The Real Thing: Flirt Romance Read online

  Well, I didn’t get it then. I do now.

  Touching wasn’t something that came naturally to me, so kissing her in front of everyone seemed like a big deal. But then the rejection and the mixed signals followed . . . and it was hard to tell what was appropriate, what wasn’t, what I wanted, what she wanted, and she was frustrated and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

  I chuck the ball up to the ceiling, then catch it, counting the tosses. Three years should be long enough to cure something like this. Therapy, change of scenery, working out—and I’m still freaking out over shit as if I’d been diagnosed with anxiety yesterday. Is there a cure for anxiety? Tolani seems to have gotten better, but then again, I thought I had, too.

  Sitting up, I toss the ball to the corner of the room, knocking over a few things on the bookshelf. I pull out my phone and scroll through my Facebook feed to occupy my damn mind.

  There are always more posts from Em than from anyone else on my friends list. Her last status update says “Work sucks” and her friends took the liberty to finish the Blink 182 song in her comment section.

  I’m never good at commenting on things. I usually just read it or like it or whatever. And I hate posts when it says something sucks and you want to like it so they know you saw it and you concur or something, but you can’t do that because it looks like you’re liking the thing that sucks . . . so you feel like you have to comment on the damn thing, but you have no idea what to say. Or maybe I think too much.

  And I know she’s in the next room, but I always want to comment on Em’s statuses. It’s a best friend code or some shit like that.

  I tap on the comment section.

  You should’ve said something. I would’ve bought you ice cream.

  Then I hit post before I can rethink and retype it a hundred times. I drop my phone on the mattress and it buzzes next to my thigh almost immediately. I figure it’s another someone commenting on the post, but it’s Em, and she’s IMing me instead.

  I’m almost done out here. You mind if I come bug you?

  Bug away.

  She doesn’t write back, but I see that she saw my message. I adjust on the bed to give her room, then I check myself to make sure I won’t freak out on her again. The football is out of my hands, which helps, but thinking about it was stupid since it brings that night to the forefront of my mind.

  Ali shoved me away, and I felt like shit even after helping the team win. But shit was the feeling I was used to with her, even when we were . . . intimate. If that’s what you call what we did. She left with the rest of the cheerleaders, and before I could ask what I did wrong that time I was sacked myself.

  Em’s body always felt different than Ali’s. And when she tackled me to the ground after that game, I almost kissed her. I wanted her to know how much she meant to me and how she never made me feel like I was unworthy of her friendship. But making the move wasn’t—isn’t—something I’m good at, and she was off me before I could take the chance.

  In hindsight, maybe that’s a good thing. I’d hate to ruin another relationship because of my jacked-up issues.

  My door creaks open, and I’m jolted out of my head. Good. My head is a crappy place to be.

  “So, today sucked,” Em says from the doorway. She’s sort of smiling, but mascara is blotched under her eyes.

  “You okay?” I shift on the bed, patting the spot next to me.

  “I think so.” She doesn’t move, and I think maybe I’m doing something wrong again, but her smile twitches and she brings up a carton of ice cream to her chin. “I know you promised anal cream, but will this work?”

  “What?”

  Her lips press together, holding back what I’m pretty sure is laughter as she slides onto the bed next to me. She pulls out her phone and taps the comments on her post. Right there by my name it says You should’ve said something. I would’ve bought you anal cream.

  “Shit.” I snatch up my phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Deleting that.”

  She yanks my cell from my hand. “No way! You’ve already gotten ten likes out of it.”

  “I don’t care.” I reach for her hand, but she shoves the phone down her cleavage. I growl and tug on the end of her ponytail. “Cheater.”

  “You want it so bad, go get it,” she challenges me. I consider it for a second, but I still see the wetness on her lashes, and I forget about my phone. She blinks and a few drops fall, but she swipes them away.

  “Are you okay?” I ask again, since she never really answered me before.

  “Yeah. Long day at work, then, you know . . . Dad’s leaving for another month for one of his big summer catches, and it’s hard not to worry.”

