4. Rhodes
4
Rhodes
I really wish I could somehow harness Machete Lady’s confidence right now.
I’ve apparently agreed—been bullied into—meeting Paige’s new boyfriend in a little less than an hour, and I am not okay. I haven’t prepared for this moment because I didn’t think it would happen. I figured Paige would send this Treat Yoself guy into the sunset alone.
She’s rarely had a bring-him-home-to-meet-the-family kind of serious relationship before, and I’m panicking.
Paige hops out of my car and goes to get her bags from the trunk, but I’m frozen. The only thing I’m able to do is wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. What if this guy is around for another couple of months? What if she starts spending more time with him and less with me?
What if they get married?
What if they have kids with the perfect shade of red hair?
Shit.
What if they get a Goldendoodle?
I’m spiraling.
I always thought I’d have a shot with her, at least one. But anytime she’s been single, which is never for long, I’ve assumed we’d have more time for her to figure out what she really wants and then we could get said Goldendoodle. Or not. But she’s still a staunch serial dater, and I’m committed to singleness, blaming it on how busy I am and how I haven’t found the right fish in the sea. I HATE FISHING. Now, with T-word boyfriend on the loose in her life, I may never get the chance to tell her how I feel.
“You coming?”
I close my eyes and then look at a concerned Paige in the rearview. “Yup. Just getting my stuff.”
I take another deep breath, snatching my phone and spinning it in circles between my fingers. If this guy doesn’t last, I need to say or do something about these feelings, or I’ll be forced to watch Paige choose someone else while I wallow in misery for the rest of my life. I have the span of this relationship to figure out what I’ll say, but I have to come up with something.
Nodding, I reach for my water before remembering it has Red 40 in it. Never mind.
Paige says hello to Machete Lady, who waves her deadly weapons at us in the friendliest way possible, and then we walk around the driveway to the side of the house where her separate entrance to the basement is. It’s her one mark of privacy, which means very little when her parents know the second she arrives home.
The house is a split level with a two-car garage like many other houses in this neighborhood, but her parents have worked to update the eighties out of the walls and floors. The siding is painted a dark blue with white trim, and potted flowers lead around the side of the house to Paige’s apartment door.
“Can you hold these for me?” She’s already passing off her bags for me to hold while she unlocks the door .
“These do not look this heavy.” I shift the bags in my arms. “What did you get anyway?”
She smiles back at me while pushing her shoulder into the door that likes to stick more than open. “I’ll show you.”
The entryway is small. Only a three-by-three tiled area with nothing more than a few hooks behind the door for coats. Of course this is Paige’s place, so the coat hooks are old spoons bent and nailed into a rustic wooden plank board secured to the wall. The plank is courtesy of an old pallet she made me steal from behind a grocery store. I have issues saying no . Surprisingly, the spoons can hold a lot of weight, judging by all of the different vintage coats in every possible color Paige has on them. I’m impressed.
I toe off my sneakers and zip up my hoodie with one hand. The basement never gets above sixty degrees all year. “Where do you want these?”
“The table is fine,” she says, then calls out, “Cleocatra!”
The slim black, white, and brown Calico darts out from under the bed as I put the bags on the folding dining table behind the couch with a thud. I peek inside and note a lawn gnome.
That explains it .
Paige immediately sinks to her knees. “There you are! Did mean Constance scare you? I’m sorry you had to endure that! Yes, awwww! My whittle gorl.” Cleocatra hops in her lap, nuzzling her neck while Paige coos at her. It’s exactly three seconds before she remembers. “The curtains! I’m so glad you still have all of your fur, Cleo.”
Paige hops up as my eyes bounce to the only window in this basement just beside the door. I expected slashes through the hanging curtains, but instead, Constance shortened them to an awkward length. Now they come just above the window sill and look way too small .
“I’m going to send her a formal complaint.” Paige is seething, which really isn’t intimidating at all.
Constance is Paige’s complete opposite. She’s the unhinged and spooky sister who likely has skulls lining the shelves in her room. I don’t know this for a fact since I’m not insane enough to enter her room, but the possibility is there. Meanwhile, Paige is like bottled sunshine who has been known to attend city hall meetings for fun and petition to have roadside markers placed for roadkill. It’s probably why she tried making a living as an insect jewelry maker, preserving dead beetles and butterflies in resin for all eternity.
I have at least six I don’t know what to do with now.
“We can go buy new ones. They aren’t that expensive,” I tell her.
She starts rifling through the bags I carried in. “No need.” Pulling out two leopard print flat sheets she says, “I was planning to make these into curtains anyway and swap them out. You never find two matching flat sheets with the same print in good condition. Maybe someone had twins? I don’t know, but I snagged them before they got priced and put out today.”
This woman is the most creative human I know. Her abilities with a sewing machine are unmatched. Once she bought twelve different color flannel shirts and fashioned them together to create a quilted blanket. Every sham, comforter, blanket, pillow, or rug in this tiny studio basement was made by her.
Same goes for mine.
Every decorative touch in my apartment is thanks to her. I would never have a wooden bowl holding my fruit, or a scenic picture of a park hanging above my bed with almost transparent ghosts floating around, which Paige painted in.
“I should have you make me some curtains. ”
She clutches the sheets to her chest and pins me with a direct stare. “Do you need some?”
I laugh because there wasn’t any hesitation, and for Paige, only second to actually doing a DIY project is giving it to someone.
