The Real Thing (8 page)

She’s right, but I give her a playful shove anyway. So far every break I get I check my email. Scott and I have been having an ongoing conversation that’s lasted a few days now. It’s kind of funny how people who don’t know each other can easily talk via the Internet. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.

But he’s not the guy who has me smiling from earring to earring.

“Well, if you’re serious, I’d like to go find him, if that’s cool.”

I tap over to my messages and send Eric a quick text, swatting all the butterflies in my stomach. Eric has always given me tummy jolts, even when it was just a text here or an IM there. The emails would cause the butterflies to break-dance and now, seeing him face-to-face, it’s like an ongoing feeling of falling ass backwards down a hill.

“Eric … that’s your roommate, right?” Rachel asks, nodding to my open screen. We work in such close quarters, I’m not sure privacy is a thing between us.

“Yep.” I force back a butterfly in my stomach that wants to escape as a sigh.

She hands me my half of the tips, and I tuck them away with my phone.

“Short, dark hair? Broad shoulders? Looks good in board shorts? And that warm skin tone that you just want to lick right off him?”

“You want to lick his skin off?” My nose wrinkles, but I’m laughing. “Gross.”

“That’s him, though, right?”

“Sounds like it,” I say, turning to cap all the syrups. “How do you know him?”

“I don’t.” She stretches around me to get to the freezer, and we knock boobs
again
. “But he stopped by earlier looking for you.”

“What? Where was I?”

“On break with your face stuck in your phone.”

I shove her again. “What did he want?”

“He said he’ll meet you at Caribbean Jack’s when you get off.”

My smile won’t go away as I fumble with the syrup caps. It’s just Eric, and I shouldn’t be nervous, but I’m shaking like crazy. It’s totally
excited
nerves. Eric has been the cause a lot of those ever since he asked for a pen in our statistics class. Rachel laughs, taking the green-apple bottle from me and scooting away from the shack door.

“Go. I got this.”

“I’ll open tomorrow, I promise.”

“I want details.”

“Thank you!” I call over my shoulder, hopping out of my shoes to avoid the sandstorm I’d blow in there as I run to the bar.

I need this party, and I need this with Eric. Yesterday was so exhausting, and I was on edge all day knowing Dad was heading out for another month. He reassured me about a million times last night, like he always does during our Skype conversations, but it’s
always
scary for me. Not being able to talk to him is just terrifying, and this constant ache of worry settles in my chest until he gets back. Sometimes I call the coast guard to see if his boat is okay, or if they’ve been in contact with him, but I don’t want to be obnoxious about it. So I end up doing the stupidest thing ever and researching fishing stats online and having nightmares every time I hear the ocean.

But Eric let me sleep in his bed last night. He read four Dr. Seuss books to me—maybe more—and I woke up tucked in, the sheets smelling like Tide and Eric’s Suave for Men shampoo. He was on the floor, talking in his sleep again, mumbling something about the score of the last Super Bowl. I watched and listened for a good ten minutes before attacking him with my tickle fingers.

I’ve been nonstop smiling since, and that’s not easy on Dad’s first day out. I’m giving all credit to my best friend, even though he doesn’t know it.

I slip my shoes on when I get to the pavement, then pull my phone out. Time to see what all these notifications are about. Out of habit, I start to turn off silent mode, but I stop myself. Eric probably doesn’t want to hear the chirping and knocking and popping all night. What a mood killer.

Facebook first. Eve’s been IMing me all day about how she thought pregnancy was supposed to give her sex drive a boost, but she feels too much like a whale to have sex. She doesn’t want Paul to feel like he has to rub one out, but the thought of semen makes her stomach turn. I try to be consoling and offer up some suggestions, even though I’m not sure what to do in that situation.

I blow out a sigh as I read her latest IM.

Maybe if someone sits on me, the baby will just pop right out. Like a zit.

Cringing at the visual, I type back
Only a few more weeks. Keep him in there. He still needs to cook.

I flip over to Twitter and follow back my new followers. Mostly other book nerds like me, a few spammers I ignore. My email is next, and most of the messages are from Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, so I delete those. I really should just send them to spam, but I’ve been lazy.

