Shit. I can’t handle him in something rented.
Me: Hey, it’s me. Is this thing on Saturday going to be really fancy? I don’t know if I have anything to wear.
It’s not raining today, which means Reed is most likely at work. He might not have his phone on him. I could be stuck making a judgment call on this, but I don’t want to buy something I’ll only wear once if I don’t even need it.
Reed: Who is this?
I stare at the screen, mouth falling open. Really? Who is this?
Me: Beth.
Me: Beth Davis.
Me: From McGill’s.
Reed: Sweetheart, even if I didn’t know who this was, which I did, you could’ve stopped at Beth. I would’ve figured it out.
Me: You’re hilarious.
If there is a way to text sarcasm, I pray I just nailed it.
Reed: I thought I was funny. So did Connor.
Me: Who is Connor?
Reed: One of my workers. I asked his opinion. He laughed.
Me: He’s sucking up to you. You sign his paycheck.
Reed: Technically, my mother signs his paycheck. She runs the office. I just tell him what to do.
Me: Like laugh at your poor attempts to be funny.
Reed: Hold on. I’m programming your number into my phone, Beth Davis from McGill’s.
Me: You aren’t seriously putting me in like that, are you?
My phone beeps as a photo message comes through, a screen shot of his contacts opened up to my name, Beth Davis from McGill’s. I keep my laugh subdued, okay, that’s somewhat funny, and decide he isn’t the only one out of the two of us who can crack a joke.
Me: You could put me in under the nickname I went by in high school.
Reed: What was that?
Me: Beth Deep Throat Davis.
Holy shit. I cannot believe I just typed that.
I have never texted anything that . . . filthy before. Ever. Not even a few words that hinted around to something sexual.
What possessed me to pop my dirty-texting cherry with Reed Tennyson? I was going for funny. Maybe that wasn’t his kind of humor. Shit. Shit! My throat suddenly feels tight, my tongue too large for my mouth. What was I thinking? I could’ve used my actual nickname growing up. It isn’t funny, but it’s at least a word that wouldn’t make my insides feel like they’re being held over an open flame.
My thumbs move frantically, trying to undo my error.
Me: Sorry. I don’t know what made me send that. I’ve never been called that before. My momma always called me Bethie when I was younger. That’s the only nickname I’ve ever had. If you could erase what I’ve sent you prior to this message and never speak of it again, I’d appreciate it.
I’ve never been the type of person who recovers well from uncomfortable situations. If anything, I’m usually making it worse on myself. Case-in-point.
Me: I’d never be called Deep Throat. I have a really sensitive gag reflex. When the doctor does that strep test with the long Q-tip and scratches the back of your throat, I almost throw up.
Me: Luckily, I don’t get dick very often.
I nearly swallow my tongue.
Me: OMG. Sick! I meant I don’t get sick very often!
Me: Ducking autocorrect!
Me: What the hell is dicking?
Me: OMG. What is happening?
I’m a second away from hurling my phone against the nearest hard surface, or dropping it into the pot of steaming chowder Riley is carrying my way.
Reed: I think your phone loves dick.
Some of my embarrassment subsides as I read his cavalier response. The hand covering half my face slides down and resumes typing.
Me: I am so sorry if I made this awkward.
Reed: Not awkward for me. You’ve kept me amused on my break, which is now over. Text me your address. I’ll dick you up at 5:30 p.m. on Saturday. (See what I did there?)
I muffle my laugh with my hand. Good one.
Me: Oh, wait! You didn’t answer my question.
Reed: What was it?
Me: The party. Fancy? Do I need to dress up?
Reed: Probably. Molly’s family is loaded. They’ll have all the best shit.
Me: Okay. Have a great day constructing.
Have a great day constructing? Good Lord. What is wrong with me? I should not be unsupervised with a cell phone.
I step up next to Riley as the line for second helpings begins to form. The previous conversation circles in my head, heating my skin and lifting the corner of my mouth.
I don’t get dick very often.
Forget texting him my address. My whore of an iPhone will have a field day with Balzac Street.
I THINK IN ANOTHER LIFE, I had to have been a man.
