20
Stick Man
Once McCoy is back from the store with our Slurpees (mine blue raspberry, his Dr. Pepper), we sit reminiscing about old times as the washers and dryers foam and spin. He makes fun of me more times than not, but this time I laugh right along with him rather than let it embarrass me. It’s nice, but it reminds me how dangerous letting my guard down with this man is, when—unfortunately for me—it’s simply too damn easy and happens so naturally.
Sitting here with him this afternoon, just the two of us, I long to hold on to this feeling. I’m happy. We’re the Eastlyn and McCoy I’d fantasized us being so many times growing up. Too many times, I wish I had the right to reach across the small table and touch him affectionately, maybe run my fingers through his brown hair with the pretence of removing it from his eyes. I want to sit in his lap and snuggle into his broad chest as we talk about music, our love of movies like The Goonies, The Breakfast Club, and Mallrats—ones we’d watched over and over again as teens—but I maintain a discreet distance. We end up talking about a few of my relationship mishaps, which makes him bark out a sexy laugh on more than one occasion. I think his favourite story was the one about “Dutch Oven Guy.”
Finally, I work up the nerve to ask him about Lola, once it’s my turn to grill him about the girls of his past. “Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask, a bit apprehensive, wondering if all disclosures are fair game right now.
“You can ask me anything, Sprinkles. I’m an open book to you. For now, anyway,” he winks, and my stomach dips.
“You and Lola. What went wrong? I was surprised to hear you guys broke up, to be honest.”
“She didn’t want kids,” he said on a long breath, “and it was a deal breaker for me. I wasn’t going to spend any more time with someone who didn’t want what I wanted.” He peels the game sticker off his Slurpee cup, averting his eyes from mine.
“I’m sure that must have been hard. You guys seemed so good together. Almost perfect, actually,” I admit honestly, despite the snag in my chest I feel at sharing that observation. But it’s the truth. We had all thought he and Lola were a good match, despite any of the residual feelings I’d had that he should have instead been with me.
“Yeah, at first, but as soon as we moved in together, we started to annoy each other. We became more like friends than lovers. It was weird; I can’t even explain what changed between us. But the night she told me she’d decided she didn’t want kids, I knew we were officially done.” He expels a long sigh. I’m shocked with how candid and open he’s being with me. It feels as if this is something he’s wanted me to know for a long time. He seems almost relieved, the more he talks.
“I’m sorry, Coy. I imagine it was hard.”
“It was for the best. I know that now. My only regret is that I didn’t know then the things I know now,” he says, his gaze heavy on mine, and I can feel my heart beating like a jackhammer. I’m dying to ask what he means by that, but I don’t. I let it go, as he continues, “Within the first four months, we ended our relationship. We both agreed we were better as just friends. She left, I stayed. End of story.”
Son of a bitch.
Four months?
I was stunned. Here I’d spent so long avoiding situations where I thought I’d see Coy and Lola together, knowing it would have killed me, and declined Keaton’s offers to tag along when he was going to visit McCoy in Brockville. All in the name of saving face and saving my heart from having to go through convulsions at seeing him and Lola together, when now I discover that they weren’t even still a couple! Maybe if I hadn’t been such a knob, Coy and I would be sitting here today, making out and waiting for our laundry, before going home to our place where we’d spend the rest of a lazy Saturday in bed. God, that was a hard pill to swallow. Had I been my own cockblocker all this time?
Thankfully, I don’t get much time to dwell on thoughts like these as the last buzzers sound, alerting us that our final loads are dry. An alert which also means my time with McCoy is almost up, a feeling I hate more than I’d like to admit. Standing at the same time, we both head for our clothes.
“Wow. Why haven’t I ever done this before?” I say, in awe, folding. “I’m seriously contemplating not replacing my dryer, and donating the washer. Four huge loads of laundry done in a fraction of the time. It’s magical. The time flew, and I was so productive!” I look with satisfaction at the neat piles of laundry before pulling out the last load.
“I think it might have been the company you’ve kept that made it so magical,” McCoy grins, his smile slanted a little to the side, and I noticed once again that damn porno jaw of his.
Square.
Rugged.
Sexy.
God, how I want him.
Tossing his head back in laughter at my expression, Coy moves to his dryer and pulls out the last of his clothes. A familiar Pearl Jam shirt falls to the floor, a shirt I’ve longed to steal since the first time I saw McCoy wearing it all those years ago.
“I can’t believe you still have this. It still looks brand new,” I exclaim, picking up the black shirt and smiling at it, then at him. It’s the coolest T-shirt, featuring the band’s iconic white stickman on the front. Rather than hand it over, I hold it up to my chest, admiring how—even though it’s been washed—McCoy’s scent still lingers on it.
“This surely belongs over here,” I say, tossing the shirt among my own pile of darks.
“Fat chance. That shirt is a classic,” he says as he reaches past me, his arm accidentally grazing my chest. It’s a move that makes us both suddenly breathless. “I’m…uh, just going to pop into the washroom, then I’ll help you load Judas,” he says close to my ear, before walking past me.
I simply nod.
“I still can’t believe you named that thing Judas Prius.” He barks out a laugh.
“What’s funny, laughing boy, is that you just referenced him by name.” I try to toss a dryer sheet his way, but it simply flutters a few inches away and falls flat at my feet.
“Try a sock next time, heavy hitter,” he mumbles, before walking in and closing the bathroom door.
While he’s gone, I finish strategically piling my folded laundry into the hamper Mr. Fancy Pants Laundry Man has lent me. Deciding this is my chance, I shift towards Coy’s pile of ready-to-go clothes with the intent to “borrow” the coveted Pearl Jam shirt. As quickly and as non-rustling-sounding as possible, my mission is proving to be harder than I thought.
Did he not just fold it?
“It should be right on top,” I mutter, hearing the hand dryer coming to life down the hall.
“You about ready?” I hear as the bathroom door creaks open—the exact same moment I spot Stickman’s white hand protruding from the bottom of the pile. Heart racing at the possibility of being caught, I reach down, yank out the black shirt and toss it in the hamper with a dexterity I once heard Cypress Hill describe as like “a looter in a riot”.
Then I turn calmly and reply, “Yes, I’m all set.”