1. The Unluckiest Man Alive
THE UNLUCKIEST MAN ALIVE
HARLAN
Why Crew chose me—out of all his friends—to oversee the safe passage of his sex toys on a drafty day in September is beyond me.
He asked me to retrieve them from a storage unit because he had to attend a lunch with Merit and her father, and then, in far too much detail, proceeded to tell me that they were a surprise for his girlfriend later that night—which meant I had to execute this excursion during the busiest window of the day.
It’s one thing to carry around a large, conspicuous-sized box of sex toys in public (yes, I have seen them before after a wrong turn into Crew’s closet), but it’s another thing to store them in a package that has SEX TOYS branded on every side, in big, bold letters.
I’m the worst errand boy, alright? Socializing with people gives me hives, I’m like a human magnet for embarrassment, and the world tends to screw me over for a good laugh.
I’ve always been shy—not because my parents punished me for having a forthright attitude, but because I was just born with a fear of perception ingrained in my internal circuitry. Anxiety was what the doctor later named it.
I was never the kid in class who talked very much. I followed directions, did my work, and prayed that the teacher wouldn’t call on me because I wasn’t ready to face the pressure of public speaking.
And while I self-medicated some of my worries—the bothersome ones that burrowed into my muscle fibers and became a permanent fixture inside my body—new ones cropped up with the arrival of high school and a societal epidemic of social awareness.
I’m still not over the retina-blinding, nausea-inducing look I had during puberty.
I’d like to say that I look far better now, but the insecurities are still there, deep in my heart, tangled up in fibrous tissue like some poor man’s cat cradle.
Joining the Minnesota Mustangs—Minnesota University’s award-winning hockey team—has definitely given me a boost of confidence that I didn’t know was possible.
At the storage facility, it takes me approximately eleven minutes to get into the building, take the elevator down to the underbelly of the bottom floor, and retrieve the coveted package amongst Crew’s heap of fossilized things.
I contemplated transferring the paraphernalia to a different box—one less, uh, eye-catching—but I don’t want to mess with his organization (or disorganization, more appropriately), and touching them is out of the question.
To complicate things more, I don’t have a jacket to cover this monstrosity.
So, I logistically only have one option: take the elevator back up and pray to God that nobody enters it while I’m inside.
Once I’m back at the lobby, I’m fast enough that I can theoretically run to the parking lot without subjecting anyone to the sight of a box of pink dildos and glowing cock rings.
I can hear a few other stragglers clinking around in their own units, but when I peek my head out, nobody is actively advancing toward the elevator. If I wait any longer, I risk the flow of traffic backing up.
I’m not—I’m not a prude, or anything. I like sex toys. Well, maybe not the “toy” aspect of it. I like sex. Sometimes. The few times I’ve had it.
Indeliberate abstinence aside, I think some premonition-inclined part of me knows that something bad is about to happen in this building, and I can’t think of a worse inventory to be carrying around, in broad daylight, in public, where children or old people are going to stare.
It also doesn’t help that this is like a military-grade-sized box. Really heavy. Mover-type shit. I didn’t realize that Crew had such an extensive collection.
Sequestered in a metal echo chamber—potentially shackled to my best friend’s unit if I don’t pick up my feet and run—I siphon as much air in my lungs as I can, and I ignore the way my rabbiting heart is currently using my ribs as a springboard.
My synapses flare with adrenaline, my reservations lose their integrity and crumble into a sad pile of debris.
It’s now or never.
Moving faster than I’ve ever skated on the ice, I duck out of the unit, fumble with the lock, then sprint all the way to the elevator with pounds of sex toys weighing me down, frantically jamming the upwards arrow with my free hand.
The elevator spews out some concerning-sounding mechanical whirring, but the safety of this already uninsured death contraption is at the bottom of my list of worries.
I bounce on the balls of my feet—eyes darting back and forth across the essentially barren basement like I’m hoarding drugs rather than whips and chains or whatever the hell Rihanna sung about—and life throws me a pitiful bone because the doors open not a moment later.
I slip inside—pushing through the cocktail of trepidation inundating my veins—and I start to slam the close button for the doors comically fast. This place must have been built in the goddamn 1900s because they inch shut slowly, each partition awkwardly wobbling toward the other as if they weren’t even manufactured to close correctly.
