2. Rhodes
2
Rhodes
P aige is practically skipping around the corner to the parking lot where I’m leaning against the side of my car, probably with too much lean. It’s hard to make my long limbs look casual. Am I highlighting all of the bicep curls I’ve been doing lately? Enhancing the width of my shoulders so she knows I could carry anything she ever needed? Is my dark hair mussed enough to where it falls a bit over my forehead the way she likes but doesn’t look like I ran my hands through it too many times? I don’t have time to worry about any of it because she sees me, smiles, and I forget where to put my legs or if my triceps are flexing at the right time. I’m pretty sure I stop breathing.
Yeah, I definitely do.
It doesn’t matter that we’ve seen each other nearly every single day since she moved back home a year ago, I still react the same way. My smile is too big, eyes too bright. I can’t help wondering if today’s the day she’ll figure out just how much I’m into her.
But then she gets closer and opens her mouth to shout, “Your car shrank.”
Not today .
She’s the only woman in my life who has the power to diss me while also making my hands sweat in a very immodest way .
I scowl because Paige loves picking fun at my Fiat. It’s a perfectly respectable car with a functional interior and solid turning radius. I can also park it anywhere. “Maybe I got taller.”
I’ve been 6’3” since I turned fifteen, and as a thirty-year-old man, I’m positive I’m done growing. Hopefully. I haven’t met many shower heads I don’t have to bend and snap for.
She’s close enough now I can smell her hair’s orange and vanilla creamsicle scent. It reminds me of the ice-cream truck staple I used to get when we were teens and would chase poor Mrs. Griffith—librarian by day, ice cream driver on weekends—around the block on our scooters, convincing her we needed just one more and were good for the money.
“Did you steal that car from a family of ants?” she asks, snapping my attention away from how perfectly lickable she smells.
“It’s called a colony,” I retort. “And I already dropped them off. I wouldn’t let Colonel Crumb take your seat.”
“A true travesty if you ask me. He probably needed the ride more than I did.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” I reach behind me and open the passenger door but don’t let her open it fully when she tries. “All of those bags you’re holding won’t fit up here.”
She looks down at her hands. “I only have two.”
“Exactly.”
She smiles and walks to the trunk to put more of her treasures inside. There hasn’t been a day I’ve picked Paige up where she hasn’t had at least one thing in her hands. The other day, it was a stitched wall hanging of a zebra she said had potential after she planned to paint the frame. And just last week, she found a tea set…with mushrooms on it. I’ve lost count of how many fungi decor items she owns .
She’s always been drawn to peculiar things—the weirder the better—whereas I prefer just to buy everything online. My favored style is sleek, clean, and matching, but Paige is adamant about changing this for me thanks to her gifts . I have potholders with—you guessed it—mushrooms on them sitting in a drawer next to my stove, thanks to her.
“It isn’t fitting…in…here,” she says with a grunt from the rear of the car.
“Don’t force it!” I rush to grab one of her paper bags about to fall to the pavement and help readjust the contents of my trunk.
“Do you just travel around with your equipment now in case you need to stop and make a video?” She helps me stack tripods, a ring light, and a backdrop board, which is really just beadboard from the hardware store.
“Yes, and no.”
I’ve been making stop-motion videos since I was a kid, but I realized during college I could make decent money from it. I create all sorts of videos highlighting Lego people doing mundane activities like laundry or cooking pasta and upload them to multiple social platforms. The first few times I shared a video, they got thousands of likes before skyrocketing to the millions.
“I was filming at the park earlier and didn’t have time to drop my things off.” We finally got her bags balanced on my camera bag and shut the door. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” she replies, walking to the passenger seat. “But Mom is making lemon meringue pie for dessert tonight, and I refuse to eat anything less than two slices.”
“Meringue. Your favorite.” Our seatbelts click simultaneously.
