27. The Fuck It Stage
27
THE FUCK IT STAGE
Leighton
Two weeks, four wins, two losses, and thousands of photographs of hockey players later, my savings account is finally growing.
It’s working, this plan to squirrel away money.
It’s working because I’m working nonstop most days—bouncing from photo shoots with the Sea Dogs, to freelance shoots for The Sports Network covering the Renegades, to Birdie’s shop for coffee art, to boudoir shoots at Hush Hush. Word of mouth is my favorite thing, and since Cora and Aliza passed my name along, along with Katrina, who told her single mom support group, I’m booking boudoir sessions into December.
On Wednesday afternoon, I’m at Melissa Bergstrand’s house, AKA Cookie Melissa. Since video is nearly as easy to shoot on my phone as photos, I’m recording her as she takes me through her husband’s walk-in closet. Her nail art is pink and mint, inspired by unicorn cookies she made earlier today—she told me she always matches her nails to her cookies.
“Ooh, this will be perfect for the next home game,” she says, plucking the shirt from its hanger. “It’s a little team spirit without screaming, ‘Put me on the Jumbotron.’ ”
I nod, smiling, and ask—off-camera, of course—“And what will you pair it with? Inquiring fans want to know.”
She taps a nail against her lower lip thoughtfully. “We can’t go too literal—team colors can’t carry the whole look,” she says, pivoting to a rack of suit jackets. “This charcoal gray suit is the perfect finishing touch. It’s dark, so we can lean into his defender role on the ice.”
“And now the big question. Tie or no tie?”
“I’m a no-tie woman personally. He’s playing hockey, not presenting a PowerPoint.”
I stifle a laugh, and since she’s such a good sport, I toss out one more question. “And what about when he’s not playing hockey? Do you pick his clothes then too?”
With a confident smile, she says, “Of course. For the weekend when we take the kids to the farmers market for face painting, I’ll put him in a peach polo. It’s my favorite color, and he likes wearing my favorite colors. There you go.”
I stop shooting and meet her gaze. Her face is freckled and heart-shaped, a perfect match for her warm, open nature. “That’s so sweet that he likes wearing your favorites.”
“He’s such a great dad and husband,” she says, and these two are seriously couple goals with their affection for each other and their support. “I love to be able to help him shine since that’s what he does for me.” She pauses, her brow furrowing, and for a second, it looks like she’s about to ask me something. But instead, she smiles brightly. “This is so much fun. What a great idea.”
“It was Miles’s idea,” I say, giving credit where credit’s due.
“But you’re the one who’s putting it together. Never underestimate that what goes into the cookie is just as important for its success as the idea for the cookie.”
That’s good advice there. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”
I shoot some B-roll of her in the closet, selecting clothes for the upcoming road trip, and on the way out, she stops me at the door, a curious glint in her warm brown eyes. “I’ve seen your photos…” she begins, her tone unusually tentative.
I wait for her to say more. I figure she means the pics on the team feed.
“And they’re so gorgeous. The lighting, and the sensuality, and the poses,” she blurts out, like it’s a relief to have said it.
“I’m so glad you like them,” I say, pleased she means the boudoir work.
Melissa exhales a little laugh, glancing at her nails. “I’ve thought about doing one of those shoots. You know, for him. But I don’t think I’d have the guts.”
That surprises me. She’s always so poised and self-assured. “You’d be amazing at it,” I say sincerely. “And if you ever decide to try, I’d make sure you feel completely comfortable.”
She brightens slightly, though there’s still a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Maybe someday. For now, it’s probably more my speed to offer cookies in the shape of bras or panties.”
“Sexy and sweet,” I say with a smile .
“Yes!” Then she gives me a goodbye hug since she’s a hugger, and I head on my way.
I edit the video that afternoon, tweaking every detail until it’s just right. Chanda posts it that night, and within hours, it’s racking up views.