There’s another message from Scott, and I pull it up, zooming the screen.

Hey Mia2.

Thinking of our conversation, and a Demetri Martin joke popped in my head.

“I was on the street. This guy waved to me, and he came up to me and said, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.’ And I said, ‘I am.’”

Still can’t get over how I emailed the wrong girl. Even crawling back, I screw it up.

Maybe I’ll just send a bunch of flowers to every Mia Johnson in the world. I’ll go broke doing it, but it might work.

Expect roses in a few days ;)

—Scott

I laugh, and quickly tap back a short message.

“Mia2” Think I can find that on a license plate?

Also, make sure you send out pink roses if you’re trying to apologize ;)

It doesn’t take long for my phone to buzz with his response, and I round the corner just as I pull it up.

You know, I actually knew that. Not that I’ve had to send a ton of pink roses out before, but yeah … I work at a floral shop. Because I’m just that manly.

Hey, you on Facebook? Probably easier to chat that way.

—Scott

It’s so much easier to copy and paste from my laptop, but I go back to my Facebook profile and copy the link, and paste it in the reply email. Hitting send, I promise myself that’s the last thing I do on my phone until—

Bam!

I stumble backward as the metal pole I just rammed into nose-first wobbles. “Ouch, damn it.” I laugh to myself, rubbing my face. I take a quick glance around. Only a few people noticed my complete lack of attention to anything outside of my phone screen.

“A girl walks into a bar,” someone jokes as they come out of Caribbean Jack’s. I have to laugh because that was a pretty good one. I pull up my Facebook and type it in as my status update.

Oh, my hell. I growl as I turn the screen off and shove the cell in my pocket. No more tonight. Just Eric and this party we’re heading to. That’s all that exists.

I smell barbeque and pineapple as soon as I walk in. It reminds me of my dad for a second, and then my attention is 100 percent on finding my best friend. He never texted me back. Or maybe he has and I haven’t seen it yet. I roll my eyes and pull my phone out
again
, check my message center and duh … I didn’t even send him anything. My brain is so all over the place. Ignoring the three new IM bubbles in the top right corner, I tap the Call button under the adorable picture of Eric I snapped when he was doing pull-ups out on the balcony this morning.

Weaving through the bar crowd, I press the phone to one ear and plug the other one. It rings and rings and rings. When the beep for the voice mail goes off I laugh and playfully scold him. “Hey, answer your phone.”

Someone knocks into my shoulder, ramming me sideways into another someone. They both apologize, and I try to laugh off being played like a pool ball as I make my way out to the deck. Eric still won’t answer, and I’m listening to his voice-mail message for the fourth time when I finally spot him sitting by the barbeque pit.

The sun is almost completely set, but what’s still visible lights up his smile and his “lickable” skin. He brings his beer to his lips and laughs a little before he takes a swig. I’m practically bouncing my way over to him, jamming my cell in my back pocket. It will stay there till I plug it in at home.

I maneuver around another group of people from the beach, and they make sure I say “Yes” a million times to the party going on along the coast. If everyone would leave me alone for two seconds I’ll get out there. I just need my best friend first.

Turning from Ben, Vic, and Traci with a final “I’ll see you there,” my gaze lands back on Eric … and he’s not alone.

I give myself props for getting along with so many people in the short time I’ve been here. But I stare at this girl’s bikini bod, belly-button ring, and red hair in a short, pixie cut as she places a hand on Eric’s arm, and I instantly hate her.

It’s like it’s happening all over again, even though I have no idea what they’re talking about, or what the hell is going on. All I see is that party back in high school. There was even a bonfire blocking my way to Eric then, too.

I was going to tell him how much I liked him. I don’t know exactly
when
I was going to do that, but it was coming whenever I got the guts. That night I saw him walking along the beach with Ali—cheerleader, beautiful, seriously perfect. And the second her lips pressed against his I felt like someone was stomping on my chest in high heels.

I
almost
ran over and started a catfight. But Eric’s face when she pulled back stopped me. That face was as painful as the kiss itself. He looked like he was in awe or something. Happy. So I ran in the other direction.