She peers at me, the sun bouncing off her dark-rimmed glasses, blinding me enough to force my eyes forward. “Pretty sure people who don’t like lemons are heathens. Don’t quote me on that.” Connecting her phone to Bluetooth, she navigates to a playlist on her phone and hits play. “I would take a coffee if you want to swing by real quick.”
“It’s five o’clock,” I retort, backing out of the space and handing her a granola bar from the few I like to keep stashed for when Paige forgets to eat lunch. “And coffee isn’t food.”
She scoffs but grabs the granola bar and starts ripping it open. “You know I could literally fall asleep anywhere at any time—coffee can’t hold me back. Plus, Amber hasn’t responded to a meme I sent her hours ago and that’s concerning.”
I know what meme she’s talking about since I’m in this group text. Amber has made a habit of sending one nearly every weekday morning and the occasional weekend. It’s her second full-time job, apart from the coffee stand.
“We’ll swing by. Maybe I’ll get a smoothie.”
“You and your smoothies.”
“What?” I balk. “They’re good.”
“Let me guess, you already made one this morning?”
And this afternoon, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m busy, and a smoothie is easy and quick while packing all of the nutrients.”
“Yeah, yeah. Maybe I should have gotten into selling Vitamixes instead of makeup.”
The streak of MLM’s Paige joined was a dark time for all of us. My bank account suffered greatly at the hands of her unwavering commitment to knives and mineral sunscreen.
“Please never do that. Ever.”
She waves me off and rolls down her window. “That season of my life is over.”
Thank God .
Her work history is cluttered with all the ways she doesn’t take life too seriously. She’s tried it all, including a stint with a local circus group. But they kicked her out when they realized she couldn’t actually spin plates while balancing a stick on her nose. She might have colored her resume a bit on that one.
She’s always lived like tomorrow isn’t promised, which is admirable. Until I’m having to help her rehome twelve kittens because she went to the shelter and couldn’t say no. Miraculously, she only kept one, a multicolored Calico with a foot fetish. Not really, but she likes to attack your feet, or maybe just mine. Cleocatra inspired Paige to apply for a position at a Pet Psychic Hotline. But I’m pretty sure the only one who could read minds after that was Cleo.
We pull into the two-window drive-thru where Amber works, and I roll down my window. No one else is in line because five o’clock. But in the mornings, this place is bumper-to-bumper traffic. They could probably use their own traffic guard just to direct the vehicles of caffeine fiends eager for their morning fix.
Amber pushes the window open and leans over her forearms. “Saw your dumb car from a mile away.”
I roll my eyes. “Hi, Amber.”
“That’s Amber Pekins to you.”
I’m not calling her by her full name.
“Are you going to be able to reach your drinks from way down there?” She raises her brows at me.
Paige snickers from beside me.
Amber is the string holding Paige’s balloon in place. They met during a failed science experiment in elementary school which caused a small—but still mildly destructive—fire. Paige blamed Amber, so Amber told the principal Paige had contraband in her locker. She didn’t, but it was well played. Any jester can appreciate her cunning wit.
Compared to Paige’s eclectic patterns that don’t match and colors appearing like they should clash, Amber looks…normal. Her hair is long and brown and she has a solid backbone not only because her posture is enviable, but also because she would never let anyone walk all over her or her friends.
I appreciate her protective nature almost as much as I appreciate Paige’s red hair and freckles. That’s actually not true. Paige’s freckles win.
I gauge the distance from my window to her retractable one. “I’ve done it plenty of times before. Long arms, remember?”
Her stare is blank. “I’m on shift and refuse to be mean to customers.”
Paige leans across me, using my thigh to balance her hand. “You never responded to my text.”
“The meme?” Amber asks.
“Yes, the meme. It’s the best one I’ve sent all week.”
My thigh is fully aware of how high her hand really is. I bite my bottom lip and stare straight ahead, thinking about anything that doesn’t involve hands or legs or…touching.
Amber shrugs. “I saw it.”
“And?”
“I loved it, obviously. My mom did, too.”
