I hang up, wishing I had a flip phone so I can aggressively slam it shut. I squeeze myself into a seated position behind the boxes, pulling my knees to my chest, and pray the gremlins don’t find me.
I hear their footsteps upstairs, followed by giggles and childlike screams. It would sound cute, if I knew they weren’t trying tomurderme. I hear a loud thud and for a moment wonder if I should be concerned for their safety.
I shrug it off, settle in, and head to Instagram.
Quickly bored of seeing old friends and their New York life cover my feed, I go to Kate Stanley’s page—my newest follower as of an hour ago.
Scrolling through I see some old selfies of her with a pug that oddly resembles the one on the pink mug from school. More recently on her feed I see a range of photos with a Golden Retriever, from puppyhood to full grown. I double tap a few old photos, making it evident I’m creeping.
As I return to my main feed I notice she has posted a new photo, with a group of familiar faces, just seconds ago—the Glendale group. Everyone is gathered around a very smiley Ms. Pat, who is wearing a very large hat atop her head that says,“THIS CHICK IS RETIRED”with chickens painted all over it.
Emma’s doing, for sure.
They all look so happy, with big smiles, slightly glassy eyes, and drinks in their hands. Except for Benny. He stands to the far left, smiling, but not as bright as he usually is—maybe it is a little past his bedtime. I chuckle at the thought of him yawning in the middle of a party as everyone around him rages.
I gaze at the photo, feeling a heat creep its way up my chest and to my cheeks—warming me down to the cells in my body.
I like these people, and I like seeing them at work—even Malcolm and his vegetables.
I stare at Benny, and his much more visible chest in the photo. He’s wearing a white button-up with little birds all over it. The top two buttons are undone—a much more relaxed look that suits himverywell. A few tiny chest hairs peek out above the first clasped button, and his skin is a warm, creamy color, glistening with what I’m going to assume is sweat. I pinch my screen to zoom in and follow the traces of sweat up over his protruding collarbone, along his thick neck, leading the way to his plump, pink lips. His smirk is sultry . . . sexy, even.
Why am I staring at this photo? And why is it making me feel all hot and heavy?
And why was he sweating? Why are theyallsweating? The more I look the more I realize this photo was snapped quickly, in the middle of conversation and dancing, probably.
In the middle offun.
I feel myself getting major FOMO and am slightly irritated that I am stuck hiding in a coat closet from the two junior Rambo’s instead of out with my new colleagues.
Double tapping the photo, I comment, “Looks like a fun crew!” Accompanied by a heart emoji.
It is no less than ten seconds after I commented that Kate liked my comment and texted me directly.
Before I can reply, I hear tiny voices snickering and giggling as they trample down the stairs.
“Where is she? She’s too big to hide! We will avenge the princess’s death!”
Holding my breath, I pray they don’t look in the blatantly obvious hiding spot near the front door. Not that it hasn’t been fun to be the princess they were rescuing,thena jester they were torturing,thenending up the dragon zombie that killed said princess. I gave up making sense of the roles when they forced me to flee their tower.
That was when they decided to become tactical G.I. Joe’s with an arsenal of Nerf guns and ping pong balls. I rub the red spot on my arm from a Nerf bullet, concerned they could be encased with metal instead of foam.
Feeling overstimulated by the footsteps, arm pain, and invite out, I text back:
The idea of going out sounds appealing, and I haven’t been out with friends in so long, let alone my peers. And I really don’t want to play into the reputation that has followed me around for the last few years anymore—a person who doesn’t have time for meaningful friendships.Thank you, Liam for that one.But I know full well I won’t be as fun to be around as I would like after being with the boys all night.
“Boys, I’m home!”
Interrupting my reflective pity party, I hear Steven’s voice come from the other side of the closet, followed by a loud thud and tumbles down the hall. I hear the boys run and an audible gust of air come out of Steven’s windpipe as they tackle their dad to the floor.
Climbing out of the closet, I see Steven flat on the floor and the two goblins climbing all over him. It would be a sweet sight to witness, if I didn’t have unresolved issues withStevenand hadn’t spent half the night imagining the boys as feral kittens that I wished I could let loose outside.
“Welcome home.” I can’t help but laugh as I watch Steven wrestle the boys off of himself and drag them into the living room.
“Did you guys have fun with Aunt Ellie?”
He practically hurls them onto the couch and they bounce off, unphased, before running upstairs shouting, “AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE!”
Steven smirks at them and begins cleaning up the living room.