Eventually, they screech shut, and the carriage of the elevator begins ascending to the main floor.
I actually might get away with this.
Crew entrusted me with this mission, and I’m going to prove to him that I was the right choice.
Our other friends are far more unpredictable.
Knox and Foster would’ve been sword-fighting with any dildos they found, Sutton would’ve accidentally dropped the box and spilled everything, and Axel would’ve just said no to retrieving the package in the first place. Smart guy.
I lean my back against the cold metal of the elevator, willing the leftover cortisol to wane and the hot spring of nerves to stop bubbling in the pit of my stomach.
Nothing bad is going to happen—a mantra I have to tell myself at least four times a day. Living with anxiety fucking sucks, but masking it is even harder.
However, just as I’m about to prematurely celebrate my victory, a ding desecrates the precious silence, emitting from the display panel just above the buttons. I don’t know how it evaded my mind, but I forgot that this building had five floors. FIVE.
I’m coming up on the third floor.
I start to panic. And not the I-need-a-paper-bag-to-breathe-into type of panic.
The I’m-about-to-be-reacquainted-with-my-late-lunch type of panic.
There’s nowhere for me to hide. There’s nowhere for me to run.
I could hypothetically cower in the corner and form a protective embrace around the box like Gollum, but that would just draw more attention to me.
Guys brag about sex all the time, right? Having sex toys is a totally normal, human activity to engage in.
My feet are glued to the floor, my brain is crashing like a bunch of cars piling into an unauthorized intersection, and large drips of sweat are sliding down my temple. Did it just get ten degrees hotter in here?
Out of all the hysterical possibilities of the stranger who has stopped my pilgrimage and is about to enter through those doors, I never, in a million years, would’ve predicted that it would be the girl of my dreams.
Irelyn St. Clair.
I recognize her head of curly red hair immediately. She’s a few inches shorter than me—around five six to my six feet—and her nose is buried in the screen of her phone before she glances up, feathery, mascara-primed eyelashes brushing against her browbone in slow motion.
Before I know it, I’m staring into green eyes that shimmer like lichen in sunlight, with tiny tendrils of brown oak radiating outwards from her pupils.
She smells like vanilla extract, has this impossible golden glow illuminating her lithe figure, and smiles at me with more charisma than I have in my pinky finger.
She also has a scatter of freckles all over her heart-shaped face, as if nature itself dusted powdered sugar onto a blank canvas.
“Oh, hey, Harlan,” she says, her tone caramelized in sweetness as she steps into the elevator on five-inch heels.
Did I mention that she’s Crew’s girlfriend’s best friend? Which means that I see her on a regular basis. Usually around other people. Never one-on-one. Because that, hah, that would be a disaster.
I’m too tongue-tied to say anything. This is a speed bump way too large for me to overcome with the usual small talk.
Even when I swallow, it feels like there’s barbed wire curled around my throat, deconstructing shapeless words and prohibiting their passage out of my mouth. The sweat has now gummed up my palms; I nearly drop the box in my arms.
“I didn’t know you wer—oh.”
Her eyes lock on the incriminating label scribbled all over the box. SEX TOYS. On repeat. Stringing around corners of cardboard with little care for the mortification devouring me whole with unforgiving teeth. Carnivorous.
Oh. My. God. This is the worst possible thing that could have happened to me.
I could possibly survive judgment from strangers, but from her?
From the girl who orbits my mind without even knowing it?
From the girl I’ve plucked from obscurity and deposited into my maladaptive daydreaming sessions?
From the girl I never have a chance with as long as I live?
Stranded in an Irelyn-induced stupor, I shake my head free of every lovesick thought fogging my sensibility. My lame excuse sits between my teeth like a gamey piece of meat.
“Oh, these? These aren’t mine. They’re Crew’s.
Yep. I don’t own any sex toys. I don’t—I don’t even watch porn.
I hate sex,” I stammer, plastering on the fakest smile, hyperaware of the fact that I’ve begun to sweat in places I didn’t even know could sweat.
Not to mention that my stomach is churning something mean, and considering I have the defense mechanism of a sea cucumber, this elevator ride will either end in a flaming ball of fire or a lot more bodily fluids than I’d like.
Her peachy lips broaden into a megawatt grin, and she cocks her head. “You hate sex?”