Paige inches closer to the window, adding more pressure, and I have to suck in a breath. “You could have said that. Why didn’t you text me back?”
“It’s because I’ve been trying to find a better one all day.”
“Psh. Good luck,” Paige says.
Amber’s voice lowers and fills my ears. “You doing alright there, Rhodes? You’re looking a bit…distressed. ”
I snap my gaze to hers and let out a breath I held captive in my lungs for longer than I planned. I’m trying to pretend like having Paige’s hand on my thigh is no problemo, but clearly, I’m not convincing enough. “I’m fine.”
“You look pale.” Paige studies my face, but she’s so close. Those lips of hers are right next to mine. The freckle above her cupid’s bow is a taunting little minx.
I swallow. “I’m always pale.”
“Not like this.” She grabs under my chin and stares me down because she knows when I’m lying, and right now, I’m definitely lying.
I clear my throat, and thankfully, Amber saves me. “So, are you both going to order something or just bicker in my drive-thru?”
Paige pushes her glasses up her nose. “I’ll have an iced caramel macchiato. Please.”
She pushes off my leg back to her side of the car, and I immediately fold my hands in my lap so I don’t haul her back over here. “Water. With ice.”
“No blood today, Rhodes?” Amber jabs.
“I never order—”
Paige and Amber are already laughing before I can finish.
I’m not laughing. “Funny.”
“Whatever.” She turns, grabs our cups, and disappears while preparing our drinks.
Paige’s phone rings, and she studies it before answering. I already know who it is based on her responses. “I’m on my way home…maybe…he did last night…I’ll ask…hold on.” She turns her attention to me. “My sister asked Dad to ask me to ask you if you’re coming to dinner t onight?”
The Turner family phone chain is legendary. Everything from grocery item discounts on sale that week to juicy neighbor gossip gets bounced around between Paige, her sister, Constance, and their parents, Gerald and Gail. Amber and I have been included, too, but boyfriends don’t get an invite. It’s a small victory I will boast about until my last breath.
“I could eat.”
She pulls the phone away from her ear fully. “Tucker will be there.”
What ? Did she just say he’s coming to dinner? And her parents are allowing it? Hell is no longer a burning pit of despair. It’s Elsa’s paradise, frozen to oblivion.
This shouldn’t be happening. Boyfriends aren’t allowed.
But I can’t let her see me sweat. “Who’s Tucker?”
The eye roll she gives me is exaggerated. “My boyfriend .”
Oh. Right.
I’ve made a habit of never remembering any of Paige’s boyfriend’s names. Partially because there have been so many of them—some lasting as long as it takes her to brush her teeth. So, I don’t bother. And also because I don’t like being reminded Paige has a boyfriend. At all.
Instead, I keep them straight by particular attributes or qualities. There was Lizard Man who owned too many lizards— one —and Batmobile Dude who drove a black on black on black car and had no business having tinted windows in WA where it rains more than we see the sun. What was he hiding?
“You mean Treat Yoself guy?”
“Hey, Dad, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you later.”
“But what about—”
She hangs up before her dad can finish and glares at me. “What? ”
I lean back on the headrest. “The guy who’s always trying to get you to buy stuff by saying treat yoself like that somehow makes it a better decision?”
Her mouth gapes. “Is this about that nonstick pan again? I told you, I’m glad I invested in it, and when one of my children gets it in the will, they will thank me in my eulogy.”
I hold up both hands just as Amber hands me Paige’s drink. Like always, I steal a sip before passing it over to her. It’s the tax I take for driving her everywhere.
“You could get one of your own next time,” she spouts.
“Too much sugar.”
“You and your micros.” She shakes her head.
“ Macros ,” I correct.
Amber hands me my iced water, but it’s red. “What’s this?”
“Blood.”
My brows pinch together.
Paige grabs the drink from my hand and takes a sip before I can protest. “Cherry syrup,” she says and hands it back.
Between these two women, I don’t know how I survived this long.
I also don’t think I could go through life without them.