He looks happy now, too, and I don’t
want
to run again, but when Miss Perfect Body hands him another beer from the bartender, that’s exactly what I do. Guess I’m not as tough in real life as I am in my head.

Even though I swore I wouldn’t take it out, my phone is back in my hands to send Eric a text he probably won’t even see for hours, when he finally notices I’m not around.

Hey, saw you at Jack’s, but didn’t want to ruin your potential score. I’ll meet you at the beach if you end up out that way. *party hard!*

I feel like crap sending it, but I’ve had a lot of practice with the fake enthusiastic messages. A best friend should be stoked for their buddy about to get some—if that’s the way it’s going.

Oh, shitty shit … I didn’t even think about the fact that I’m his
roommate
now. What if he brings her back to the condo? What the hell do I do with that? Stay in my room with headphones on? Make them breakfast in the morning? Cry into my pillow?

“Ugh!” I growl as I step onto the cooling sand, which is still about eighty-something degrees. Instead of heading to the party crowd on the edge of the beach, I plop my pathetic ass in the sand
way
too close to the ocean for comfort. But I’d rather be here than risk running into Eric and his potential Ali Version 2.0.

A text vibrates my butt, and I shift to grab my cell again. I should just glue it to my palm.

Where are you? My lap is getting cold. You should come warm it up.

Josh is the
worst
at pickup lines. I’ve regretted it every day since he asked me to write my number on the side of his snow cone. I did it because I like to talk with everyone. Rachel told me afterward what a mistake that was, and I shrugged her off. Now I want to give her a medal for being so smart.

Sit on a log from the fire. I’m sure it’ll warm ya right up.

I’d mention Heidi, but I don’t want it to sound like I’m jealous, because I’m not. Now, if
Eric
had texted me …

Seriously, beautiful. Where are you? If you’re not up for partying, we can go to my place. I can show you my bed sheets. ;)

Instead of answering, I open my Kindle app to boys who are much less disappointing. I get lost before I’m done reading the first page, letting the scary ocean in front of me disappear, the vision of Pixie Redhead vanish, and the wrong guy hitting on me fade away.

The sun sets, and the temperature drops a bit, but I can still hear the party. I rub my arms before swiping to the next page. The light dims because my battery is almost dead—which means the real world will start reappearing. My Facebook alerts went off a few times while I was reading, and I know it’ll bug the crap out of me if I don’t check it now.

I’m tagged in a few party photos, which is funny because I’m not in any of them. And I have a few new friend requests. The first one I see is from Scott Barrows.

Right after I tap Accept I look at his photos. He’s cute. Not what I expected, but I’m not sure
what
I expected. Seems like a guy without a face could be anyone, but I must’ve formed some picture in my mind.

He’s blond … I think. His hair’s too light to be brown, but too dark to be blond. There’s a tattoo on his neck, and another on his collarbone. As I flip through more pics, I notice more tattoos, on his wrists. I try to make out what they say, but the angle is weird, so I make a mental note to ask him. Unless that’s too personal for someone who I don’t really know. But then again, sometimes it’s easier to interact with people online
because
you don’t really know them.

I tap on his IM and write
Mia2 just friended you, even though my profile says Emilia Johnson. Just making sure you don’t get extremely disappointed when you see that. ;)

A splash jolts the phone out of my hands, and I’m about to run up the beach screaming because it’s obviously an evolved shark crawling up on land, about to eat my feet, but Eric comes into view.

His smile widens as his eyes rake over me, and something pings and pops and zaps in my nether regions. I suddenly feel the need to clench my legs together.

“What’s wrong?” he says, like he totally knows there’s something bugging me.

“Nothing.”

He splashes around in the tide some more, and I slide a few inches back.

“Liar.” He kicks the water again, soaking the bottom of his red board shorts. “You’d never sit this close to the ocean unless you were trying to avoid something scarier up there.” He nods toward the party, and I don’t look over my shoulder because what if I see Bar Babe and she’s tapping her foot waiting for Eric to come back to her?

“You should get out of the water,” I tell him, changing the subject.