Chapter 6
After I wake, my heart is pounding at what was surely a wild but mind-blowingly fun mistake. I feel stupid for not going back to my room.
Last night was just some hot sex. A way to blow off some steam with a gorgeous guy.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
As I’m intending to sneak out, he locks his arm around me when I start to roll off the bed, pulling me back in and stroking his hand up and down my arm until I calm. Until I want to stay and never leave. And he’s got me secured with him again.
“Don’t leave,” he says. “Please don’t leave.”
When his tongue touches my neck, I begin to melt. Then he moves down my body until his mouth is between my legs. He is eager and clear about his intent to satisfy me.
Having someone want to please me this much is not something I’m used to.
This kind of hunger directed at me? It takes a bit for me to give in and accept it.
Enjoy it. I’ve always been about focusing on someone else because it’s typically felt like an annoyance for a guy to care about what I might like.
Not with New Friend Dave. He’s patient, and he waits for me to relax into it. Into him. Against his mouth. Which I finally do.
Maybe it’s easier to let myself go now because I have ingrained in my head how this is a vacation thing. Because it has to be.
This is ecstasy that I didn’t know could happen.
Well, until last night.
I relax my thighs and let myself succumb to his clear desire to drive me over the edge.
The heat of his mouth, his lips, and his tongue?
I’m soon dizzy. Sweating. And nearly crying while he builds me up so expertly.
Every second is a minute. And every minute sends me crashing even more into oblivion.
After my hands are in his hair and while I’m still panting and trying to recover from what he’s done to me, there’s a knock at the door, and I swear all the swears I know.
“No need for cursing. Room service.” Dave crawls up and smiles before he bounces out of bed with a wink. “Gotta’ get that.”
This boy has obviously started following my socials because in wheels two kinds of Benedict, a full plate of Irish smoked salmon, bagels, sour cream, capers, and such. Oh, and coffee, of course.
He knows what I like.
In more ways than one.
“Marcia Gay Harden,” he says as he rolls the tray my way.
“John Stamos,” I blurt back. “And, God, I love a good breakfast.”
Lordy, this man even got my coffee right. My absolute favorite is one with condensed milk and a foamy top.
We both inhale food and agree to meet up in a bit.
Later, I change into a new bathing suit and head back outside again because I am incapable of resisting him.
Dave is again on a lounge chair, with one reserved next to him, this time with an umbrella, clearly for me and my fair skin.
And he doesn’t appear to be doing anything inappropriate this time, so that’s good.
“Jeremy Irons,” he says smugly as I sit.
He thinks he can win this SVU-cast game, but I’m gonna kill it.
“Mike Tyson.” I plop down and throw on sunglasses. “And would you mind getting us some guacamole?”
“Still hungry after brunch? Patricia Arquette. And, yes, I’d also dig some guac. I worked up an appetite.”
While I’ve taken Dave’s advice from the other day into consideration, I still check my phone.
God, all I find is one demanding thing after another.
For the longest time, I just made fun videos and tried to encourage people to visit awesome restaurants, and now I’ve been pulled into things I didn’t anticipate and don’t even want.
After annoying phone calls, and pacing, and silent screams, I mute my phone.
I’m not fucking doing this anymore.
My lounge chair has recently become my refuge. I ignore every email and text I have and only relax when I realize that Dave has sweetly taken care of snacks.
“I love a tableside guac, don’t you? Literally watched this made, and I mean it.
Not like when people misuse that word and are all, Yeah, like, I literally died at how good that song was.
No, you did not fucking die over an Ed Sheeran song, okay?
If you were actually deceased, then you wouldn’t be able to talk about it because you’d be dead and all.
Nothing happened except that you liked some sappy lyrics. ”
Well, fuck.
I try to hide my smile.
This New Friend Dave?
I literally might love him.
Devouring chips and guacamole only buys me so much time, so eventually, I start talking.
Because he asked questions and genuinely seems to want to know.
But I also sense that Dave would wait forever if I didn’t respond because he’s not staring me down for answers; he’s just eating chips as happily as I am.
“You asked me last night about my name.”
“I did,” Dave agrees.
“My mother grew up watching the original Wonder Woman TV series with Lynda Carter, and after hearing her over-the-top enthusiasm, I begged to watch every season. Ten minutes into the first episode, I was as enthralled as she was. And I guess I thought it was a possible connection for us. As though maybe my mom would like me for once. But she didn’t. She just liked Wonder Woman.”
I cannot believe I’m saying this all out loud, sharing it for the first time.
“Later, a neighbor, who knew about my love, outsourced a Halloween costume. The glittery gold bra top that I had to keep yanking up, the stars on blue shorts, the shiny red rubber boots? She showed me how to set my arms in the strongest power pose. There was a speech on how to use this stance to believe in myself. But I guess it never took. Still, I was the best goddamn ’70s Diana Prince slash Wonder Woman that I could be.
” I don’t know why I’m volunteering this information, but I am.
I guess it just feels nice to tell someone.
“It would have been nice if my mom had wanted that costume for me. If she’d found a way for me to get one. Taken me out on Halloween night. But, to this day, I worship the picture I have of me spinning and pretending to turn into a superhero. So damn full of joy.”
Dave’s smile is so reassuring and comforting, and I know I haven’t overshared.
“When the movie came out, I went alone.”
“And not with your mom, I gather.” He’s not surprised.
I shake my head. “No. She is a monster. It would have been so nice to watch with a great mom. But at least she abandoned me in Wonder Woman’s good hands. Not that I think she intended to pass on anything good to me, but I’ll take the accidental win.”