  “He’ll be okay. He always is.”

  “I know, but it’s still . . . having him on that scary ocean with little or no cell reception or Internet or anything, I feel like every time I Skype with him or talk with him, it could be the last time.” She blows out a sigh and shakes her head. “Never mind. I know he’ll be okay. And I’ll be fine, too. Just been one of those days.”

  “He’ll be okay,” I repeat, nudging her knee.

  She bites back a smile and nods once. “Yes, he will.” The top of the ice cream carton makes a pop when she opens it. “Now, I’ll be okay if you eat this ice cream with me—even though you’ve barely eaten a damn thing since I moved in. And then you’re going to read another Dr. Seuss and we’re not going to talk about the ocean or big fish or snow cones or parents or anything like that.”

  “I take it we won’t be reading Hop on Pop, then.”

  “No.” She dips a spoon into the chocolate chunk, then sticks it in my mouth. I may pay for it at the gym, but I don’t give a shit right now. I keep the spoon in my mouth as I lean over and browse the Seuss-covered bookshelf.

  “One Fish, Two Fish it is,” I say around the spoon.

  She smacks my shoulder, and I grab The Lorax instead.

  It’s not until she’s half-asleep, settled against my shoulder, and I’m almost through the story, when her hand twitches and I realize it’s resting on my thigh. I drop my hand over hers and squeeze, not knowing if she’s really asleep or not. But it doesn’t matter, because she doesn’t seem upset anymore, and I’m not panicking.

  Maybe I don’t need those pills after all.

  Chapter 7

  Emilia Johnson is attending FIRST SUMMER BEACH PARTY!!!!! event.

  72 people like this

  ***

  “Last call, everyone!” Rachel yells from the open SnoGo window. The party started early tonight. Either that or the afternoon crowd slowly transformed into the night crowd while I had my head stuck in a freezer.

  “Miiiii-aaaaaa,” Josh Sanders, local beach bum, sings, poking his ocean-soaked head through the window. “If you like piña coladas . . .”

  I wiggle my hips and sing the rest of the song as I pull the juice from the top shelf. Rachel shakes the tip jar at Josh, which he rolls his eyes at before jamming a couple of bucks in.

  “You sticking around?” he asks after I hand him his snow cone.

  “Planning on it.”

  His mouth quirks up in the corner, showing off some serious dimples. He leans forward, sticking the spoon for his piña colada out at me. “Tell the boss you want out early. You can help me finish this.”

  Rachel maneuvers around me, shutting the window in Josh’s face. He sticks his lip out and pretends to be completely butt-hurt about it, but then a half-naked Heidi leaps on his back and takes a bite out of his snow cone. He tickles her toes and waves at me and Rachel before taking off toward the bonfire and booze. I pull my phone out and check the time, trying to ignore the bar full of notifications I have on the top of the screen.

  “I can close up if you really want to go with him,” Rachel says, counting out our tips.

  “Thanks, but he’s not the guy I want to hang with tonight.” I can’t stop my wide grin, and Rachel elbows me in the side.

  “Already? You�
��ve been here a week and the only people I see you interact with reside in your phone.”

  She’s right, but I give her a playful shove anyway. So far every break I get I check my email. Scott and I have been having an ongoing conversation that’s lasted a few days now. It’s kind of funny how people who don’t know each other can easily talk via the Internet. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.

  But he’s not the guy who has me smiling from earring to earring.

  “Well, if you’re serious, I’d like to go find him, if that’s cool.”

  I tap over to my messages and send Eric a quick text, swatting all the butterflies in my stomach. Eric has always given me tummy jolts, even when it was just a text here or an IM there. The emails would cause the butterflies to break-dance and now, seeing him face-to-face, it’s like an ongoing feeling of falling ass backwards down a hill.

  “Eric . . . that’s your roommate, right?” Rachel asks, nodding to my open screen. We work in such close quarters, I’m not sure privacy is a thing between us.