I’ve never liked shopping. Never. It’s one of the reasons almost everything I own is something my momma used to wear that I’ve altered to fit my body. She was little like me, but had a bigger chest, so most of her shirts hang funny until I take a needle and thread to them. I’ve gotten pretty good at fixing up stuff to fit me. I still go shopping for some things, but honestly, I’ve always liked my momma’s style better than anything I can ever find at the mall. Being teased in school for wearing torn concert tees and ratty flannels didn’t stop me. I didn’t care what people had to say. I was me. I have always been me. I’ll never change for anyone, and if someone doesn’t like it they were never meant for me to know anyway. Life’s too short to dress boring and predictable. I don’t want to wear things that make me uncomfortable in my own skin. But sometimes, you have to bite the bullet. Sometimes, you have to drag yourself into very overly priced boutiques, searching for something to wear to a party which will apparently have all the best shit.
I’m on dress number eight, and I’m exhausted.
“Mommy, look! Buy dis! It’s got a puppy on it!”
The cutest little voice seeps into the small dressing room I’m standing in, bringing the only smile to my face since I stepped into this god-awful strip mall.
“Nolan, put that back and come stand by me, please.”
Nolan? Nolan . . . why do I know that name?
I secure the zipper underneath my arm and step out to view this disaster I’m wearing in a three-way mirror. As I’m turning to gauge how wrong this thing looks from the back, an infectious little laugh comes from somewhere in the store. God, that’s adorable.
“What’s up, Clapton?”
I lean back to look out into the store from the secluded area of the dressing rooms.
The red-head who was sitting next to Reed the other day at the pizza place is standing just outside the doorway, leaning her elbow against a rack of blouses. She tilts her head with a coy smile.
“Fancy seeing you here.” Her eyes fall to my dress, then a finger darts directly at the material rejecting my body. She hisses through a grimace. “That dress,” she says, her voice tight with judgment. “It’s not working for you at all.”
I breathe a raspy sigh while running my hands over the satin covering my stomach. “Tell me about it. None of these dresses are working for me.”
“It’s giving you this double boob thing. Does it have a built-in bra?”
“Yes,” I answer, staring down at my chest. Double boob? That can’t be the only issue.
“Mm mmm. That’s it. That’s the problem.”
“Oh hey! It’s you!”
I look up as the other woman from the pizza shop walks over, stopping at the rack of clothes and wearing one of those kangaroo baby carriers on her chest. The little guy against her makes a soft, cooing sound, while the boy I’m certain was responsible for the giggling hides behind her legs, peeking his head around her thigh.
Me: Hey, it’s me. Is this thing on Saturday going to be really fancy? I don’t know if I have anything to wear.
It’s not raining today, which means Reed is most likely at work. He might not have his phone on him. I could be stuck making a judgment call on this, but I don’t want to buy something I’ll only wear once if I don’t even need it.
Reed: Who is this?
I stare at the screen, mouth falling open. Really? Who is this?
Me: Beth.
Me: Beth Davis.
Me: From McGill’s.
Reed: Sweetheart, even if I didn’t know who this was, which I did, you could’ve stopped at Beth. I would’ve figured it out.
Me: You’re hilarious.
If there is a way to text sarcasm, I pray I just nailed it.
Reed: I thought I was funny. So did Connor.
Me: Who is Connor?
Reed: One of my workers. I asked his opinion. He laughed.
Me: He’s sucking up to you. You sign his paycheck.
Reed: Technically, my mother signs his paycheck. She runs the office. I just tell him what to do.
Me: Like laugh at your poor attempts to be funny.
Reed: Hold on. I’m programming your number into my phone, Beth Davis from McGill’s.
Me: You aren’t seriously putting me in like that, are you?
My phone beeps as a photo message comes through, a screen shot of his contacts opened up to my name, Beth Davis from McGill’s. I keep my laugh subdued, okay, that’s somewhat funny, and decide he isn’t the only one out of the two of us who can crack a joke.
Me: You could put me in under the nickname I went by in high school.
Reed: What was that?
Me: Beth Deep Throat Davis.
Holy shit. I cannot believe I just typed that.
I have never texted anything that . . . filthy before. Ever. Not even a few words that hinted around to something sexual.
What possessed me to pop my dirty-texting cherry with Reed Tennyson? I was going for funny. Maybe that wasn’t his kind of humor. Shit. Shit! My throat suddenly feels tight, my tongue too large for my mouth. What was I thinking? I could’ve used my actual nickname growing up. It isn’t funny, but it’s at least a word that wouldn’t make my insides feel like they’re being held over an open flame.
My thumbs move frantically, trying to undo my error.
