Seven Year Itch
Sunlight gleamed off the cream envelope in my hand, turning the embossed lettering into molten gold. I stared at Mr. Buckman’s invitation, a name I’d only seen in glossy magazines and heard in whispered rumors of parties where the elite danced until dawn on private beaches.
“This has got to be a mistake.” The closest I’d even been to wealth was when I’d rushed across a busy street, slipped on a patch of ice, and slammed against a parked Rolls Royce. Luxury cars were not soft landings.
Yet, there it was, my name in perfect calligraphy, along with two first-class tickets to his Caribbean resort. It was insane to even consider going, especially with the “All guests must arrive with companion. No exceptions” stipulation underlined twice in flowing script.
First person that popped into my head was Jackson. Even my mind dreamily sighed his name. My brother’s best friend and a walking wet dream who never failed to turn me from a functioning adult into a drooling idiot.
Even if I’d had the guts to ask, I would fumble and stutter the words so badly, Jackson would think I was having a seizure.
How did you even invite a straight guy to romantic getaway? “I know you’re not into guys, but how does spending Valentine's Day with me at a resort sound? No, I’m not high, I swear.”
With a hard roll of my eyes, I shoved the invitation into the junk drawer where dreams and unpaid bills went to die, then I grabbed my keys. Mom’s house wouldn’t clean itself, and fantasizing about me, Jackson, and a heart-shaped bed only proved the thirst was real.
And so was the dehydration.
Mom’s place smelled like childhood memories and the faint ghost of Dad’s aftershave, somehow still lingering two years after his passing. My gaze slid to the worn paisley couch where my dad used to watch baseball games.
I could almost see him cheering or cursing, wearing his tattered baseball cap and jersey with two buttons missing, a can of beer in his hand. Me, at the age of seven, holding my can of soda, shouting at the television screen along with my dad, wishing I could be as cool as him and curse.
Clearing the lump from my throat, I grabbed Mom’s to-do list from the kitchen counter and looked it over. Fix leaky bathroom faucet. Replace light bulbs in fixtures too high to reach. Clean out garage.
I decided to tackle the bulbs first, then noticed a loose cabinet handle. Half the morning was spent fixing things that weren’t even on her list. By the time I made it to the bathroom sink, my back hurt and I was still pulling pieces of cobweb from my hair.
“Please be an easy fix, especially since I don’t know shit about plumbing,” I muttered. Twenty minutes later I’d busted my knuckles twice and proved I was as cool as my dad. Was it illegal to beat a pipe to death with a wrench?
“Bro! You here?” Matt called out around noon.
“Bathroom!” I shouted back, wrestling with a stubborn nut that refused to give up its grip on the pipe. “If you cooperate, I promise not to commit plumbing homicide. But if you keep being stubborn, I’ll claim self-defense. I have the bruised knuckles to prove it.”
“You could also claim temporary insanity.”
My breath hitched.
Jackson.
Scrambling to my feet, I’d nearly cracked my skull on the sink. Jackson stood in the doorway, all six-feet-three of lean muscle and drop-dead gorgeous looks, wearing a faded Henley with the sleeves pushed up to reveal corded forearms dusted with dark hair. Sweet mercy.
“I…um…pipes.” I gestured at the sink then winced when the wrench in my hand whacked porcelain with a loud clank.
I never failed to impress myself around him.
“And…um…cobwebs.” Jackson stepped closer, lifting a cobweb from my hair, which probably had mad scientist vibes by now. I stood frozen, staring at his Adam’s apple, and covertly inhaling the rich, deep scent of Jackson into my lungs. “Did you use your head as a duster, Ollie?”
“Hazards of changing lightbulbs.” I forced myself not to lean in, not to nuzzle his throat.
“All gone.” When he stepped back, he wore a crooked smile, his green eyes glinting with amusement. I hated that I loved him. Hated the way a single smile caused such a deep longing inside me. If I knew how to turn off my feelings for him, I’d hit that switch in a heartbeat, because I was tired of aching for someone I would never have.
“Mind if I take a look? Cars and plumbing aren’t that different, when you get down to it.”
“Both involve things getting wet when they shouldn’t?” I immediately wanted to drown myself in the sink.
Jackson’s laugh rumbled out, feeding my addiction. “Exactly. Both involve cursing, praying, and gripping tightly.” His shoulder brushed my arm as he crouched to examine the pipes, and I just stood there imagining doing all three with him.
“Your brother’s raiding your mom’s fridge.” He reached into the cabinet and tried to twist off the nut by hand. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had. The way his biceps flexed, I just bet any nut would comply. What? “Said something about us finishing up here while he handles the yardwork.”
Yippee. An afternoon of torture.
