He learned that I’m allergic to cats. I reminded him that I’m really good at playing basketball and played on the girls’ varsity team all four years. And when we were in middle school, I held the record for fastest girl to climb the rope in gym class.
We joked about our PE teacher, Mr. Robicheaux, and how he got so mad when we didn’t play proper badminton rules that his face would turn red. Brig then sighed and shook his head, wishing we’d known each other better in school. Asked why we never hung out. Even though we lived in a small town, our circles never collided. He was a popular Knightly. I focused on helping my parents at the coffee house—baking in the back—and played basketball. My days were full.
We shared so much more.
We laughed.
And when I got emotional again, Brig didn’t hesitate to pull me into his arms and offer me his strength and compassion.
“Thank you for today, Brig. It meant the world to me.”
“Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”
He stands only a foot away, hands in his pockets, his face sun-kissed from sitting outside with me all day.
“I forgot to ask you. You were looking for me earlier, what for?”
“I was?” he asks and reaches up to pull on the back of his neck. “Oh wait, yeah. I was looking to talk to you. The rehearsal dinner for Harper and Rogan is going to be behind the garage and I was hoping we could possibly use your kitchen for some meal prep. We usually have a caterer for our events, but my mom and dad wanted to make the food. I know you just got a new oven in so I don’t want to mess up anything you have going on, but thought I’d ask.”
“Of course. What’s mine is yours, Brig.”
“Does that mean your vibrator is mine, too?”
I laugh a little harder than expected. “Sure. Want me to get it for you?” I thumb behind me.
He holds up his hand. “I’m tapped out for today, maybe tomorrow though.”
“I’ll let my vibrator know.” I wink and then take a step forward closing the space between us. I loop my arms around him and hug him tight. “Thank you again, Brig.”
His hand caresses my back as he squeezes me tight as well. “Anytime. Run with me tomorrow?”
I pull back and nod. “Yeah.”
“Going two miles. I think you’re ready. You’re killing one and a half.”
“I think I’m ready too.”
“You are.” He tips my chin up. “Just don’t wear that one bra that makes your tits bounce everywhere. You know the one I’m talking about.”
“Why? Is it distracting?” I ask, acting coy.
“You know it is. And ever since the whole nose and boob collision, it’s like whenever you’re in that bra, my nose needs to sneeze constantly, as if trying to tell me something. So to avoid all sneezing attacks during a run, I beg you to retire that bra from the rotation.”
“You poor tortured man.” I step away and turn toward my apartment.
“So is that a yes, you’re retiring it?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see. Good night, Brig.”
He sighs heavily. “Good night, Ruthie Girl.”
Chapter Thirteen
BRIG
Dear Whoopie Pie,
Figured I should call you something other than Secret Pen Pal. I couldn’t think of anything other than Whoopie Pie and for some reason, it feels like it fits so well. Sorry I’ve missed some nights of sending you a letter. Life got a little crazy, but please don’t think it’s because I’m not interested or invested in our conversations. I am.
I look forward to your letters. I usually save them for night, even if they’re delivered during the day or in the morning. I’ll set them on my nightstand so when I tuck in for the night, I can fall asleep to your words.
How are you holding out, being in the thick of summer? Did you catch the wave of tourists this past Saturday? I swear you couldn’t move an inch down Main Street without someone’s sweaty shoulder touching yours. Sunday was nice though, felt like a breath of fresh air. I know how much the crowds bother you, so I’m hoping you made it out alive.
Did you?
Patiently waiting to find out.
Hugs,
Summer (that’s not my name, but figured since I love summer so much, it fits for me)
Dear Summer,
When I finally do meet you, it’s going to be weird to not call you Summer. In my head, I picture you as a blonde. Are you . . . blonde? I know we shouldn’t be talking descriptions and we should get to know each other on a deeper level like we have, but every time I read your letters, I picture you as a blonde. Not sure why. Maybe because you have a striking resemblance in personality to my friend.
I will admit, skipping a few days and not hearing from you was a little painful, but I was able to spend Sunday with a good friend, enjoying the harbor and some of the small things I forget to enjoy when living in Port Snow. Like sitting on the harbor wall and listening to the waves crash. Taking a moment to enjoy a cookie from The Lobster Landing. Or walking down the streets at night, enjoying the sounds of crickets in the background while the streetlamps light your path. I felt rejuvenated yesterday and it made me not dislike summer as much.
So rest assured, I’m alive and well.
Which means I need to know . . . are you a blonde?
Hugs,
Whoopie Pie < - - snorted writing that, but I like it.
“Got an extra pep in your step this morning?” I say to Ruth who is gliding down our route, showing stamina and great power in her legs.
“Feeling good,” she says while knocking me in the shoulder. “Even have a healthy breakfast planned for us.”
“Healthy? What’s this bullshit? I run for food.”
“It’s overnight oats with chia seeds and kale.”
“Uhhh . . . kale in my oatmeal? Are you insane?”
“It’s bright green and smells like death, but I think it will give us all the fuel we need to hang shiplap today.”
We turn the last corner and head toward Snow Roast. By now, Ruth would normally be slowing down, breathing harder, but it’s as if she’s traded places with an ultrarunner, because she’s picking up the pace.
Keeping up by stretching out my stride, I say, “I prefer my breakfast to smell like death. How did you know?”
“Wild guess.” She glances at me and says, “Race you.” And then takes off in a sprint.
It takes my brain a few seconds to process what’s happening but once it does, I start to sprint . . . only for my eyes to land right on Ruth’s retreating rear end.
Firm.
Tight.
Round.
Perfectly framed by black spandex.
Damn, Ruth.
I’m so caught up in watching her ass that I don’t turn on the “booster rockets” soon enough. Ruth reaches Snow Roast before me, throws her arms up in the air, and starts chanting for herself.
She looks . . . God, she looks fucking adorable.
Her hair is in two French braids. Her freckles are darker from the summer sun, and her tits . . . well, I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with me, because I can’t seem to stop staring at them. It’s because I’m hard up; that’s what I keep telling myself when I catch myself gazing at them. Or wondering what they would look like bare. Or considering how they’d feel in my hand.