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I stare at Jen’s email and click the respond button a dozen times before closing it out. Technically, I’m still in Michigan. This can wait one more day. Or two. I want to talk to Craig. If anyone understands my position and won’t judge, it’s him.
Maren’s old grandfather clock chimes the hour and I figure I better get dressed to go out and maybe see if Rogers is ready for another short walk. Before I do, though, I open my Instagram. Force of habit, even though I was telling myself I wouldn’t check social media while I’m out of town. I scroll through notifications, barely acknowledging them. There are too many to keep track of, and I learned long ago that if anyone important needed to get ahold of me, they wouldn’t use social media. I pull up the feed. I don’t follow very many accounts, but right on top is a photo dump from Shelby and Cam. She told me they made a deal with their network that they wouldn’t allow any film crews or official photos at their wedding, honeymoon, or anything else, but instead would post their pics on social media in their own time and at their own pace. I loved that for them and for me.
I scroll through their photos, soaking in the happy smiles and relaxed poses. Their villa in Fiji is stunning and airy in that super tropical paradise way and I smirk, knowing they’ve probably had sex on every surface already. Good for Shelby. Lucky bitch.
I continue to scroll and my throat catches. Oh. He’s posted. Hot damn. I’m already flushed and haven’t even read the words yet.
So here’s the thing. Craig publishes erotic poetry using an anonymous account. I found out by total accident a year or so back. In my defense, I already followed the account. Hell,everyonedoes. And by everyone, I mean it has multiple millions of (horny) followers. It’s pure unadulterated sensual magic. Like, the number of times I’ve gotten off…
Ugh. I’m already sweating.
Anyway, like I said. I followed the account and I’m 99.99 percent sure he has no idea because he’s never followed anyone back. He’s exactly the kind of person who just throws his genius at the wall and doesn’t bother checking if it sticks before logging out to do more genius things.
Super healthy and somehow even hotter.
For months, I didn’t make the connection that it was Huck behind the account, until one day I picked up his phone to order us Grubhub at his request and his screen was full of notifications for his IG, under that very familiar screen name. I’ll be honest. I about had an orgasm right there in the studio.
I know what you’re thinking. Wow, Lore, that’s objectification. He’s your friend and you work together.
First of all, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, and second, I know.I know,okay?
But I would like to offer this as exhibit A:
carefully uncork
her all-consuming bouquet
sipping
holding
soaking
swallowing
savoring sweetly, so lush upon my tongue
this insatiable thirst
only ever quenched by her
Holy… wait just one damn minute. Something clicks in my brain and I tap on the icon containing my own avatar, scrolling through my pictures. There it is: the wedding. Oh hell, I forgot I posted that champagne toast picture. I’m so obvious. But there’s no response from him. Not there, anyway. I skip back to the poetry and look at the time stamp. Same night, hours apart. He’s talking about champagne, right?
Well, no. He’s absolutely talking about oral sex. But he’s definitely using a champagne euphemism. How could that be a coincidence?
Blergh.I smack my forehead with my palm and cringe at my own embarrassing leaps. Huck isn’t exactly shy. He’s historically straightforward in his interactions with women, and here I am, basically that GIF with the guy and all the red string trying to connect the convoluted dots. He didn’t even respond to my post. I (admittedly, drunkenly) made it so clear I wanted him, and he didn’t comment or even text. And for all I know he schedules his poetry. For all I know, it’s not even about champagne! I might write songs, but I barely passed college-level English. All that looking for symbolism made me want to scoop my own brains out with a spoon. I’m all about direct and to the point.
I imagine presenting my argument to Maren later tonight and the pitying look she’d give me. This is such a reach. I know it is. I’m seeing things where they aren’t.
Just like I did with Drake. Years of imagining loyalty and love when it was all just a case of sexual attraction and career convenience. I need to stop this. I don’t have time for any of it and I am nowhere near emotionally available right now. This is because of the wedding. Shelby’s backyard was doused in lovesick happy sex pheromones all day yesterday and I’m still drunk off the what-ifs.
I’m thinking about this way too much for someone who isn’t willing to act on it. He’s my sort-of boss. And landlord. And one of my oldest, dearest friends.
Maren takes that moment to burst hurriedly through the front door. “Sorry, sorry, there was this family from Wisconsin that was trying to go ‘off the grid’ all weekend, which was so cute, but they insisted on using one of those fold-up paper maps and none of them knew how to read one. What a mess. Adorable. God, I hope they stay in a hotel tonight…” She trails off at the look on my face. “You okay?”
I quickly school my features. “Totally. Just an email from Jen. I’ll explain over drinks. Why don’t you shower and change, and I’ll take Rogers for a short walk?”
Maren considers me for a long moment, and I can tellshecan tell something’s up, but Maren is also the most patient of the three of us. If Shelby had been here, I’d never hear the end of it, but Maren’s good at waiting for the right time. And now isn’t it.
