Chapter 3
Nova
When I step into the changing room, Tiffany and Giselle don’t even notice. They’re huddled together over an iPhone, oohing and aahing at a picture of some naked male torso.
“God, that man looks like he’s so good in bed,” Tiffany moans wistfully, clutching her hands over her heart.
Giselle puffs up her chest and grins wide. “Oh, you’d better believe that he is!” she assures her friend in a bragging tone. “He has a cock the size of a French baguette and there’s this thing he did with his kneecaps and his pinkie toe…I’m gonna need to do a vlog about it because my YouTube subscribers need to know this stuff. It’s addictive.”
The two of them giggle hysterically, bumping shoulders and carrying on. Tiffany gives Giselle a congratulatory high-five and a playful slap on the thigh.
Sadly, getting boned good and proper is the kind of thing that calls for a celebration in this town. The bachelors of Copper Heights are woefully unstimulating.
Actually, there aren’t many single guys around here to begin with. Our little neck of the woods is basically a commuter community. The daddies jump on the I-90 South at the crack of dawn to go to work 14-hour days at Chicago-area hedge funds and consulting firms while the mommies stick around town day-drinking while scheduling play dates, carpooling and shopping for organic zucchini. This isn’t typically the kind of place where hot, single twenty-something males come to play.
Anyway, I’m really in no mood to hear about my coworker’s good fortune in the bedroom. I’m still pretty cranky from the disappointing fuck I had last night.
I should have known better than to waste my time on a guy named Roy. But he was a nice person. Polite. Mild-mannered. Generous with the compliments. Plus, he had a nicely-groomed beard and pulled off the whole brooding urban farmer look pretty well. So I figured it couldn’t hurt to go on a few dates with him. In a town like this, he was actually a very reasonable dating option.
Except that all he ever seemed to want to talk about was his composting practices and his knack for finding great deals on almond milk and probiotics. I figured that sex would be a good idea—y’know, as a strategy to shut him the fuck up.
But after nearly a month of dating him, I gave up on the sex, too. The boy has absolutely no understanding of how female genitalia works. Last night after his latest failed attempt to deliver an orgasm, I snapped, informing him that the drooling animal between my legs is a pussy, not a guinea pig. My body is not a high school science project. I stormed out of his house and asked him to lose my number.
So, that’s what today’s foul mood is all about.
Still reliving my frustration, I yank my locker open and toss my dirty apron inside. That’s when Giselle and Tiffany notice me. Their chatting stops and they freeze with wide eyes. Then, they both burst into laughter.
Apparently, we’re still in high school.
I swear the only reason I keep this job is for the food. The tips are shitty, the customers are idiots and I'm no shrink, but I'm pretty sure my boss is a sociopath. Plus, the bitchy airheads I work with are intolerable.
I may be forced to share airspace with this cast of characters during my shifts but as of five minutes ago, I am off the clock and I don’t want to spend another minute in proximity to them. My fingers move quickly to unfasten the buttons on my work shirt. Then I whip it off of my shoulders and stuff it into my cubby.
“I hope you broke out your best moves,” Tiffany giggles.
As I’m pulling my tank top over my head, I hear Giselle whisper loudly, “Duh! For a guy like Charlie Hartley, you’ve got to bring your A-game!”
My movements stutter as the words land right in my gut.
She continues. “He said I have the best gag reflex northeast of Chicago.” The pride and accomplishment in the girl’s voice is absolutely pathetic.
And who holds the title in the northwest, genius?
Kicking off my sneakers, I stomp into my combat boots and lace them up tight. Giselle keeps whispering in that obviously-too-loud tone, spilling all the bean sauce about her magnificent one-night stand with my friend.
I’m not sure that she realizes it, but that’s all she’ll ever be to him. A one-night stand. The guy is a serial womanizer. I pity any woman who opens her legs to him with the expectation of anything more than a throat full of spermatozoa in return.
Make no mistake—I love Charlie but he’s a playboy, a philanderer. And a notch in his bedpost I shall never be.
Fine, I’ll admit it—he’s handsome, very handsome. And he has the type of body I wish I could just fold up and keep in the naughty box under my bed for those cold winter nights.
But smart girls know not to fall for guys like Charlie.
And I’m trying real hard to be a smart girl. For as long as I’ve known him, I’ve been trying to be a smart girl.
It’s not easy, though because he has always been someone I could count on, someone who made me feel safe. But I never let myself interpret his kindness to mean anything deeper. He and I are friends. Strictly platonic.
That’s all we’ll ever be.
Keeping my gaze straight ahead, I make my way to the door. Giselle can’t resist the urge to call after me in a cloying, saccharine tone. “Have a good evening, Nova.”
I throw her a withering glance. “Same to you. Have fun perfecting that gag reflex.” Her jaw drops as I stomp out the door.
That was immature of me. I know it. I try not to engage in female pettiness but sometimes I can’t help it. I spent most of high school on the receiving end of taunts and bullying over everything from the untameable texture of my hair to the coppery tone of my skin. Being biracial in a small town like Copper Heights doesn’t go unnoticed and, when you’re ‘different’, kids can be cruel.
But it made me tough. If you jab, I jab back. If you right-hook, I knock you the hell out.
Charlie likes to say I have a chip the side of Rhode Island on my shoulder. He’s not wrong. Anyone who dares to challenge me, I’ll prove to them exactly what I’m made of. I may look like I’m all sugar and spice and everything that’s nice but I assure you that I’m a tough cookie.
Aside from my sister and my two best friends, Reese and Sophia, nobody knows the real me under my armor of steel. Except for Charlie, I guess. I learned life's lessons the hard way—guys break your heart, girls stab you in the back. It’s best to keep people at a safe distance.
As soon as I step into the hallway, I’m brainwashed by the heavenly scent of basil and garlic. The drama from the locker room is instantly forgotten as I round the corner, swaggering in the direction of the kitchen. The bruschetta, the pesto, the calzone, the linguine—they call out like a siren song, especially for a girl like me who considers boiling an egg an undue hardship.
I creep past the line chefs, over to where Franco usually stashes my doggie bag. Grinning, I lift the top of the supersized foam container. Oh, mushroom risotto with sausages. Nice…And of course, there’s a mishmash of leftover spaghetti, Alfredo pasta and eggplant parmesan too, with a half-bottle of red wine on the side for good measure.
Flashing him a conspiratorial wink, I shove my arms into the sleeves of my beat-up denim jacket. I slap him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Franco. Un uomo buono!”
His chest rumbles with laughter as I make my great escape down the hall. “Don’t forget our deal!” he calls after me. “I give you food, you take out the trash.”
“Y’know, any of the busboys could do that,” I whine.
“It’s our deal!”
Grrr…“Okay, okay. Whatever.” I grab the heavy, stinky bags as requested.
He yells after me. “Give my love to Cousin Sophia.”
My heart twinges at the thought of her sullen, little face. “I will,” I call out.
I slam my hip into the wide bar of the service exit and the door pops open. I stumble out, dragging two big bags of this morning's garbage in one hand and a plastic bag with my food and wine in the other hand.
I glance around surreptitiously, making sure there are no witnesses before I toss the garbage bags on top of the dumpster and hightail it to my car. I hit the gas just as the restaurant’s back door bursts open and my boss, Gianni Gallo, practically lunges outside.
"You have to put the garbage bags inside the dumpster!" he howls, shaking a meaty fist in the air. "Inside the dumpster. And did you pay for that food?!" I wince hard as his short, stout frame fades in the rear view mirror.
He's going to give me an earful tomorrow. But for now, it’s Sunday afternoon and I’m off the clock.