. Are you a sore loser?”

“Not really.”

Her brow climbed.
 

“Listen — Street Fighter doesn’t count because you cheat.”

She gaped in mock surprise. “Sir, I do
not
cheat.”

“Sure, sure. And I hate steak and beer.”

“Says the guy who cheats at chess.”

I gave her a look. “You can’t cheat at chess.”

She folded her arms. “Uh-huh. You can Google it — there are strategy sites where you can put in the board and it tells you how to win.”

I folded mine back at her. “Oh? And how would
you
know?”

Her lips pursed. “I don’t cheat.”

“Prove it,” I challenged.

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she climbed off the couch. “Fine, but we’re playing on the board this time, no cheating phones. I practiced for at least six hours last week, so bring it on. Oh, and I’m black this time.”

I rubbed my hands together. “You can lose as whatever color you want.”

“I’m gonna beat you one day, if it’s the last thing I do, Knight,” she said over her shoulder.
 

“Good,” I said, smirking at her back. “Then I’ll have someone to beat for life.”

Cam

I WOKE EARLY THE NEXT morning as I usually did, making a huge pot of coffee for Tyler and I to share before cuddling up on the couch with whatever I was reading. Currently, it was
Mists of Avalon
, which was a favorite of mine. I hadn’t read it since I was in high school, and I was long overdue for a re-read. I’d been in a book rut, uninspired by the last three books I’d tried, but as my dad always said — the best cure for a rut was to pick up a sure thing.
 

I heard Tyler’s alarm sound, breaking the silence in the quiet apartment, and I did my best not to look when he shuffled out of his bedroom in nothing but a pair of sleep pants, dark hair ruffled. I waited until his back was turned to sneak a quick glance, at least — his skin was smooth and immaculate, and the taper of his long waist was of a mathematical proportion that made my ovaries clench.

Any hetero woman would have looked, I told myself for the thousandth time since he’d moved in. It made me feel a little bit better about blatantly creeping on him.

I turned my attention back to my book, sorta — I couldn’t fully focus as I listened for cues. I knew his habits so well, I could almost time the flush of the toilet, the length of his shower, the moment when he’d open that door and walk out, soaking wet, towel wrapped around his waist in front of a cloud of steam, water dripping down his abs—

Look, I know it’s vulgar, me ogling Tyler like hippies ogle kale in Whole Foods. But Tyler was some good looking kale, if that’s a thing. If it’s not, I’m making it a thing. The guy was built like a dream. Like a teenage dream you’d plaster all over your walls, spend your nights fantasizing about your wedding spread in Seventeen Magazine. The way he looked was unreal. He was so beautiful, you’d be tempted to touch him just to make sure he was made of flesh and blood and not actually a man-bot of chiseled beauty, hand-crafted by an erotic inventor of eroticness.

I attributed my lusty thoughts for Tyler to the fact that I hadn’t dated or slept with anyone in a while. My stupid, hard-up body was a traitor — the lack of physical contact had just reached unmanageable heights, forcing me into fantasizing about the unattainable guy who paid half the rent.

Life is so unfair that I’d be attracted to a guy I’d never date. We were too different, and I’d done that once before, which had resulted in nothing but humiliation and regret.

Tyler and I were friends — I was nothing but his fun and amusing little buddy, definitely not the kind of girl who he could ever publicly date. My mouth could not be trusted, and neither could my ability to walk in high heels or look pretty.
 

I had been what I call ‘genetically doomed’ — my father was a small, slender man who spent more time with books than he did with people. He had a collection of cardigans that would give Mister Rogers a boner, and nearly every wall in my childhood home in the cosmopolitan city of Walnut, Iowa, was lined with bookshelves. He met my mother at the University of Iowa. Classic story: he was an English major, she studied Library Sciences. She admired his cardigan across the library, and he approached her, complementing the chain on her gigantic glasses. Her cardigan too — he’d appreciated it from across the room. She smiled and said she’d gotten it at Sears, in the men’s department, on sale.
 

That was all it took. Love at first sight.
 

Neither of them had ever left Iowa for more than forty-eight hours, and after their graduation and nuptials, they moved back to Mom’s home town of Walnut to be near my grandparents, each of them taking up jobs in the public schools — Dad teaching high school English and Mom as the librarian in the elementary school.

Here’s the thing about having weird parents — they cultivate your weird, thus making weird your normal.

Looking back, I guess I should have been embarrassed when my mom did things like send me to school in clothes that were a decade out of style or with tofu and couscous for lunch. Once she even cut my hair with an actual bowl — she made me hold the orange plastic bowl while she used the kitchen scissors to hack away at it.
 

But instead of being ashamed, I went to school and told them that my mom had cut my hair because when it was long, I was too strong. Because of my superpowers, and all. I had a peanut gallery enthralled under a tree on the playground as I wove the tale of how I’d accidentally broken the table when I pushed away from it after dinner, or when I pulled the faucet off the shower by accident, but she drew the line when I pulled the car door off its hinges trying to open it. We’d cut it for everyone’s safety, I told them, and they bought it with wide eyes.