Chapter 12
CAUGHT YOU WITH YOUR HAND IN THE COOKIE JAR
DELILAH
“I’m gonna text Mom and tell her to bring Sadie by.
There’s no way it’s safe for her to be running around with open wounds in her head,” I mumble, pulling my phone off the stand that connects it to my Bluetooth payment method.
Mom and Dad offered to take Sadie to her intramural flag football game this morning—I don’t know where the hell my kid got the athlete gene from, because it certainly wasn’t me—and thank goodness, because the Fox Hole Farmer’s Market has been booming this morning.
Sadie makes a good helper when the crowd is calmer, but when it’s bustling like today, it’s nice not to have to worry about my little person while selling jam.
This is the first time in two hours I haven’t had a line formed in front of my booth.
“Lilah, I pierced the kid’s ears. I didn’t perform open brain surgery on her.
She’s fine to get a little rough and tumble on the field today.
Suzanne and Henry have the care instructions I gave them just in case her lobes get a little red or swollen.
Plus, Sadie has my old flip phone now, so she can text you if anything happens. ”
Right, the two of them talked me into setting up a service line for Ivy’s old cell phone from high school that somehow still works.
I felt old as dirt when Sadie brought the hot pink Motorola Razr she found buried in the depths of Ivy’s closet and asked what it was.
And I felt even older when we explained to her it was a cell phone, she asked why it had buttons.
Against my helicopter mother instincts, I agreed that Sadie could use the old phone as long as the only numbers she called or texted were approved by me or Ivy.
I won’t pretend there wasn’t a bit of heartbroken smugness in my soul when the kid didn’t bring her dad up as someone she’d want to contact.
And while I still think Sadie is too young for things like pierced ears and cell phones, I do think that learning to T9 text—obsolete as it may be—is an important part of a young woman’s culture and I’m glad my daughter will have the chance to develop that skill.
Sort of like how I plan to teach her how to drive a manual vehicle one day.
What would she do if she were stranded in the middle of nowhere with only a 1995 Honda Accord and a Nokia 5110 cell phone in her pocket?
Sadie will never have to wonder because she has me for a mom.
“Did I tell you she asked if we could bedazzle the phone tonight after dinner? The kid is so early aughts and she doesn’t even know it.”
“I’m down for some bedazzling, but I hope she keeps the worn Emily the Strange sticker on the battery case intact.
That thing belongs in a museum.” Ivy laughs and shakes her head.
“Thank god I cleaned that room out after Grandma Millie passed. I would die if Sadie found the skunk weed I hid under the floorboards or that battery-operated back massager that I bought at the drugstore and used as my first vibrator. Cell phones with buttons I can explain, but I’m most definitely not ready to open the Pandora’s box that is self-pleasure. ”
“Yeah, good thing,” I mutter.
My face flushes a deep red, and I stare down at my lap, shame from how many times I’ve thought about that damn green pouch in Ivy’s drawer filling me from my toes to the top of my head.
Okay, maybe it’s not all shame. There is definitely still some insatiable horniness mixed into all of it, too.
I blame it on the fact that I’m sharing a bed with someone I’m not sleeping with and have had no time or privacy to masturbate.
I swear, if I can just get in the bathtub alone for twenty minutes and rub one or two out, I can put the image of vibrator nirvana and the filthy things my best friend might be doing with those toys out of my head for good and move on with my life.
Tonight, I think. I can plop Sadie down in front of a movie, tell Ivy I need to soak my muscles and quietly and efficiently orgasm myself back to normal.
“Miss Delilah, I hope you’re ready for me!
” Artie calls out, breaking me out of my thought spiral.
The old man is pulling a small but mighty-looking cart on wheels behind him, empty save for a small bouquet of colorful wildflowers.
“I came prepared to buy you out. Ivy, darling, it’s good to see you.
Would you mind fixin’ me one of those HJs I love so much?
” He taps the handle of his cart as he pulls to a stop in front of our booth.
He and Ivy exchange a friendly fist bump.
“Hey, Art. I was expecting to see your wife, not you. You’re never at the Saturday market.
” It’s a good thing Ivy brought the small griddle she uses to make her sandwiches.
I don’t offer anything but jam at my booth, but when Ivy is in town, those in the know can always count on her to whip up her weird specialty.
“Yeah, well, it’s my first Saturday off in about ten years. Earl, uh—” Artie pulls at the collar of his worn t-shirt. I reach across the booth and pat his arm.
“You can talk about him. I promise I won’t self-combust.”
“Right. Sorry. Well, the kid closed the shop today. Something about needing to get his own car checked out. Thinks a squirrel might have crawled into the engine and died or something. Though why he can’t just look at the damn thing himself, I’ll never know.
Never in my life have I met a mechanic who wasn’t willing to get their hands dirty, especially on their own motors.
Did you know he wears gloves when he does oil changes?
That woulda gotten your ass kicked by the other mechanics back in my day. ”
Beside me, Ivy snickers as she spreads strawberry jam over a slice of sourdough bread.
“A squirrel, huh? That sounds…stinky,” I say, unable to hide my own amusement. Artie’s eyes flick back and forth between Ivy and me, picking up on our obvious amusement. But he only presses his lips together to suppress a smile.
Just as we thought. When it comes to Operation Goodbye Earl, the good people of Fox Hole will look the other way.
“In any case, I’m taking advantage of my free time. Got some flowers for the old lady and then when I get home I have plans for us to…enjoy some jam, if you know what I mean.”
“Art, we all know what you mean.” Ivy laughs, slipping the bread onto the griddle.
It sizzles from the excess of and the scent of ham and sweet fruitiness fills my nostrils.
For once, the smell doesn’t make me immediately nauseous, though the thought of Artie and his old lady ‘enjoying my jam’ does make me feel like gagging, just a little.
“Okay, kids, that’s enough. How many jars do you want, Artie?”
Artie asks for so many jars that the number almost makes my head spin (and, unfortunately, conjures intrusive images of kiddie pools full of jam in his backyard that make me want to burn my own eyeballs out).
Thankfully, I had Ivy working with me to prepare for the weekend because typically, a purchase like Artie’s would have cleaned me out.
Thanks to her, I’ve still got enough to make it through the rest of the day.
Ivy wraps up Artie’s HJ and then gets to work helping him load three boxes of glass jars into his cart.
I focus on ringing him up and trying like hell not to stare at the way the muscles in Ivy’s arms flex and strain as she lifts each box.
That damn tank top she has on should be illegal for the way it shows off her toned shoulders.
Not to mention the tiny, enticing peek of the large leopard tattooed on her ribcage poking from the hem of the armhole.
She squats to pick up another box, and her jean shorts ride low, showing off the butterfly tramp stamp she once called ironic but has since embraced since the trend came back in style.
Under the black ink wingtip, I can spot a sliver of red that I know is the waistband of her underwear.
Heat blooms between my hips as I watch Ivy stand and stretch, that bit of red disappearing below the top of her denim cutoffs.
There’s something so enticing about Ivy’s androgyny, something so captivating about the way her favorite boxer briefs and short hair give her a masculine edge while her hips and breasts create feminine curves that go on for miles underneath her Daisy Duke shorts that has my mouth watering.
Artie clears his throat, and I jump, realizing from the ‘caught you with your hand in the cookie jar’ look on the man’s face that my checking out Ivy was nowhere near subtle enough.
I press my lips into a thin line, wracking my brain for some sort of excuse in case he rats me out, but then the sight and sound of the most agitating human being on the face of the planet interrupts my otherwise peaceful morning.