“It was a pretty glorious movie though, yes?” Dave asks.
“Totally. And at least I knew that Gal Godot was going to be
the actress I’d hoped for. And she was. I started sobbing about ten minutes in. I was so happy, and also crying like mad, but.” I sigh. “And then—”
He cuts me off in the best way. “No Man’s Land?”
“Yes.” I nod, taken aback and almost mystified that he knows to mention this. That’s my beautiful trigger. “No Man’s Land.”
He agrees. “When Steve says something about how this isn’t what they came here to do?”
I nod. “And Diana replies that it’s what she came here do.”
“That broke me, too,” he admits.
This Dave person is going to make me fall in love.
He mercifully and subtly shifts a bit. “Speaking of crying at the movies, one of my mom’s favorite stories is how her parents took her to see E.T.
, and they were supposed to go out to dinner after, at my aunt’s tapas place, but my mom couldn’t stop crying for forty-five minutes after the credits, so they had to go home.
” He grins. “To this day, she has never watched it again and can’t even talk about it without getting emotional. ”
“Not sure whether I’m more intrigued by your mom or your aunt. I’m on board with this because E.T. about ripped out my guts—I’ve also never been able to watch it a second time—and tapas is one of the best things ever.”
“It is,” he agrees. “Especially back then, there weren’t many places.” Before I can respond, he offers, “My late uncle’s wife is from Spain, and it’s so random to have her kind of authentic dining in Nowhere, Maine, but they’ve done great since day one. I mean, there’s clearly no competition.”
“Late uncle?” I ask. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. My mom’s brother. Horrible. But it’s been so great how close my family has stayed with his wife.
” He sighs and laughs a bit. “None of us speak Spanish, and she barely speaks English, but we all somehow have such a great bond. Even my uncle didn’t speak more than a few words, but they seemed to do well with translating shit on their phones.
They had this wildly romantic and loving relationship. ”
While stuffing my face with chips and guac, I get a text from Patrick and startle.
Patrick: Bad car accident. Hit head. Pickle truck. Am okay. Smell garlicky.
My texts back aren’t returned. I try his wife, Katrina, and also get no reply.
But that seems reasonable, given the circumstances.
Dave sees me tense, but doesn’t press me. Just waits until I can talk.
It’d be easy to say nothing, to hide it from this near stranger, but I tell him about this concerning text. “Patrick seems to have had a car accident involving, of all things, a pickle truck. What even is a pickle truck? I’ll text RobBob. See if he has more info.”
“RobBob?” he asks. “That is not possibly someone’s name.”
“It is actually. Well, sort of.” I grin.
“Robert and Patrick went to grade school together, and after high school graduation, he met Patrick’s group of work friends, they asked if he wanted to be called Rob or Bob.
And he said either name was cool. So, he got stuck with both.
Now he’s RobBob. We’ve hung out a bunch, and he’s super fun. ”
“That’s a pretty cool nickname, and I might be jealous,” Dave says. “Text this character. Maybe he’ll give me a better nickname.”
“Already done. And New Friend Dave isn’t doing it for you?”
“Not so much.” His pause is cute. “Or rather, the friend part isn’t really doing it for me.”
I’m glad to hear that.
“Obviously, more importantly, maybe he can update you about Patrick and how bad this pickle accident was.”
“Guess I’m about to find out,” I say as my phone sounds with a FaceTime call from this now-discussed guy.
“Oh, hello!” He’s all smiles as he looks past me and wiggles his eyebrows with no subtlety. “I heard about New Friend Dave. That must be you!”
His dramatic pointing is classically over-the-top stuff, and I stifle a laugh.
“And you must be RobBob! My nickname nemesis,” Dave quips.
My friend feigns horror. “I’m someone’s nemesis?”
“RobBob is a way better name.” Dave fake sulks.
I have to break up this stupid fake fight. “How is Patrick? All I know is that he was in some kind of an accident. With a pickle truck?”
“Don’t know much more than you do. I just got a confusing call from him.
Yeah, he also mentioned something about pickles.
Of course Patrick would have a weird accident like this, right!
” He chuckles. “He seemed out of it, as anyone would, but I assume he’s okay.
Just groggy. No doubt that he was wearing a seat belt, so I think he’s just beat up, but I’m heading to the hospital now.
Still waiting to hear back from Katrina. ”
He promises to keep me posted, and I hang up, mostly relieved. Car accidents are too common, and with so many features these days, people get banged up and bruised all the time with no dire consequences. This is likely just that.
While this was not how I’d have wanted to reconnect with Patrick’s buddy, it is nice to talk with him again.
Then, too soon, I get another text that makes me shudder.
RobBob: Patrick has a brain bleed and needs surgery.
Having watched enough medical dramas might not make me a surgeon, but I know enough to be terrified right now.
Dave sees me shaking, starting to hyperventilate, and takes me down to the ocean. He lets me say nothing while we walk silently. Kicking waves and pacing back and forth across this gorgeous shoreline—it’s all I can do. Worrying is all I can do.
When I finally settle on a spot, I set my hands on my hips in anger and swipe my feet through the sand. “A brain bleed? What in the fuck?”
The reality of what’s happening to my best friend hits me.
Please, he’s got to be okay.
But the odds are that this is catastrophic.
I’m not stupid, but I just hope I’m wrong.
Just as my legs give out and when I start to dry-heave and choke on my tears, Dave swoops me into the water and reminds me to breathe.
“Just wait. That’s all you can do.”