Chapter 6
CARSON
The light streaming in through my curtains feels like blunt pencils poking my eyeballs.
That’s the first thing I notice.
The next is that I’m still wearing all my clothes from last night. And one of my shoes.
The third thing I notice is the full glass of water and the bottle of ibuprofen on my bedside table. And considering the fact that I was apparently too drunk to remove both of my shoes, that can only meant that the hangover toolkit was provided by—
I just wanna get fucked.
I groan, my stomach heaving, the night coming back to me in too-bright flashes. Gabe and his stupid truck. The veggie burger from hell. Violet and skating and shoving Gabe to the floor.
And Dan.
In his fancy-pants sports car.
Where I ran my mouth like a faulty water fountain. Where I told him I wanted to get fucked.
I groan again, this time praying for death.
When Grace proposed the idea of Dan staying here, my brain created all kinds of nightmare scenarios: having to sit across from him at the breakfast table or passing him in the hallway wrapped in a towel. But not even my anxious, catastrophizing brain could have come up with this.
I roll over, staring at the fifteen-year-old glow-in-the-dark stars that still cling to the popcorn ceiling with ancient sticky tack. Can I possibly stay in this room until Dan’s pipes are fixed or he goes back to New York, whichever comes first?
I last approximately thirteen minutes before my bladder informs me that I cannot hide out in my bedroom for the rest of time, or even the rest of the day. I peek out of my bedroom and see Dan’s blessedly closed door, so I creep across the hall to the bathroom.
An hour later, I’ve removed my remaining shoe and last night’s clothes and showered off the roller rink smell, but not the throbbing shame of what I said in the car. It keeps playing over and over in my head, a torturous merry-go-round of embarrassment.
I just wanna get fucked I just wanna get fucked I just wanna get fucked.
I shuffle into the kitchen and grab a bowl and the family-size box of Lucky Charms I keep on top of the fridge.
The only thing that interrupts my inner monologue is my mother’s voice, lecturing me about sugary cereals.
The body needs protein and fiber to start the day, don’t you know?
And too much sugar leads to a crash. The fact that there are Lucky Charms on top of this fridge and full-sugar Coke inside it are minor miracles that would’ve blown ten-year-old Carson’s mind, having grown up with overprotective parents who lectured her on the perils of sugar (and basically everything else).
My parents may be in Florida, but their words of warning have stayed put, as embedded in the walls of this house as the smell of my mother’s favorite apple spice candles.
My parents were in their late forties when I was born, my father an insurance salesman and my mother the church secretary.
They’d spent more than ten brutal years trying for a baby, and just when they gave up, I surprised them.
They were great parents, and I love them dearly, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t grow up feeling pressured.
They monitored everything I ate, everything I watched, everything I listened to, everything I read, and every person I hung out with.
My parents knew how precious their one shot at parenthood was, and they were not going to blow it.
And I grew up knowing that I was all they’d get, so I couldn’t disappoint them. I followed their rules. I worked hard. I went to church every Sunday, never skipped school, and never snuck out of the house.
It was exhausting.
When I finally left for college and was on my own for the first time, it was really hard to break the habits I’d had drilled into me since birth.
I dated, had some sex, and drank some, but never got into too much trouble.
And then I graduated, got a job teaching kindergarten in my hometown, and moved back home to save money as I paid off my student loans.
As my parents saw it, when I returned home, I suddenly became a little kid again. Despite the fact that I was twenty-two and gainfully employed with a grown-up job, they were still concerned with what I ate, who I hung out with, my church attendance, and—at least for my mother—my body.
When their ticket hit, we all won the lottery. My parents took their millions down to Boca Raton, where they bought a town house next to my Aunt Frida’s and a boat and joined the country club.
And I got this house to live in alone for the first time in my life. And while most things haven’t changed much in the eight months I’ve had it, there have been some small but significant improvements.
Like the Lucky Charms. And the Pop-Tarts. The Snickers ice cream bars and the Double-Stuf Oreos. This kitchen is one that doesn’t know the difference between “good” and “bad” foods. This kitchen doesn’t count calories or worry about carbs. This kitchen celebrates dessert.
