Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“Hey, thanks,” Peck calls out as the door slams behind me.

Climbing into my car, I get situated in the driver’s seat but don’t pull out. I don’t move. I can hear my stomach churning, feel the prickle of something at the back of my neck, but I can’t quite locate where it’s coming from.

My brain is still a mess—maybe messier than before. I hadn’t realized I haven’t been with a woman in a while until Walker pointed it out. It feels like I have, but I haven’t. It’s my trademark, my hobby. What’s wrong with me? Am I broken?

My cock still gets hard. I’d still fuck if an opportunity presented itself. I’m not having any unusual symptoms or urges, like monogamy, which would require a medical evaluation.

Still, something’s off. I can sense it. I can feel it. Hell, I can tell. I didn’t even want to talk to Jessa today at lunch. She called and it got me two things: out of a conversation with a flirty Principal Kelly and into Mariah’s office.

Mariah.

“I could really go for a cupcake right about now,” I say aloud with a chuckle. Turning the key, I swing down the street and head home to try to get some work done.

Six

Mariah

“Name something you only do when you’re sick.” The announcer sets his card down as the contestants slam the big buttons in front of them.

“Puke!” I say, shoving the spoon back in the tub of ice cream.

The female contestant looks downright smug. “Nap.”

“Nap? You only nap when you’re sick?” I ask, rolling my eyes. The number one answer flips across the screen—nap. “Where do you find these people?”

Scooping another helping of lemon cake ice cream into my mouth, I watch the rest of the top answers cross the board. Every now and then it crosses my mind to get up and go pick out my outfit for my date tomorrow night. I respond by taking another bite of ice cream.

Dating isn’t my forte. Just thinking about it makes my stomach get all squirmy. If I were being introspective, I’d probably conclude that not having to date is one of the major reasons I prefer relationships over one-night stands or hook-ups. Talking about myself is awkward. Listening to someone else explain themselves while trying to be interesting is uncomfortable. Making it through dinner when you have nothing in common is horrific and not many men share my interests. Even if it goes well, hopes go up and, often times, dreams go down. It’s a no-win situation.

Be positive. Things could always be worse.

Flipping the television off, I still. There’s a ringing sound coming from down the hall. My pint of lemon cake ice cream goes to the coffee table as I race down the hallway and into my bedroom to retrieve it.

All the ice cream in my stomach starts to slosh around when I see the name: Mom.

See? Things just got worse.

Every time she calls, I tell myself this might be the day. Maybe she was at the salon and someone asked about me and she realized what a missed opportunity our mother-daughter relationship has become. Or maybe she was going through old photographs and felt guilty for not remembering when I won gold at Solo and Ensemble for my flute solo in middle school.

I let her go to voicemail a lot, but sometimes, I have more hope than brains.

One.

Two.

Three.

Inhaling a deep breath, I swipe the screen. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mariah.”

“Hi, Mom. Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, honey. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I say, biting a nail. “You usually just call when something is the matter.”

Sighing too hard and too long, I feel the dread build across the back of my neck. I should’ve sent her to voicemail.

The mattress bends as I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to her go on and on about how she calls and I don’t answer and how disrespectful it is to ignore your mother’s calls. Every other sentence has me biting my tongue with a comeback that, while true, would incense her. As entertaining as it would be to listen to her gasp—I always get a little thrill out of it—I don’t have the energy to see it through.

“Mom?” I ask, cutting her off. “Did you need something?”

The shock that someone has the audacity not to just sit and listen to her ramble has her tongue-tied. “I … Well … Excuse me?”

“Did you need something?” I ask it slowly. Looking around my room, a cozy nest of light greys and pinks, I wonder if I should change my sheets. I just bought a brand-new set of flannel ones that I wanted to try and the temperature at night must just be on the cusp of making it acceptable. “I’m in the middle of something, so if you could just spit it out, that’d be great.”