Chapter 7 #2
The spatula stares at no one because it’s covered in banana muffin batter and lacks eyes… but it kind of feels like it’s staring at me and judging the pierced-dick-sized secret I’m keeping. At least 8 inches. That’s a lot of secret.
“I mean,” I say carefully with a wince. “Define sex.”
Marley’s mouth falls open.
“Halston Smith.”
“Am I under oath?”
“You’re under friendship.”
“That sounds legally vague. I’m not sure about that.”
She points at me. “You slept with someone.”
I pick up the spatula and throw it in the sink.
“I may have engaged in some post-heartbreak physical wellness.”
Marley gasps, and a second later, a grin spreads over her stupid face.
“Who?”
I turn on the faucet and rinse my hands. “A man.”
“That narrows it down a ton.”
“A large man.”
“Better.”
“He had hair.”
“A lot of men have hair.”
“And shoulders.”
“Most men have shoulders, too.”
My eyes widen. “Not like these.”
She slaps both palms onto the counter and leans over it. “Tell me everything.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No. It was private.”
“You are glowing in a bakery at six in the morning. Nothing about this is private anymore.”
“I’m not glowing.”
“You are. It’s distressing, frankly.”
Marley grabs a stool from one of the tables and drags it to the counter, sitting like she purchased a ticket to my humiliation.
“Start from the beginning.”
I look at her.
She looks back.
I last exactly four seconds.
Then I cover my face with my hands and groan, bending at the waist.
“I took him home.”
Marley screams.
“Marley,” I whine.
“You took him home?”
“Yeah, sorta. I guess, if next door counts.”
“Where were you guys?”
“Oliver’s bar.”
“Did Oliver know?”
I peek at her through my fingers.
“Oh my god. Oliver knew.”
“He didn’t approve.”
“He never does. He doesn’t approve of joy.”
“He gave me water first. Made me drink all of it.”
“Of course he did.”
“And he made the guy promise that if I changed my mind, he had to leave.”
“Okay, that’s actually sweet.”
“It was. Which kind of pissed me off.”
“Did you change your mind?”
I lower my hands. “No,” I say, my voice small.
Her face morphs, her eyes combing over me a little more seriously.
I look at the counter. The stainless steel reflects the overhead lights as I rest my arms against it.
“I wanted to,” I admit.
“Have sex?”
“Choose something.”
She goes quiet.
“I know that sounds stupid.”
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t. You need to stop thinking everything you do is stupid.”
“It does, though. He had such a severe face.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“You tend to like people who look a bit emotionally constipated.”
“Grant didn’t look emotionally constipated.”
“Grant looked like he used summer as a verb.”
I consider that before rolling my eyes.
Her eyes soften. “Did the stranger make you feel better?”
“No.”
She freezes. “Unsafe?” Her eyes narrow.
“No.”
“Regretful?”
I eye the coffee next to me.
The unsigned note lying near the register.
“No, and I think that’s the problem.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not a problem.”
“It feels like one.”
She bites at her lip. “Do you think that because you assume you’re supposed to perform a certain amount of devastation before you’re allowed to actually want anything?”
I frown, loving how wise my friend is on one hand and hating it on the other. I choose to allow her to know she’s right by ignoring it.
Marley’s gaze slides to the mug. “That’s not your coffee.”
I freeze.
She smiles slowly.
“That’s hot coffee. You drink lattes in the morning.”
“It has vanilla in it.”
“But it started black.”
“Nope.”
“Halston. Did he get you coffee?”
I look away, and Marley melts. Her whole face goes soft and delighted and horrified on my behalf. “He made you coffee.” She swoons.
“He also criticized my lock.”
Her eyes widen.
I nod grimly. “He left a note.”
“A note?”
I grab it before I can think better of it and hold it up. She snatches it.
She reads it aloud. “You need a better lock. Enjoy your day, stranger.” She pauses. “Why does every man’s handwriting look the same? Every time I see a man’s handwriting, I swear it looks like my brother’s. All of it.”
I try to grab it from her, but she twists away.
“Marley King.”
“This is so sweet. He got you coffee and identified a safety hazard after rearranging your organs.”
I gasp. “Marley!”
“What? Did he not rearrange?”
My face grows hot, and her eyes grow huge.
“I regret telling you,” I mumble.
But I don’t. She knows I don’t. And that’s the worst part.
Telling her makes it feel real in a different way. Not a secret. Less of a fever dream. Less like something that happened somewhere else.
More like a memory I can hold.
She leans both elbows on the counter. “Was he nice?”
I think of his mouth on my shoulder again.
“He was careful. I liked him.”
Her gaze holds mine. “That sounds good.”
“It was.”
“Good.”
“Very good.”
Her mouth twitches. “How good?”
I point at her. “Do not.”
She smirks.
