Page 17 of The Comedown

“Still doubting my abilities in heels?”

“You got multiple personalities.”

I let out a laugh, unbuckling my seat belt to grab my clutch and water bottle.

“Me? I have multiple personalities? You’re one to talk.” He’s a completely different person today from who he was yesterday, even last night.

When he doesn’t unbuckle, I ask, “Are you coming?” and he nods his head once, pushing out his bottom lip to thumb it.

“I was gonna wait ’til you got out but fuck it.” Sticking that same hand down the front of his jeans, he adjusts what looks like a solid erection, and I get out of the car, more laughter spilling from my lips.

The heels under me twist in a pothole full of tiny pebbles as soon as I attempt to stand, and my knees sway to one side, causing me to sag back against the car.

Julez is in front of me in a flash, saying, “Give me permission.”

“For what?” I attempt to stand on my own again, refusing to admit I actually did find something I can’t do in heels—navigate gravel-filled potholes.

“You know what.” He gives me his back, squatting down. “Give me permission.”

“A piggyback ride? Have you not seen what I’m wearing?” I all but shriek. It’s not even a full dress, it’s a fucking shirt for Christ’s sake.

“All I see is what you’re wearing,” he says under his breath. “Get on, but don’t wrap your legs around my waist.”

I’m already shaking my head. “You can’t hold me like that. I’ll choke you.”

Julez only chuckles like that scenario’s not as bad as I’m making it sound.

“Seriously, I’ll just go barefoot.”

Collette

As luck would have it, going barefoot on gravel is just as bad as trying to walk on it with heels, so keeping my legs straight down his backside, I let Julez carry me over to the taco truck to place our orders at the window, and it’s as humiliating as it sounds. But also, kind of, and I do mean kind of, fun. I can’t remember the last time I got a piggyback ride from someone—and never from someone who smells so good. Even after lugging me around twice now and sitting through multiple interviews, Julez somehow still smells delicious. His scent is sweet, citrusy, and spicy all at once.

After depositing me at a picnic table, he goes to get our food, and I start with, “So, Julez,” when he returns.

“Julian.”

I eye him over the mound of cilantro decorating his torta as he sits across from me.

“That’s your real name?”

He nods, taking a massive bite.

“Okay, Julian, you’re from Pittsburgh, right?” He lit up when he spoke about it to an interviewer earlier.

“Born and raised.”

“I should’ve known from your accent.”

“I don’t have an accent.”

I tilt my head, grinning. “You have a slight accent.” Not as noticeable as some Pittsburghers I’ve met, but paying such close attention to him all morning, I could definitely hear one when he spoke. “You draw some words out more than others and you used a weird word.”

“Which one?”

“During one of our interviews you said ‘slippy.’”

“That’s a word.”