When he stands, he’s holding something pink; it takes my brain a good ten seconds to register The Quickie, plucked from the floor and pinched between his fingers.
“You dropped something.” For the first time today, I glean a glimpse of a smile on his face. His arm is raised, hand holding my new joy buzzer, inspecting it with amused eyes. “Is this yours?”
Duh. Who else’s could it be?
It must have fallen on the floor in the middle of the night from all my tossing and turning.
And he’s touching it!
“I didn’t…” I stutter, horrified. “I don’t…” I’m traumatized, even though I know I’m hardly the only woman to own a vibrator. I just got it last night!
“You should keep this in a drawer if you don’t want anyone to see it.”
My mouth gapes again. As if I wanted him to pick it up off the floor! As if I’m flaunting my sex toys!
And why the H is he still holding it like a pickle?
I want to die. Or slap it out of his hand.
“It was a gift,” I say lamely, defensive, which isn’t necessary. This is my house. My bedroom. Why am I explaining myself—it’s none of his damn business! Besides, who isn’t masturbating these days?
You aren’t. That was the whole point of trying to get off last night.
It was a fail, but at least I tried.
“A gift?” He’s wide-eyed, still holding the vibrator. “Who gives a dildo as a gift?”
“It’s not a dildo!” I want to lunge forward and grab it, but I also do not want to look like a complete mental person by leaping across the bed.
“Yes it is.” He wobbles it.
“No it’s not!” Because I hate that word and refuse to lay claim to owning one. “There’s a huge difference.”
“Fine.” His finger pokes at the gold power button. Then he crosses his arms and the entire jiggly pink wonder disappears beneath his folded forearms. “What’s the difference?”
My brain scrambles. I pull the phone from my pocket and google ‘What’s the difference between a dildo and a vibrator?’ I read the results. “A vibrator contains a battery, or USB, so it is electronic and can vibrate, while a dildo has no battery or power source and cannot vibrate.” I thrust my phone in his direction. “See?”
“That doesn’t prove your point. They’re both rubber cocks.” He unceremoniously tosses the pink bullet to the bed. “The only difference is one needs a battery.”
He strolls out of the bedroom, as if he didn’t just manhandle my vibrator, call it a cock, then toss it on the bed casual as you please.
Tripp and Buzz are back outside, and when I look down to the street at them standing beside his truck, sweat forms on my brow.
Oh god—is he telling his brother he just found a dildo in my bedroom? Probably. Hollis did say they tell each other everything; why wouldn’t he give him this scoop?
I straighten my spine; Buzz wouldn’t care even if his brother did tell him my little secret. Still. I stare at them out by the truck, watching like a hawk, until Hollis interrupts my little spy session.
“They have to be almost done, yeah?” She’s standing beside me now, gazing out at her fiancé adoringly, fiddling with the large diamond on her ring finger.
They are almost done, having made quick work of unloading the pickups, contents almost entirely in the house. These boys aren’t messing around.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Hollis wonders.
Dildos and vibrators.
“Not sure.”
“They really don’t have a ton of time to dawdle—Tripp has to get to the stadium.”
“What time is his game?”
“Seven.”
Dang. One game eats up the whole day? I did not know that.
My cousin gives me a sidelong look. “We’re watching it at home if you want to come over. I’ll make a charcuterie board and you can chill.”
“Ugh, that sounds delightful, but I should unpack. At the rate I’m going, I’ll never get moved in before the wedding.”
“If you change your mind, I’ll send you the address again.”
Hollis moved in with Buzz shortly after they got engaged and I’m renting her old townhouse. It kind of worked out perfectly, the timing and all.
“I will.” I hug her even though she’s been at my place for the past forty-five minutes, licking at donuts and drinking her coffee.
They’re here another twenty minutes while the boys haul boxes in, now stacking them two, three high—as many as possible without things toppling over, not because they’re in a rush to unload the bed of the truck, but because they’re…it’s some weird sibling rivalry thing.
Buzz has two boxes that must be heavy, but Tripp has three, giving his brother a jab with his hip just as they reach the stairs. Buzz stumbles, curses.
“Tripp, knock it off!”
Tripp laughs, loud and good-humored—I can’t see his face, but I imagine the whole thing has been transformed by that laugh, smile shielded behind the stack of boxes in his strong arms.
“Where do you want these?” his voice asks.
“Living room.”
Before I know it, I’m collapsing on my couch—not from exhaustion, but from the piles of totes and boxes, hours’ worth of work taunting me.
I order a pizza and, sighing, heave myself off the sofa.
Time to get to work.
Five
Tripp
Tonight I was able to dress myself.
I grunt, sliding down out of my pickup truck, feet hitting the pavement of the church my brother is going to be married in.
I’m late by an hour, not because I was fucking around at home, but because I’ve been at work, stretching with the trainer after a minor injury from last week’s preseason game.
My brother and Hollis tried their best to book their wedding for a weekend Buzz and I both were in the off-season, but that was a damn near impossible feat and they weren’t able to pull it off.
We are never not training, so even though I don’t have any games, haven’t started my regular season, and we’re still only working out and practicing, the season is rapidly approaching.
Choosing a wedding date was like moving mountains, and in the end, they sandwiched it between Buzz’s baseball season and my football schedule.
My hair is still damp from the shower I hastily took before leaving the stadium, the clothes on my back a little casual for a church rehearsal, which I’ll hear about from my mother as soon as she catches sight of me.
This wedding is like the Met Gala for Genevieve Wallace—you would think she was the mother of the bride.
I’ll admit, Hollis has been amazing, taking my mother’s input and letting her do some wedding planning without balking, which has turned Mom into something of a momzilla. Suddenly, she’s making demands of me—do this, don’t do that, wear this, cut your hair, don’t say this, try to smile.
Try to smile? Pfft.
I smile plenty.
Frowning, I shuffle my way into the building, flanked by potted trees that, apparently, are going to have pale pink roses in them? And white twinkling lights?