My phone blows up with messages from Chanda, Everly, and even Zaire, all gushing about how great the video turned out. It hardly feels like my doing. Melissa is just…likable. Still, I reply with thanks and exclamation points to everyone.
The next evening as the team flies back from a quick trip to Chicago, I head to pole class with my friends. Along the way, a text from Miles lands.
Miles: Nice job, Shutterbug. We just boarded the flight, and Hugo is losing his mind over the video. He’s sent it to his family, his neighbors, his elementary school teachers—basically anyone he’s ever met. Also, Cookie Melissa is thrilled.
Leighton: I’m glad he loves it! She was easy to shoot, and you had a good idea.
Miles: You’re the one who made it happen.
That’s similar to what Melissa said, so I accept the compliment for what it is.
Leighton: Thank you. It felt good to contribute .
And truly, it did. I like being useful. I love being good at my job. And I absolutely adore having happy clients.
I turn off the phone when I arrive at Upside Down, grateful for the chance to spend time with my girl gang, working on new pole tricks at the studio Everly owns and dances at. I haven’t seen much of them since I’ve been working so hard, and I need the girl time.
I’m not a regular at pole like Everly or even Josie, but I like to go once a week. I’m not wild about the floor work—choreography isn’t my thing—but I love doing the tricks on the pole. They take strength, and that’s my jam.
As a new instructor named Jewel demonstrates a spin while blasting a sultry tune, I have to watch her moves more closely than usual. It’s hard to hear her instructions over the music. No, make that impossible.
I could ask her to turn it down, but this is a me problem. I don’t want to draw attention to it. Besides, this is an opportunity to figure it out using my other senses.
My eyes.
I study her every move carefully and then imitate her. On the first try, I nail the move. Yes! It feels incredible to be strong enough to pull this off, to hang upside down with my hair spilling toward the floor.
Briefly, I wonder what Miles would think if he could see me like this. A sly smile creeps across my lips, knowing he’d probably lose his mind.
He’d stare hotly, like he did at our boudoir session, his eyes locked on me, waiting patiently for the moment I’d finish—just so he could close the distance between us, claim my lips, and murmur that I’m incredible .
I feel kind of incredible—both from the thrill of this fantasy and the satisfaction of nailing this move.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that I can’t always make out the instructor’s words. I have a rich interior life, and really, that has to be enough.
When class ends, I leave with my friends, Everly praising us for the progress we’ve all made over the past year.
“Are you all still enjoying class?” she asks, clearly hoping we’ll say yes.
Nerves race through me. I could mention the music volume to her. This is my chance, but something stops me. I don’t want to make my issue someone else’s issue. I have a workaround, and that’s good enough.
“I’m loving the tricks,” I say.
“You’re so good at them. The dance stuff not so much?”
“Not really, but I do understand it’s the foundation.”
“I like the floor stuff since I’m least likely to break all my bones on the floor,” Josie chimes in brightly.
Everly laughs, and Fable nods toward our favorite diner at the end of the block. “Does anyone want to take this into Moon Over Milkshakes?”
“Anything to keep me out of my own apartment,” I say, jumping at the chance—even if the music is blasting there too.
Josie pats me on the back as we walk. “We love being your escape pod from your roomies.”
“What’s the latest with them?” Everly asks with some concern.
I sigh. “They either fuck or fight. The other night, I came home to Indigo giving a detailed, painful monologue about how running out of mustard reminds her of childhood loss.”
Maeve rolls her eyes. “I get that we all have emotional wounds, but you can’t use them as crutches for everything in your life. Sometimes you just have to deal when there’s no fucking mustard,” she says, yanking open the door to the retro-themed diner.
Exactly.
Which is why I don’t ask the pole instructor—or the diner—to lower the music. Sometimes you just have to deal.
After we slide into a booth, a server pops over.
“I’ll take a chocolate milkshake as big as my head and the large fries,” I say.
When everyone else orders, Josie shoots me a sympathetic look. “As big as your head? You really need to numb the pain of your roomies, don’t you, friend?”
