Chapter 11
eleven
Nessa
It’s been a week since Mateo became my personal driver.
During our time together, he’s filled me in on the progress he’s made with the festival.
He’s already reached out to the entire group of festival vendors and started on a secret plan.
He’s saved my ass, honestly. I did not want to take this on once I saw how much was expected of us.
But once something has my name on it, I won’t let it fail.
Between the on-demand chauffeuring and weekly Sunflower Fest planning sessions that often end in watching an old show or movie, I’ve started to really enjoy our time together. Worse, Delia might have been right when she suggested letting someone “babysit” me. Not that I’d ever tell her that.
And not that I actually want someone fussing over me. I’m fine.
“So…” Mateo drums his fingers on the steering wheel, his demeanor uncharacteristically nervous.
“I know we still have a lot to do for the festival, but I need to take the week off to work on my pitch and meet with some investors and the bank. Do you think you can tackle the rescue folks meeting? It shouldn’t be too crazy. ”
Why is he stressed about asking me to do something very clearly spelled out in my responsibilities as the co-chair?
I try my best to keep the snappy tone in my voice so he doesn’t suspect anything, though I fail miserably. “Yeah. Why? Would that be a problem?”
“Did you take a gummy at work by accident?” He quirks an eyebrow at me.
I raise a hand, fingers—tipped with black-painted nails—clutching a vibrant green vape pen, and take a deep inhale. With a slow exhale, I blow the vapors his way, then playfully give him the middle finger.
“I’ve been working on this ‘being chill’ thing you keep going on about. It seemed like it would be on your approved list. Oh,” I say as we pass the mall, “can we stop for soft pretzels and cinnamon buns?” I make my best attempt at giving puppy dog eyes.
“You going full Loch Ness on me tonight?”
“Nope, just think I deserve a little treat.”
“Can’t fight that logic.” He eases into the parking lot, then leads me by the hand to the food court, where we order one item from each food stall.
A hot dog, Bourbon Chicken from the Chinese takeaway place, guava and cheese empanada, fries with chocolate shakes for dipping, and, of course, the originally requested soft pretzel and cinnamon bun.
While we sit across from one another, I pull out the research I’ve been working on for my relationship podcast, Flicking the Bean with Rabin , and leaf through a pile of recent listener questions and Reddit Q&A conversations.
I need a distraction. And maybe I want to rile him up a little.
Pretend the man across from me isn’t affecting me.
Maintain an aloof but flirty attitude, just to poke at him.
Because despite my best efforts, that goofy grin he plastered on and his obnoxious ability to go with the flow and still succeed effortlessly are drawing me in.
My plan to ignore him is foiled when he slides into the chair beside me.
“Better angle for the shake and fries,” he offers in explanation.
“Uh-huh. Whatever.” I shift in my chair, putting some distance between us, and continue to read.
The universe is working against me. I turn the page, and a slew of printed comments about cock rings slides out from the folder and into his lap.
“It’s for a listener question.”
I reach out a hand for my papers, but he holds it out of reach and laughs. The bastard laughs at how I work to research before discussing a topic on air.
“It’s funny to you that I prepare?” Heat barrels through me, and not the good kind.
“I don’t know, preparing by using the opinions of others doesn’t seem authentic. Did you and Satan not try these kinds of things? You were together for years.”
I clear my throat and wait.
Mateo scratches his cheek.
Come on, dude. We established months ago that you’re the only person to have gone down on me. Does that question sound ridiculous yet?
Hackles officially raised, I grit my teeth. “You think that Mister God’s Gift to Women would deign to do anything that was not self-serving?”
“Okay.” He grimaces. “You mentioned you were with another guy, right? What about him?”
Apprehension skitters through me. Why the hell am I talking about this with him?
But with a sigh, I go on. “Just once at sleepaway camp. I was a CIT. It was a few pumps and over in a locked shower stall after the campers went to sleep one night. Nothing too exciting.” I pull my shoulders back and straighten the papers in front of me. “Ugh, this is why you are ‘Bad Idea.’”
“Did you just call me ‘Bad Idea’? Dope. Yo—did you know she’s got a Filipino dad and European mom? We could make our own little Olivias if…” His eyes go wide, and he snaps his mouth shut.
Pretending he didn’t just suggest a future where we have children together, I close my folder and shove it back into my bag. “Can we just go?”
“Hold on, Ivy.” He grabs my hand, stopping me from slinging my bag onto my shoulder. “Hold on. It just hit me.” He leans in close and whispers, like maybe he believes I should be embarrassed by what he’s about to say. “I was the first person you slept with after him.”
“Great job, Detective. That is exactly what I told you. Directly,” I retort.
If I could use magic to make his head to explode, I would. I want to cause him pain without touching him. I want to destroy him for bringing this shit up when I’m trying to be the easy-going version of myself.
“Let it go,” I growl.
This is getting too close to the part of my story I’ve only ever shared with my therapist. The part I hoped to leave behind in Boston, along with night sweats and the self-doubt that comes from gaslighting.
I’m supposed to be an expert. Yet I missed the signs in my own life.
“Huh?” He looks dumbfounded, which infuriates and frustrates me, even if it’s no surprise.
“Let’s. Go,” I say, enunciating each syllable.
“Where are we going?”
I’ve run out of patience. Grabbing his wrist, I drag him through the hallway, making a beeline for Oliver’s Gifts.
Oliver’s is where tweens and teens go to giggle over low-quality and inexpensive sex toys, flavored condoms, and lube.
I prefer purchasing from boutiques—queer or women-owned companies that support ethical porn—but we’re here, and I’m desperate to keep from letting that conversation ruin my mood.
So I drag him directly to the back of the store to a display case.
“All right, Mister Big Shot. What do you have experience with?” I zero in on him, daring him to talk.
“Does it matter? You said what we have isn’t like that.” He crosses his arms, smug.
I mimic his stance and glare back.
With a huff, he storms to the front of the store and picks up a basket.
He barely looks as he drops item after item into it.
Fuzzy cotton candy–pink handcuffs, a water bottle shaped like a veiny penis, a cheap vibrator shaped like a gummy bear, another shaped like a frog, sex position dice, and a deep-throat numbing spray.
Then there’s a black ashtray with a tarot card style decoration embossed with an image of a cat smoking a joint and the words the stoner .
A Twilight tumbler with a straw. A stack of Team Jacob merch.
As I watch, my mood shifts. Whether from my plant medicine or his silly shopping spree, I’m not sure.
“Oh my god, are you serious?” I’m struggling to suppress my laughter.
“I heard you were Team Jacob, Nessie.” He stops in front of me, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“It’s true. Jacob had the better abs. And complexion…” I blush at the admission, hoping he doesn’t catch on to the double meaning there.
“Let’s go, little monster.” He places an arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the cashier. He purchases everything in the basket, plus a cock ring. “For research,” he says, giving a wink.
As we climb back into the car, he silently sets the bag on my lap. We remain quiet as he drives, the silence somehow more stressful than the teasing.
It shouldn’t be, not for someone in my line of work. Therapists have to allow space for patients to speak. I’m used to uncomfortable silences, but I really dislike being waited out like this.
Finally unable to take it anymore, I say, “I know you have money to throw around and all that, but why did you go shopping like a teen boy?”
He shrugs and laughs. “Why not? I thought the rule was that I’m supposed to encourage you to have fun.”