Catch Got Your Tongue (Rose City Roasters #5)
Chapter 1 Bella
Bella
Eleven Weeks to Opening Day
He’d brought me to a funeral.
For the love of bees, cheese, and saving the motherfucking trees, my date had brought me to a goddamn funeral.
Apparently, this was what I got for trying to be spontaneous, for saying yes to a guy who wore loafers without socks and called himself “low-key” unironically.
For convincing myself that maybe—just maybe—this would be the kind of sickly sweet and slightly obnoxious date that people wrote about in lifestyle blogs or Hallmark Christmas movies.
Instead, I was sitting in the second pew at a stranger’s memorial service, fingering the edge of my sleeve and wondering if this was karmic payback for cutting in line at Trader Joe’s last week.
It was only because I needed to pee, I pleaded with the universe. I will never shop on a full bladder again.
This wasn’t even a good funeral, you know, assuming there was such a thing. Admittedly, my experience with ritualistic ceremonies honoring the dead was somewhat limited, but in my humble opinion, stale, store-brand crackers and out-of-tune hymns were no way to send off your grandma.
But what did I know? The last time I had been around anything remotely death adjacent was during Millie Evans’s post-prom sleepover.
Millie had tried to summon the ghost of Heath Ledger with a glow-in-the-dark Ouija board, and much to the disappointment of a dozen seventeen-year-old girls, Heath never showed.
I picked at a thread, twirling it around my finger like it was one of my auburn curls.
Dagnabbit, this was a new dress. A favorite, too, and that was saying a lot—I didn’t pick my favorites lightly.
Loose-fitting clothing didn’t often flatter my tall, diamond-shaped frame—more often than not, they made me look like a gift-wrapped refrigerator—but “big red” was an anomaly.
The red, knit material hugged my curves just right while also showing off the ideal amount of cleavage for a first date.
It also didn’t hurt that I’d gotten it half-off from a local boutique while visiting my mom in Vermont last month.
Unfortunately, as gorgeous as it made me feel, the dress was at least six emotional miles away from the somber black-and-gray palette everyone else was wearing. And my matching, beaded headband wasn’t doing me any favors either. I looked like I was dressed for an office holiday party.
Worst of all—because yes, it did get worse—I had left my usual armor at home. Fidget toys, my Loop earplugs, whatever paperback I had checked out from the library, anything really, so long as it kept me anchored when conversation got too loud or I needed a break from eye contact.
I always kept my bag fully stocked for battle.
Well, almost always.
For some strange reason, one that I would no doubt discuss at detailed length with my therapist for years to come, I’d decided that today was the day to cosplay as somebody else.
The cool, unbothered, spontaneous girl—she of effortless charm and naturally tousled hair, who somehow managed to look put together even in bouts of chaos.
The kind of girl who laughed easily, drank black coffee without grimacing, and never had to Google things like “how to make small talk without feeling like you’re going to die.”
Guys loved her.
How could they not? She didn’t stim or overthink or need a sensory break halfway through dinner.
She didn’t count the exits in every room she walked into.
No, she was mysterious in a way that felt safe and interesting without being too intimidating.
Because let’s face it, nothing threatened a man more than an assertive woman.
There was a fine line between confident and cunty, or so I had been told, and it was about as fragile as the thread wrapped around my finger.
Just once, I’d wanted to be like all the other girls who didn’t carry around small sensory survival tools like raccoons with emotional support trinkets.
Wait, I take that back.
Raccoons didn’t deserve that. In fact, when it came to my list of favorite animals—one that has been carefully crafted and archived in the digital folder of spreadsheets that took up most of the storage on my phone—raccoons were second only to bees.
Or maybe manatees. Or—
“Smile a little, yeah?” Jasper whispered, rudely interrupting my musings. He leaned over, close enough for me to get a good whiff of his cologne. It was an aggressive odor, one that probably came with an equally aggressive name like Dominion or Predator. “It’s not your funeral.”
I blinked at him. Slowly, purposefully.
He grinned, seemingly proud of himself for his pathetic attempt at humor, though I couldn’t understand why.
“I’m kidding,” he added, a bit too forced, in that way insecure men often did when women didn’t laugh at their jokes. “You’re cute when you get all serious.”
I stared straight ahead at the casket, unsure whether to cry, scream, or try out that right hook my brother had taught me at fifteen.
Maybe it was finally time for me to get back into kickboxing classes.
At least then I could channel my poor life choices into something productive, like uppercutting my way through regret.