My mother would die, but she has fourteen million dollars to fund whatever fad diet has her in its clutches these days, and for the first time in my life, I don’t have to live with it.
It’s a nice thought, but the moment I warm to it, the previous night comes roaring back.
I. Just. Wanna. Get. Fucked.
I drop into a chair at the breakfast table in the kitchen and pour myself an extra-large bowl of cereal.
But before I can even scoop up a mouthful, the front door creaks, then slams. The floor shakes from heavy footfalls.
Dan charges into the kitchen, then freezes, standing stock-still on the checkered linoleum.
We stare at each other silently for entirely too long. I can hear my parents’ old grandfather clock ticking in the living room. I can hear the birds in the yard. I can practically hear my hair growing, it’s so silent in this kitchen.
But I can’t look away from him.
He’s wearing another pair of slutty little shorts, these meant for the gym, and a long-sleeved athletic shirt.
It stretches across his chest and molds to his arms and shoulders like oil paint on a canvas and makes me wonder about the other tattoos he alluded to last night.
His legs are thick and muscled (no tattoos there), and the smell of him, sweaty and metallic, somehow doesn’t turn my stomach.
I must still be drunk, because he smells so good that I want to lick him.
Lord, I don’t need to get fucked, I am fucked.
“Thanks for the ride,” I bark out, like saying the words will keep me from crawling across the floor on my hands and knees and rubbing against him like a cat. “In the car, I mean. The ride in the car. And the ibuprofen.”
Dan just nods, dropping his gym bag on the floor and making his way to the sink to mix up a protein shake.
I watch him run the faucet, measure out the powder, shake the cup.
I brace for him to march silently out of the kitchen, never to speak to me again.
I certainly deserve it after last night’s little performance.
Dan is a person who says virtually nothing, and I went and drunkenly said everything.
But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he brings his protein shake over to the table, uses his foot to push back the chair beside mine, and drops down into it. The spicy, salty smell of him wafts over me, overpowering the sugary smell of the Lucky Charms.
His eyes drop to my cereal box.
“Do you want some? I can get you a bowl,” I say, but he shakes his head.
He may be sitting, but he’s not talking.
And suddenly I can’t take it anymore. Everything that happened last night is starting to fizz inside me like the volcanos I make with my kindergarteners. All of it just bubbling and climbing and trying desperately to get out. And lord knows I’ve never been good at keeping things in.
So my mouth opens.
“I’m sorry about last night. About texting you for a ride.
And being drunk. Oh my god, so drunk. And the talking,” I say, then swallow hard.
“The talking. Ugh, I’m so sorry. I never should have said…
any of that. I should have just kept my mouth shut, though that certainly would have been a first. I should probably do that now too, in fact.
And I will try hard to do it for as long as you’re forced to say here. ”
I practically bite the tip of my tongue off to stop myself from babbling even more. I turn my gaze to my bowl of cereal, which is rapidly growing soggy, and spoon a bite into my mouth.
Dan clears his throat.
“First of all, you don’t need to be sorry about the ride.
I told you to call me if you needed me.” He takes a long gulp of his protein shake, then sets the cup down on the table with such force that I feel the thud in my chest. His voice is low and steady with just a hint of a growl beneath it.
If I weren’t in the middle of some serious existential dread, I might find it sexy. “And as for everything else—”
I immediately drop my spoon, sending it splashing into the milk, and wave him off like air traffic control trying to abort a landing. “Please, no. Let’s not—”
“It’s fine, Carson,” he says. His voice races through my body like I’m sitting on a speaker, and the sound of him saying my name is freaking delicious.
God, this is quickly becoming a five-alarm, Harry Styles–level teenage crush.
I feel like I’m seconds away from doodling Dan’s name in a notebook or hanging his photo on the inside of my closet door.
“I appreciate you saying that, but still,” I say. “I’m deeply embarrassed by what I said last night.”
He’s quiet for a beat, and I wonder if he’s already used up his daily allotment of words.
“Why?” he asks finally.