  “Yep.” I force back a butterfly in my stomach that wants to escape as a sigh.

  She hands me my half of the tips, and I tuck them away with my phone.

  “Short, dark hair? Broad shoulders? Looks good in board shorts? And that warm skin tone that you just want to lick right off him?”

  “You want to lick his skin off?” My nose wrinkles, but I’m laughing. “Gross.”

  “That’s him, though, right?”

  “Sounds like it,” I say, turning to cap all the juices. “How do you know him?”

  “I don’t.” She stretches around me to get to the freezer, and we knock boobs again. “But he stopped by earlier looking for you.”

  “What? Where was I?”

  “On break with your face stuck in your phone.”

  I shove her again. “What did he want?”

  “He said he’ll meet you at Caribbean Jack’s when you get off.”

  My smile won’t go away as I fumble with the juice caps. It’s just Eric, and I shouldn’t be nervous, but I’m shaking like crazy. It’s totally excited nerves. Eric has been the cause a lot of those ever since he asked for a pen in our statistics class. Rachel laughs, taking the green-apple bottle from me and scooting away from the shack door.

  “Go. I got this.”

  “I’ll open tomorrow, I promise.”

  “I want details.”

  “Thank you!” I call over my shoulder, hopping out of my shoes to avoid the sandstorm I’d blow in there as I run to the bar.

  I need this party, and I need this with Eric. Yesterday was so exhausting, and I was on edge all day knowing Dad was heading out for another month. He reassured me about a million times last night, like he always does during our Skype conversations, but it’s always scary for me. Not being able to talk to him is just terrifying, and this constant ache of worry settles in my chest until he gets back. Sometimes I call the coast guard to see if his boat is okay, or if they’ve been in contact with him, but I don’t want to be obnoxious about it. So I end up doing the stupidest thing ever and researching fishing stats online and having nightmares every time I hear the ocean.

  But Eric let me sleep in his bed last night. He read four Dr. Seuss books to me—maybe more—and I woke up tucked in, the sheets smelling like Tide and Eric’s Suave for Men shampoo. He was on the floor, talking in his sleep again, mumbling something about the score of the last Super Bowl. I watched and listened for a good ten minutes before attacking him with my tickle fingers.

  I’ve been nonstop smiling since, and that’s not easy on Dad’s first day out. I’m giving all credit to my best friend, even though he doesn’t know it.

  I slip my shoes on when I get to the pavement, then pull my phone out. Time to see what all these notifications are about. Out of habit, I start to turn off silent mode, but I stop myself. Eric probably doesn’t want to hear the chirping and knocking and popping all night. What a mood killer.

  Facebook first. Eve’s been IMing me all day about how she thought pregnancy was supposed to give her sex drive a boost, but she feels too much like a whale to have sex. She doesn’t want Paul to feel like he has to rub one out, but the thought of semen makes her stomach turn. I try to be consoling and offer up some suggestions, even though I’m not sure what to do in that situation.

  I blow out a sigh as I read her latest IM.

  Maybe if someone sits on me, the baby will just pop right out. Like a zit.

  Cringing at the visual, I type back Only a few more weeks. Keep him in there. He still needs to cook.

  I flip over to Twitter and follow back my new followers. Mostly other book nerds like me, a few spammers I ignore. My email is next, and I get double the notifications from Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, so I delete those. I really should just send them to spam, but I’ve been lazy.

  There’s another message from Scott, and I pull it up, zooming the screen.

  Hey Mia2.

  Thinking of our conversation, and a Demetri Martin joke popped in my head.

  “I was on the street. This guy waved to me, and he came up to me and said, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.’ And I said, ‘I am.’”

  Still can’t get over how I emailed the wrong girl. Even crawling back, I screw it up.

  Maybe I’ll just send a bunch of flowers to every Mia Johnson in the world. I’ll go broke doing it, but it might work.

  Expect roses in a few days ;)

  —Scott

  I laugh, and quickly tap back a short message.

