Page 126 of Pick-Up
“Who is it?” I call into the box.
“Amazon delivery!” a muffled voice responds.
I buzz the person in, hear a package drop in the hall and then the building’s front door slam shut.
“Thank God you were here,” I deadpan, “when the murderer came.”
Ethan rolls his eyes at me. “It’s a standard thing to ask who’s at the door.”
“Well, I am anything but standard.”
“In this case, I’m not sure that’s a plus.”
I leap back onto the couch to give him a noogie but wind up straddling him instead, which starts us back up. Suddenly, we’re makingout again, fast and furious. Until, I look up for an instant and glitch on the laundry basket nearby. And that’s when I remember:pick-up!
“Fuck!” I say, breathless.
“What?”
Damn, I don’t want to leave.
“Pick-up,” I choke, when I can find my voice.
“I don’t do pick-up,” he says.
“Yes. I know. But I do. And I’m late!”
He nods. First vaguely and then with more conviction, as reality comes crashing down on us. I try my best to pull my clothing back into place, throwing a nearby sweatshirt over the offending tee.
As Ethan gets dressed, I throw on my pants and sneakers, grab my sunglasses and keys and, in a minute, the front door of my building spits us out onto the sidewalk. The sunlight is a rude awakening.
It’s daytime?
It’s unclear how we’re meant to say goodbye. We didn’t have time to sort things out inside, and now we’re out in the open, for all to see.
“I assume you’re not coming…?” I gesture toward the school.
“No,” he says. “ ’Cause… no.” He gestures to the bulge in his pants.
“Right,” I nod. “Right. Good choice. I’ll leave you to handle all that.”
“Yup.” He pulls a hand down his face.
“Well, thank you for the shells,” I say. All formal. Like I should also curtsy. Or at least shake his hand.
He smirks. “You’re welcome.”
“Pleasure doing business with you. See you at the festival!” I call as I back down the block. I salute him. ’Cause that’s my thing now.
“See you then,” he says, shaking his head because it’s odd to part ways like this when my tongue was down his throat five minutes ago. But what choice do we have?
He salutes me back, then drops his hand in front of his pants. Throws me a crooked smile. Then he pivots and walks slowly up theblock, under the canopy of a dogwood tree. I have given myself permission to have this thing with him, whatever it winds up being. And, with that, comes a flood of recognition.
Is Demon Dad not a demon at all but rather the best person around? Maybe evenmyperson?
As I watch him recede, I note his perfect jeans. On his perfect butt.
And I am on air.