“I do,” I say, but the time with them does the trick—eating, gabbing, playing with Maeve’s tarot cards, and catching up. When it’s my turn to share, I tell them about my growing business.
“Get it, girl,” Everly says with a shimmy.
“So proud of you,” Fable adds as I spoon the last dregs of my milkshake.
But Maeve holds my gaze. “And how’s it working with the Fucking Falcon?”
I nearly spit out my drink. She’s called him that before—after learning about our day together. But it’s been a while.
“Yes,” Josie says, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Are you stealing moments in the stairwell? Nipping off to the equipment room? Making doe eyes across the ice?”
“No,” I say pointedly. But there have been close calls .
Maeve snaps her fingers. “Dammit. I wanted some good tea.”
“I wanted tea and solidarity,” Everly adds with a pout. “Max and I did all those things before we were officially together.”
“We know,” Fable teases her, then turns to me. “I’m impressed with your restraint.”
I wish restraint wasn’t my strong suit. Sometimes, I wish it were easier to throw caution to the wind. But Miles has worked too hard to take this kind of chance. I’ve worked too hard as well. My dad’s not an unreasonable man, but at the same time, this thing with Miles is too uncertain. It’s not something I want to bring up to my father, so really, this thing is best left in the friend zone. “We’ve mostly behaved. Though, not to sound full of myself, I think if it were up to him, we’d have broken all the rules.”
Maeve’s eyes widen. “So he has it bad for you?”
I shrug. “I think so. He’s pretty upfront about it.” My chest flutters from memories of his intensity—saying he can’t stop thinking about me, that I’m the only one. It’s heady to be the object of his longing, but risky too.
“Sometimes, I feel like I have to be the one who remembers what’s at stake. Like he’d be willing to throw caution to the wind, even though he has a lot on the line too.”
Everly sighs knowingly. “He’s in the fuck-it stage, isn’t he? I’ve seen how he looks at you during photo shoots.”
I can’t resist asking, “How does he look at me?”
“Like he can’t help himself,” she says, smiling.
I fight a grin, fizzy inside. I like that his feelings are obvious to her, even if they can’t go anywhere. “Nothing can happen, though,” I say heavily. A wicked smile creeps in. “But is it terrible that I love that it’s obvious?”
They laugh, shaking their heads.
“I just hope it’s not obvious to my father,” I say, wincing.
Everly shakes her head. “Men don’t usually pick up on that stuff.”
We lift our glasses in a toast to that truth.
As the clock ticks to ten, I wish I could slow time. I don’t want to go home to my roomies, especially since this night has been exactly what I needed.
All good things must end though.
After we say goodnight, I head home, terribly hopeful that my roomies will be asleep when I crack open the door.
A girl can dream after all.
But the universe gives, and the universe taketh away. When I unlock the apartment with a quiet snick, I step right into the alligator pit. The two of them are perched on the living room couch, facing each other, with Indigo’s hands folded into a prayer.
“I do understand that because you have a penis, you pee standing up and you lift the lid. But when you don’t put the lid down, I inherently feel like I’m being punished for having a vagina.”
I would like her to be punished for having vocal cords.
Keeping my head down, I smile blandly, and point to my ears, signaling that I’m listening to something. But Indigo pops up, grabbing my arm before I can reach my room.
“What’s going on?” I ask innocently.
Indigo turns to her guy. “Please ask Leighton if your behavior is okay. ”
Kill me now.
Ezra shoots me a helpless look as he mumbles, “If you walked into the bathroom and you saw that the toilet seat was up, what would you do?”
I’m so annoyed that they’re actually asking me to intervene that words fly out of my irritated mouth before I can hold back. “I’d kick it down.”
But that’s the exact wrong answer because Indigo gasps. “Where is the female solidarity?”
Not the point, but for the sake of keeping the peace, I backpedal. “What I meant is I would solve the immediate problem and then I would ask the offender to please put it down next time.”
Indigo frowns, her expression saying I’ve failed the test. “And you don’t think him leaving it up is a sign of the patriarchy?”