  “Mia2” Think I can find that on a license plate?

  Also, make sure you send out yellow roses if you’re trying to apologize ;)

  It doesn’t take long for my phone to buzz with his response, and I round the corner just as I pull it up.

  You know, I actually knew that. Not that I’ve had to send a ton of yellow roses out before, but yeah . . . I work at a floral shop. Because I’m just that manly.

  Hey, you on Facebook? Probably easier to chat that way.

  —Scott

  It’s so much easier to copy and paste from my laptop, but I go back to my Facebook profile and copy the link, and paste it in the reply email. Hitting send, I promise myself that’s the last thing I do on my phone until—

  Bam!

  I stumble backward as the metal pole I just rammed into nose-first wobbles. “Ouch, damn it.” I laugh to myself, rubbing my face. I take a quick glance around. Only a few people noticed my complete lack of attention to anything outside of my phone screen.

  “A girl walks into a bar,” someone jokes as they come out of Caribbean Jack’s. I have to laugh because that was a pretty good one. I pull up my Facebook and type it in as my status update.

  Oh, my hell. I growl as I turn the screen off and shove the cell in my pocket. No more tonight. Just Eric and this party we’re heading to. That’s all that exists.

  I smell barbeque and pineapple as soon as I walk in. It reminds me of my dad for a second, and then my attention is 100 percent on finding my best friend. He never texted me back. Or maybe he has and I haven’t seen it yet. I roll my eyes and pull my phone out again, check my message center and duh . . . I didn’t even send him anything. My brain is so all over the place. Ignoring the three new IM bubbles in the top right corner, I tap the Call button under the adorable picture of Eric I snapped when he was doing pull-ups out on the balcony this morning.

  Weaving through the bar crowd, I press the phone to one ear and plug the other one. It rings and rings and rings. When the beep for the voice mail goes off I laugh and playfully scold him. “Hey, answer your phone.”

  Someone knocks into my shoulder, ramming me sideways into another someone. They both apologize, and I try to laugh off being played like a pool ball as I make my way out to the deck. Eric still won’t answer, and I’m listening to his voice-mail message for the fourth time when I finally spot him sitting by the barbeque pit.

  The sun is almost completely set, but what’s still visib
le lights up his smile and his “lickable” skin. He brings his beer to his lips and laughs a little before he takes a swig. I’m practically bouncing my way over to him, jamming my cell in my back pocket. It will stay there till I plug it in at home.

  I maneuver around another group of people from the beach, and they make sure I say “Yes” a million times to the party going on along the coast. If everyone would leave me alone for two seconds I’ll get out there. I just need my best friend first.

  Turning from Ben, Vic, and Traci with a final “I’ll see you there,” my gaze lands back on Eric . . . and he’s not alone.

  I give myself props for getting along with so many people in the short time I’ve been here. But I stare at this girl’s bikini bod, belly-button ring, and red hair in a short, pixie cut as she places a hand on Eric’s arm, and I instantly hate her.

  It’s like it’s happening all over again, even though I have no idea what they’re talking about, or what the hell is going on. All I see is that party back in high school. There was even a bonfire blocking my way to Eric then, too.

  I was going to tell him how much I liked him. I don’t know exactly when I was going to do that, but it was coming whenever I got the guts. That night I saw him walking along the beach with Ali—cheerleader, beautiful, seriously perfect. And the second her lips pressed against his I felt like someone was stomping on my chest in high heels.

  I almost ran over and started a catfight. But Eric’s face when she pulled back stopped me. That face was as painful as the kiss itself. He looked like he was in awe or something. Happy. So I ran in the other direction.

  He looks happy now, too, and I don’t want to run again, but when Miss Perfect Body hands him another beer from the bartender, that’s exactly what I do. Guess I’m not as tough in real life as I am in my head.

  Even though I swore I wouldn’t take it out, my phone is back in my hands to send Eric a text he probably won’t even see for hours, when he finally notices I’m not around.