“Sure. I mean, no rush. Just if you find something that would make cool curtains, I could use some. The sunrise is so bright, it sometimes wakes me up.”
She glares at me. “Oh, it must be so hard to have a view. I hate you.”
“I know you do.”
“I really don’t,” she blurts.
I smile. “I know.”
Cleocatra rubs up against my leg, and I bend to pet her. I like to think we have a bond. Mainly because she’s the only one I’ve told about liking Paige, and I want to stay on her good side. If she somehow decides to gain magical powers and tell Paige how I feel, I’m screwed.
I shared everything with Cleocatra.
I mean, how could I not? She’s so cute. And she knows all of my secrets anyway. You know, because of the psychic thing.
“Tucker said he’s on his way.” Paige sets her phone down and looks through her bags again.
Great . Him .
The man who is not supposed to be coming to dinner but somehow got an invite. Maybe they’re more serious than I thought? Does Amber know something I don’t? I should text her…
“I might wear this tonight.” She pulls out a black high-neck shirt with sheer long sleeves and a large floral print on it.
My tongue immediately becomes drier than Eastern Washington in August. It looks slim-cut without revealing an ounce of her perfect porcelain skin, and somehow, it’s become the sexiest thing I’ve seen .
“Perfect,” I think I whisper.
“Do you think Tucker will like it?” she asks, holding it up.
Screw Tim , I want to shout, but settle on, “Yeah.”
She drops the shirt on the table and then reaches for the hem of her Vote for Pedro T-shirt. I’m never prepared for when she does this. Standing a foot in front of her, she lifts her shirt over her head and tosses it behind her. My eyes are locked on the red sports bra she’s wearing.
Paige.
Is in.
Her bra.
Right in front of me .
I slap a hand over my eyes like I usually do because it always happens so fast. It feels like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t, but I definitely want to again.
“It’s just a sports bra, Rhodes. It’s fine. Just like wearing a swimsuit.”
It doesn’t matter that she says this every time, too. I must look as shocked as I feel since she sounds like she’s coaching me off a ledge.
She definitely is.
“Your swimsuit isn’t red,” I say with my hand over my eyes. “It’s green.”
She laughs over the rustling clothing. “You’re right, but it’s basically the same thing.”
Basically is not helping. “Maybe I’ll just go upstairs and wait for you. I forgot I needed to tell Gail something—”
Paige grabs the hand shielding my eyes and yanks it down. In front of me is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—inside and out. My best friend, the woman I want to have my babies—the cat and human kinds—and the one person in my life I can’t seem to be fully honest with. I’ve been harboring this crush for so long, I just assume it’s a part of me and always will be. Like a freckle that’s been there since the beginning of time.
She runs her hands along the fabric at her sides. “So…what do you think?”
I study Paige’s expression—her hopeful, unwavering gaze and the half smile on her lips that isn’t fully visible since it’s trapped between her teeth—before letting my eyes trail down her body. The shirt is perfect, just like I said. It fits snugly in all the right places, highlighting her slim waist, the curve of her chest, and the sleek column of her neck. I want to bury my face in that neck.
I can’t even help myself. I lean in closer, not giving it a second, third, or fourth thought.
She doesn’t move, so I keep leaning. My entire body is pitched forward, calling out to hers in hopes that maybe—just maybe—hers will call out to mine.
My nose is nearly at the apex of her shoulder and neck, and she still hasn’t budged. Her feet are grounded, breath shallow, like mine. I’m so close, I can smell orange and vanilla cream wafting from her person. On Paige, it’s a reminder of our history. She’s smelled the same since I hugged her the first time outside our lockers when some douche broke her heart. I didn’t know this would become a regular occurrence after every breakup. But I didn’t complain because it meant holding her.
She smells like the days she spent at my house, feet kicked up the wall as she explained what kissing with tongue was like but in a very documentary kind of way. Or summer days with slushies in our hands, longboarding down the boardwalk and avoiding the fisherman carrying their tackle boxes.
I’m so close, I could—
Her shoulders start to move up and down with laughter. “What are you doing?”
What am I doing ?
I’m reining in every thought that said maybe this could work, maybe we could be more. What am I thinking? She has a boyfriend. As much as I want her, we can’t do this.
I stand straight, taking a full step backward and folding my hands behind my back just to prove my point. “You smell like a thrift store.”
Her eyes widen. “Shit! Do you think I should wash it first? I usually do, but I really wanted to wear this tonight. But if you think he’ll notice…if it smells too much like old person mixed with deodorant and remnants of overly fragrant laundry detergent, I can change.”
She moves toward the standing rack of clothes near her bed and pushes through them, examining her options. And there are many.
There is a slight thrift store aroma, but when I open my mouth to say how it’s mixed with oranges, I can’t manage any words. I’m still trapped in the moment that happened ten seconds ago. Paige is saying more, telling and asking me things I should listen to as her best friend. It’s my duty.
I finally muster enough air to say, “You look perfect, Paige. Don’t change. If he doesn’t like that smell, then he’s a fool. That’s the best smell out of all the smells.”
She slowly pivots on her heel. “I know you’re lying.” Her exhale is audible, and I can tell she’s resigned. “But I still believe you.”
She starts talking about the slideshow again and something about Treat Yoself guy that is as interesting as watching paint dry. All of my feelings are reeled back into my mind and heart, and we’re back to our regularly scheduled easy conversations.
Back to where I feel like a part of me is dying a little.