“I’m grieving,” I add, turning away.
“You’re also smiling.”
I press my lips together as she leans closer. “How good?”
I look toward the windows, then back at her.
The bakery is empty. The door is locked.
I lower my voice anyway.
“He had tattoos,” I tell her.
Her eyes light up. “Where?”
“Lots of places. And,” I say, because apparently the self-destructive part of me has stolen the wheel and driven us into traffic.
She freezes. “And?” she says, leaning in.
I look at her.
Her mouth slowly opens.
“No.”
I nod.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Halston.”
“His dick is pierced,” I whisper.
She screams again, and this time, I have to slap my hand over her mouth.
She mumbles something into my palm.
“You cannot just say that to me here,” she says as I drop my hand.
“Where should I be saying it, a church?”
“Yes. So God can hear.”
“Marley.”
“Pierced how?”
“I’m not drawing you a diagram.”
“You draw maps.”
I shake my head. “Not of that.”
“You should start.”
“I hate you so much.”
She crosses her arms. “You slept with a tattooed, pierced stranger who got you coffee and worried about your safety. Hon. That’s not a one-night stand. That’s a whole event.”
I cover my face again.
But she laughs, and Marley’s laugh has always been infectious.
Within seconds, we’re both laughing at the counter like teenagers at a sleepover, except we’re grown women in a bakery discussing a stranger’s genital jewelry before seven in the morning.
The laughter eases something in my chest.
Grant made me feel humiliated in a way that touched everything I loved.
Even my desire.
Last night didn’t fix me, of course. I didn’t want it to.
Sex is not a personality transplant. It doesn’t erase betrayal or build me a whole brand-new life.
It’s definitely not going to magically transform a woman with a broken engagement.
But it did remind me that my body belongs to me, and that wanting something is not embarrassing.
Marley wipes under one eye, still grinning. “Okay, important question.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“If it requires diagrams, no.”
“Did you get his number?”
“I didn’t even get his name.”
She stares at me. “You didn’t even get his name?”
“He didn’t offer it.”
“Did you ask?”
“Kind of.” I mean, yes. But I didn’t press the subject.
Her mouth drops open.
“In my defense, there was a lot happening.”
“You slept with a nameless stranger?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible.”
“It was.”
“I know.”
Her voice drops. “And hot.”
“I know.”
She’s loud again. “And stupid.”
I nod.
“And maybe it was exactly what you needed.”
I look down. “Maybe.”
Before she can say what she’s about to, her phone buzzes. She glances at it. “Oh. My brother’s outside. I texted him the address and told him to come to the front door.”
I straighten so fast my back cracks. “Now?”
“I mean, yeah. I told you he was coming.”
“But that was before I confessed to being a nameless stranger slut.”
She stands with an eye roll. “You are not a slut.”
“It’s said with affection. Marley.”
“I know, but I’m still legally obligated to correct you.”
“Do I look weird?”
“You look like you had really good sex and are trying to hide it with mascara.”
“Marley.”
“What?” She shrugs. “You asked.”
I try to see my reflection in the glass case. “I can’t meet your brother for the first time while my face is doing this.”
“He won’t notice.”
I continue trying to wipe the smudged mascara from the corner of my eye when I hear the door jingle, and my heart beats directly into my throat.
I hear their footsteps a few feet away.
“Finally,” she says. “You text like an old man.”
I look down at my hands. At the note on the counter.
Shit.
I grab it, shoving it into my pocket.
The man steps into the doorway between the front counter and the prep kitchen.
And I stop breathing.
Dark green henley. Long sleeves.
Black hair pulled into a tight bun.
Broad shoulders. Severe mouth. Blue eyes.
The nameless stranger from last night stands in my bakery holding a small paper bag in one hand and looking directly at Marley.
For one impossible second, my brain rejects the evidence.
No.
No, no.
There are many large men in Baltimore. Many men with long black hair.
Many men who order black coffee and have tattoos and wear long sleeves in eighty-degree weather with one hundred percent humidity.
“Warren, this is Halston. I’m so happy you guys are finally meeting. It’s been long enough.”
His gaze moves from Marley to me.
And stops.
Every ounce of color drains from his face.
Not dramatically. He’s too controlled for that. But something in his expression goes still and sharp, as if the floor has vanished beneath him and he’s decided to not fall out of sheer stubbornness.
“Halston,” Marley says brightly, still unaware. “This is my brother.”
The man stares at me, and I can only stare back.
Marley looks between us, and her smile falters.
Warren. Halston. Names we probably should have exchanged before I had his lips on mine.
His mouth parts slightly. “Halston,” he says with a curt nod.
Somehow, I hate the way he says it… maybe because I want him to say it under different circumstances so badly.
“Warren,” I say.
Marley’s eyes narrow.
She turns toward me.
And then him.
And then back to me.