Anything would’ve been a better use of my Saturday evening, whether it was catching up on the latest season of Top Chef or checking out Wok This Way, the new Asian fusion food cart everyone in Rose City was raving about.
According to Xan, their Hot & Sour Power Hour was a “life-changing culinary experience.”
Then again, my friend was a lifelong vegan, and I had a hard time accepting any food-related opinions from somebody who had never known the ooey-gooey wonders of lasagna.
“This won’t take long,” Jasper murmured. He made it sound like we were waiting for a coffee order instead of a eulogy. “I had to make an appearance for my ex’s sake.”
I inwardly groaned. My brain stalled like a buffering video.
His ex. Of course.
Jasper certainly hadn’t mentioned an ex during our business communications seminar.
We’d spent the first few weeks of the semester trading half-smiles over spreadsheets and complaining about a group project that was ninety percent him talking and ten percent me rewriting his points so they were more cohesive.
He’d seemed nice enough. Charming, albeit a bit boring.
So what if he had the personality of a lukewarm bowl of soup? That wasn’t such a bad thing. I liked soup, minus leek and parsnip, which, let’s face it, were the participation trophies of soups.
Damn, Jared would be proud of my sports reference.
Whereas some people gravitated toward spicy, bold flavors, I much preferred something cozy, predictable, like a bowl of chicken noodle goodness on a rainy day.
The same could be said for my taste in men. I’d take a soft-spoken teacher over a ripped gym rat any day of the week—the nerdier, the better.
Just so long as he wasn’t a baseball fan.
The men I had previously dated—all four of them—had turned into rabid fanboys the second they’d realized my brother was the Jared Pink, star pitcher for the Rose City Roasters. Thankfully, Jasper hadn’t seemed to know who my brother was, and I’d taken that as proof that he wanted my company.
When he’d suggested we grab dinner this weekend, I’d thought, Finally, a normal, low-stakes date. Something that didn’t involve swiping or small talk or unsolicited—and more often than not, unflattering—photos of penises.
Frankly, I wasn’t convinced that there was such a thing as a flattering dick pic. Nonetheless, I had enough of them saved to my phone gallery for an exhibit at the Met.
Cock O’clock by Arabella Pink.
When Jasper had texted this morning to confirm our date, Nessa and Clarke had leapt at the opportunity to dress me up like First-Date Barbie. The three of us had put together one hell of an outfit that according to Nessa would, “make the dude swallow his tongue.”
Everything had gone according to plan, that was until I’d been halfway through my drive to the restaurant and my phone had buzzed again.
Jasper
Change of plans. Want to meet me at this family thing instead? It’ll be low-key, promise.
A red flag factory had immediately opened up shop in my brain. Nonetheless, I’d rerouted my GPS without overthinking it, convincing myself that this was just what spontaneous girls did.
Look where that had gotten me. Slumped over in an unpadded pew, surrounded by grieving mourners, with a man who treated funerals like networking events.
Fuck you, universe.
Unable to keep my thoughts to myself a second longer, I slid my phone out of my bag and opened up the group chat labeled “Bitchcraft.”
Me
What’s the appropriate etiquette for when your date brings you to a funeral?
Those three little dots popped up within seconds.
Clarke
Is this a hypothetical question?
Me
I wish.
Dani
Please tell me you’re joking.
Nessa
PLEASE tell me you changed the outfit we picked out for you?!?!
Me
Again, I wish. On the bright side, my boobs look fantastic.
Clarke
Haven’t you heard, Ness? Red plaid + cleavage is the new black.
June
Omg, slutty mourner core.
Jo
#FestiveMourningChic
I stared at the screen, stifling a laugh that came out more like a panicked exhale. I had no doubt that the six of us would laugh about this at our next Dungeons & Dragons meet-up, but there was a time and a place for awkward laughter, and Grandma Doris’s funeral definitely wasn’t it.
Me
So, what should I do? I can’t just get up and . . .
June
LEAVE.
Dani
Run.
Nessa
Chill.
Me
***
Nessa
Sorry, that was meant to be chili. It’ll be ready in thirty minutes. Come home.
That worked for me.
Nessa had that nurturing, unflappable energy that made even the most unhinged situation feel fixable with a 90s rom-com and a bowl of something warm.
She and Jared had been together for over a year now—living in the townhouse next to mine—and to say they were #CoupleGoals would be an understatement.
As far as potential sisters-in-law went, I’d hit the freaking jackpot.