Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

She takes several deep breaths. “There’s three sides to every story.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s your version, the other person’s, and then there’s the truth, which is somewhere in the middle of the two.”

I think about that. She’s right, in a way. But in the case of the dick picture, my version is missing the whole part where the event took place, being passed out and all. The girl in my lap is a case of her word against mine.

“Are you willing to hear my side?” I give her my best I’m-sorry face.

Eventually she steps away from the door and lets me in, locking it behind her.

Sunny still lives with her parents. She’s only twenty, and she’s in school. She’s already completed a diploma of general arts and science, and she got her yoga certification. Last year she started a Public Relations program. She’s great with people and animals and all sorts of stuff, so whatever she decides to do, I’m sure she’ll be awesome.

This summer Sunny’s teaching yoga part-time and volunteering at an animal shelter. Thankfully her parents, Robbie and Daisy, are out of town for the weekend, so I don’t have to deal with them. It’s not that I don’t like them. I do. They’re cool for parents, but they’re the only ones I’ve ever met on purpose, so I don’t have much of a basis for comparison. Her mom, Daisy, likes to be involved in everything, so her not being here means I can focus on making things better with Sunny without any interference.

I glance around the front foyer. The Waters’ house is dated. Most of the furniture is new, but the curtains are poufy, and there are a lot of knickknacks. None of the colors seem to belong together. Vi calls it a boxing match between a bohemian gypsy and a southern belle. I’m not sure what that means, but it’s hard to look at.

I set my bag down by the front door. Sunny’ll let me stay the night. I already know this. She’s too sweet to make me leave once she’s let me in. I think it might be the Canadian in her. The question is, where will I be sleeping? If I can say the right thing, I might get a spot in her bed. If I don’t, I’ll be taking the spare room.

“Can I use the bathroom?” I’ve had to go for the past hour.

“You know where it is.” She doesn’t make a move to touch me, or hug me, so I take off my shoes—something Canadians seem hung up about—and head down the hall.

The main-floor bathroom is small, so there isn’t much to help me out in the freshening-up area. I find mouthwash under the sink and rinse with that. I’ve been wearing my hat since I got out of the shower, so I have to wet my hair to fix the hat head I’m sporting. My armpits could use a shot of Axe, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Another shower would help. I find some Lady Speed Stick and rub it under my pits. I smell like flowers and cucumbers, but it’s better than BO, so I’ll take it.

Sunny isn’t in the living room when I come out. I detour to the kitchen; she isn’t in there either. After a tour of the main floor, I come up Sunnyless, so I hit the stairs. I hope she hasn’t gone to bed. That would suck. I don’t like unresolved issues, especially before bed—it interferes with sleep. Her door is open a crack.

I peek around the jamb in time to get a glimpse of side boob before she pulls a sports bra over her head. Then she goes back to digging through her drawer to find a shirt.

Sunny isn’t one of those super-skinny girls. She’s got curves, and she’s taller than average. I still have a good head on her, but she comes up to my chin. She’s active, always out biking or hiking or teaching yoga, so she’s in awesome shape, and she’s extra bendy. I haven’t had a chance to find out exactly how bendy, but I plan to. Hopefully soon. Maybe this weekend. Shit. I’m getting hard. The blood in my head needs to stay where it is so I can have a conversation. I move out of her line of sight and knock, calling her name.

“Just a sec.” The rustle of fabric makes me sad. A few seconds later she opens the door.

She’s changed into some loose, sporty, sheer tank-top thing. It’s meant to be worn with something underneath it. Her chest is significantly flatter than usual, thanks to the sports bra. I’m not a boob man. Well, I guess that’s not true. Every heterosexual man loves boobs. I don’t care about the size of them. As long as there’s a nipple and something to hold on to, I’m happy.