Me: Sorry. I don’t know what made me send that. I’ve never been called that before. My momma always called me Bethie when I was younger. That’s the only nickname I’ve ever had. If you could erase what I’ve sent you prior to this message and never speak of it again, I’d appreciate it.
I’ve never been the type of person who recovers well from uncomfortable situations. If anything, I’m usually making it worse on myself. Case-in-point.
Me: I’d never be called Deep Throat. I have a really sensitive gag reflex. When the doctor does that strep test with the long Q-tip and scratches the back of your throat, I almost throw up.
Me: Luckily, I don’t get dick very often.
I nearly swallow my tongue.
Me: OMG. Sick! I meant I don’t get sick very often!
Me: Ducking autocorrect!
Me: What the hell is dicking?
Me: OMG. What is happening?
I’m a second away from hurling my phone against the nearest hard surface, or dropping it into the pot of steaming chowder Riley is carrying my way.
Reed: I think your phone loves dick.
Some of my embarrassment subsides as I read his cavalier response. The hand covering half my face slides down and resumes typing.
Me: I am so sorry if I made this awkward.
Reed: Not awkward for me. You’ve kept me amused on my break, which is now over. Text me your address. I’ll dick you up at 5:30 p.m. on Saturday. (See what I did there?)
I muffle my laugh with my hand. Good one.
Me: Oh, wait! You didn’t answer my question.
Reed: What was it?
Me: The party. Fancy? Do I need to dress up?
Reed: Probably. Molly’s family is loaded. They’ll have all the best shit.
Me: Okay. Have a great day constructing.
Have a great day constructing? Good Lord. What is wrong with me? I should not be unsupervised with a cell phone.
I step up next to Riley as the line for second helpings begins to form. The previous conversation circles in my head, heating my skin and lifting the corner of my mouth.
I don’t get dick very often.
Forget texting him my address. My whore of an iPhone will have a field day with Balzac Street.
I THINK IN ANOTHER LIFE, I had to have been a man.
I’ve never liked shopping. Never. It’s one of the reasons almost everything I own is something my momma used to wear that I’ve altered to fit my body. She was little like me, but had a bigger chest, so most of her shirts hang funny until I take a needle and thread to them. I’ve gotten pretty good at fixing up stuff to fit me. I still go shopping for some things, but honestly, I’ve always liked my momma’s style better than anything I can ever find at the mall. Being teased in school for wearing torn concert tees and ratty flannels didn’t stop me. I didn’t care what people had to say. I was me. I have always been me. I’ll never change for anyone, and if someone doesn’t like it they were never meant for me to know anyway. Life’s too short to dress boring and predictable. I don’t want to wear things that make me uncomfortable in my own skin. But sometimes, you have to bite the bullet. Sometimes, you have to drag yourself into very overly priced boutiques, searching for something to wear to a party which will apparently have all the best shit.
I’m on dress number eight, and I’m exhausted.
“Mommy, look! Buy dis! It’s got a puppy on it!”
The cutest little voice seeps into the small dressing room I’m standing in, bringing the only smile to my face since I stepped into this god-awful strip mall.
“Nolan, put that back and come stand by me, please.”
Nolan? Nolan . . . why do I know that name?
I secure the zipper underneath my arm and step out to view this disaster I’m wearing in a three-way mirror. As I’m turning to gauge how wrong this thing looks from the back, an infectious little laugh comes from somewhere in the store. God, that’s adorable.
“What’s up, Clapton?”
I lean back to look out into the store from the secluded area of the dressing rooms.
The red-head who was sitting next to Reed the other day at the pizza place is standing just outside the doorway, leaning her elbow against a rack of blouses. She tilts her head with a coy smile.
“Fancy seeing you here.” Her eyes fall to my dress, then a finger darts directly at the material rejecting my body. She hisses through a grimace. “That dress,” she says, her voice tight with judgment. “It’s not working for you at all.”
I breathe a raspy sigh while running my hands over the satin covering my stomach. “Tell me about it. None of these dresses are working for me.”
“It’s giving you this double boob thing. Does it have a built-in bra?”
“Yes,” I answer, staring down at my chest. Double boob? That can’t be the only issue.
“Mm mmm. That’s it. That’s the problem.”
“Oh hey! It’s you!”
I look up as the other woman from the pizza shop walks over, stopping at the rack of clothes and wearing one of those kangaroo baby carriers on her chest. The little guy against her makes a soft, cooing sound, while the boy I’m certain was responsible for the giggling hides behind her legs, peeking his head around her thigh.
