“I guess not. But there was another family who thought they were mobsters and I promptly wiped all that religious stuff from my brain and filled it with … a lot of things a kid should never know.” His lips turn down. “You and Ms. Malarkey make me feel good just for being me, you know?”
“You’re a great kid, Ollie. You just do you.”
He tilts his head to the side. “You just do you too, Mr. Gibson. It’s all you can do.”
I’m left standing, poring over his curious words, as he exits the room.
Thirty
Mariah
“Thank you.” I take the change, three dollars and thirty-three cents, and want to toss the cashier a penny back just to get away from all the threes.
It’s been three days since I talked to Lance. Each day gets a little easier and a little harder.
I’m not the same person I was when I logged onto the app for the first time and found History Hunk in my matches. Even though he doesn’t want me the way I want him, as someone I’d like to test out forever with, I feel confident that someone great will someday. That my love of books and desire to curl away from the population isn’t a complete turnoff. My pooched belly isn’t as horrendous as I’ve believed my whole life. How could I believe that when Lance Gibson has kissed every inch of it?
But it’s more than that. It’s something deep inside me that knows I can handle shit. I can handle life. I can handle my mom and Chrissy. I can call the shots with them for the first time in my life with no hunkering down and no caving to their wants or exploding with rage. Lance not wanting me is not breaking me—bending me until the point I can hear the straps creaking, but not breaking. Maybe he doesn’t love me, but I do. I love me again. I’ll always be thankful that he showed me how.
It’s the wee hours of the night when I wonder if I’ll ever fall in love again. They say it happens once and it wasn’t with Eric. I know that now. I fell in love with Lance. I’m in love with Lance. And if I never feel this way about another man, that’s a soul-crushing realization to consider.
With Eric, I thought we’d go through the motions of life—engagement complete with photos that would make me cringe in ten years, marriage with overpriced wedding hors d’oeuvres, honeymoon, kids, blah, blah, blah. The blahs though were filled with enough excitement to make me think I wanted it. Maybe I really even did. But with Lance, if I let myself consider what life would be like with him, there were no blahs. With him, it wouldn’t have been about the milestones and checking off each box that adults are supposed to check. It would’ve honestly been about the journey—the cuddles on the couch and arguing over what movie to watch, the snowy afternoons in front of the fireplace spent reading books and discussing thoughtful passages. It would’ve been a life filled with fountain Cokes and Bluebird Hills and maybe some of Nana’s Pyrex dishes brimming with leftovers. Maybe I could’ve made Sunday dinner with her and gossiped about her grandsons and really have become a part of that family.
“Ma’am?”
I jolt back to the present, stuffing the change in my pocket. “I’m sorry. I dazed off,” I tell the cashier.
“No problem. Have a great day.”
The sun shines happily through the door and I have to squint as I approach. When it opens, the glare goes down just enough for me to focus my vision. Then I stop.
Peck with his floppy blond hair and adorable grin stands in front of me. Beside him is a darker, stockier version of Lance on one side and a slightly shorter, huskier version on the other.
My throat goes dry, my drink almost falling from my hands. “Shit,” I mutter, getting it right side up.
“I have that effect on women,” the stockier one smirks.
“Shut up, Machlan,” Peck laughs. “How are you, Mariah?”
“Oh,” Machlan nods, a look of approval shifting over his rugged features. “You’re Mariah.”
“I am,” I say, looking back at Peck. “It’s nice to see you.”
“It’s nice to see you. This is Machlan Gibson,” he says, pointing to the darker man. “And that is Walker Gibson. Lance’s brothers.”
Walker twists a toothpick around his lips. “This explains a lot.”
“No shit,” Machlan laughs. “It’s nice to meet you and I’m sorry for whatever idiotic thing my brother has done.”
“What makes you think he’s done something?” I ask.
“Because you don’t look crazy.” Walker shrugs.
“I’m not following you …”
“Look,” Machlan says, waving at someone across the store, “Lance is all kinds of fucked up right now. Your boy is drinking more tequila than I’ve ever seen and I can’t even add it to his tab because he’s so pathetic.”