Oh man, I wish he were out of words, because how do I even answer that?
“Seriously?”
Dan shrugs.
Is this a dream? Surely it is. Because only in a dream would Dan McBride say this many words in a row to me. Only in a dream would his tone possibly, maybe, potentially be…inviting, as if my little exclamation in the car wasn’t totally unwanted.
No. No way.
Still, I should check. So I try a little verbal pinch to see if I wake up.
“Well, first of all, the fact that I brought up my sex life—or lack thereof—to you at all makes me want to walk into the sea. The fact that I phrased it like I did? Even more embarrassing.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I let myself look at him, only to find him staring directly at me. I’m snared in his gaze. Couldn’t look away if I wanted to. And I really, really don’t want to.
“There’s no shame in wanting what you want,” he says.
This man’s voice must be a defibrillator, because my heart jolts.
“I know that,” I say. Then, because he’s still looking right at me and I haven’t woken up, I try something a little bit bolder. “I’m not ashamed to want it.”
“Good,” he says, his eyes still boring into me. I feel his gaze like it’s a living thing, like it’s caressing my skin, and I shiver. “Because you deserve it.”
My blood turns to lava in my veins. This is either a dream, in which case dear god, let me never wake up, or it’s a brand-new reality I never want to leave. Dan McBride, who never says anything, is talking to me, and he’s saying that I deserve good sex.
“Thank you” is all I can say to that, and it comes out a little breathy, almost a whisper.
The tiniest grin tugs at his mouth, and then his teeth sink into his full bottom lip, suppressing the smile. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t think you’re going to find it on Hinge.”
As delicious as this conversation is, a sudden wave of indignation crashes over me, because buddy, I’ve been looking everywhere. “Well, where the heck am I going to find it, then?” I ask, then shovel another spoonful of Lucky Charms into my mouth.
Dan shrugs. “Hell if I know.”
I bark out a laugh. “Well, thanks for the sage advice.”
He takes a long swig of his gritty-looking protein shake. “Never said I was an expert.”
“I’m sure you’ve got some expertise,” I say before I can run that particular quip through my make sure you’re not sexually harassing your best friend’s brother filter.
My cheeks heat, but he doesn’t glower or bolt. Instead, the corner of his full lips twitches again. But he bites back the grin a second time. Oh, I want inside that head so bad.
“I certainly do,” he replies, his eyebrows lifting like a challenge.
Oh my god, is this really happening? Is this man actually flirting with me? The tension between us feels like a live electric current. My heart is pounding like a whole high school marching band drum line, and my breath comes in shallow little bursts.
Dan leans forward, pressing his elbows into the table as he draws closer to me.
I lean forward, closing the gap between us just a bit.
I nearly stop breathing, so anxious am I to hear what he might say next.
This moment feels big. Alive. And like I need to bring all my faculties to it, because whatever comes next is about to change everything.
He draws in a long, slow, deep breath, then looks up from beneath his impossibly long lashes. “Carson, if there’s anything I can help you with—”
The sound of the doorbell interrupts us like a shriek.
If this were a dream, this would be the moment I wake up and sit bolt upright in bed.
But I don’t. Instead, I jump a mile, letting out an embarrassing little yelp.
The spoon falls from my hand, clattering into my bowl again and sending a splatter of milk across the table.
I gasp, sending a bit of marshmallow straight down my esophagus, and my eyes water as I try not to choke.
It’s not a dream. I’m still sitting across from him. Staring at him. Dare I say…bantering with him?
Screw the doorbell. I’m not leaving this table. I want him to finish that sentence. What exactly is he offering, and how fast can I say yes?
“Carson! I want to hear about your date! I have muffins!”
Dan sighs, leaning back in his chair. Because that’s my best friend at the door, his little sister.
Which means this conversation is over. For now, at least.
“I’m going to shower,” Dan says, and before I can read his face, he’s standing and reaching for his gym bag, then disappearing down the hall. A few seconds later, I hear the creaking of the old pipes as water rushes through them. Or maybe it’s the sound of my own blood rushing through my body.