For fuck’s sake there are bigger battles to fight than toilet lids. “It isn’t my place to intervene,” I say, trying once more to head straight for my room and learn to love rock music to drown out the sounds of them for all eternity.
“Please, Leighton. Please help us,” she says, her lower lip quivering.
I groan privately, then give in since it’ll just be easier. “Maybe give him a consequence if he leaves it up and a reward if he puts it down. K, thanks, bye.”
I hustle into my bedroom and slam the door, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
But five minutes later, the sound of the flushing toilet, a theatrically loud snap of the closed lid, and a squeal from Indigo filters under my door.
Seconds later, she’s saying—no, shouting, “That makes me so hot. ”
He brays right back. “I knew it would, babe. Let’s both enjoy the reward…of passionate sexual intercourse.”
That’s it.
I groan, exasperated, but as I slip into bed and tuck my hearing aids into their charger, I revel in the blissful quiet.
Sometimes, it’s a blessing to have this kind of control over the noise. The hum of the refrigerator dims, the noise of the street fades, and the distant sound of voices drifts away.
Except…
“Oh god, yes! Play with my balls, baby.”
I wither inside. They must be having a really good time if he’s not saying “touch my testicles.”
“Fuck me harder, honey,” she shouts.
Somehow, some way, they’re louder than my loss.
In the morning, when I trudge, bleary-eyed and yawning, toward the shower, they’re already in the kitchen, arms crossed, arguing by the coffee maker.
“I feel that when you make coffee, you should make enough for me.” Ezra adjusts his man bun like it’s a crown before crossing his arms.
Indigo flicks her sleep-mussed braid off her shoulder. “I feel you should ask me to.”
“I feel you should know.”
“I feel we should ask Leighton,” she says.
They both brighten, snapping attention to me like I’m the solution to all their woes.
I hold up my hands, and shake my head as I sidestep them on my way into the bathroom since I feel I should get new roommates.
I slump down on the players’ bench at the Sea Dogs arena as my father flops down next to me, skates still on. He reaches for the coffee I brought him.
He works out there in the mornings, still snagging ice time for himself.
Perks of being a pro coach, I suppose.
I down another thirsty gulp of my tea, then sigh. “I think the tea is working—finally,” I say, but my voice sounds dead tired to me.
That’s no good.
“Rough night?” Dad asks.
“I barely slept, but the guys and I have a shoot today with senior dogs from Little Friends. It’s for the rescue’s campaign to highlight overlooked older pups. Worth it, but whew, I need more caffeine.”
“Is it the futon? Those things are the devil’s work,” he says.
I crack my neck, shifting it side to side. “I wish it were the futon.”
He shoots me a sympathetic look. “What is it then?”
After a semi-truck-size yawn seizes me, I blurt out all my frustration. “I’ve become their mediator,” I say, then tell him all about my roommates’ constant bickering.
I leave out the dirty details.
When I’m done, there’s a serious look in his dark blue eyes. He’s quiet for a beat, and I can tell he’s devising a plan. His coach mindset runs deep in him. His strategic mind never rests. He takes a fortifying drink of the coffee, then sets it down on the bench. “I know you want to make it on your own, and I respect that, but this situation sounds miserable. What if I helped with rent? You could find a place you actually like.”
My heart tugs. His offer is so ridiculously tempting. “Thanks, Dad. Let me think about it, but at first blush, I still think I need to do this whole life thing on my own.”
I switch to sign language because this feels intensely personal. Know what I mean?
His smile is kind, a touch sad. I do know.
He taught me how to navigate the world. He gave me the skills and the faith. Now it’s up to me to show that I can do that—carve out a life for myself. I don’t know what the future holds; no one does of course. But I know I need to be independent. And I know, too, that he respects that.
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. I set my head on his shoulder, feeling safe for the moment, like I did growing up.
But even though I know deeply that I can always count on him, I need to be certain, too, that I can always count on myself.