Truly slides open the door. “Hi, are they done? An old man at the house just yelled at me.” She notices how close
we’re standing and falters.
“Hi.” Tom smiles, and it’s lovely enough to make me want to shred that passport application and flush. “Colin’s right. You can’t walk through here anymore.”
Truly looks him up and down with frank appreciation and I cannot blame her.
He’s glorious, from the top of his head to the soles of his boots. He’s a big, glowing, muscled miracle, and as the silence stretches on, his brow creases in puzzlement. He hasn’t looked in a mirror in a while.
Truly reboots her brain. “Wowee, look at you! So muscly! Have you buried the hatchet with Darce?”
“I was just in the process of doing that,” Tom replies. His phone buzzes on and on. He looks at it with a weary expression. I know from personal experience that once the voicemails begin building up, checking them feels like shoveling in a snowstorm.
He jams it back in his pocket and focuses on Truly. “How are you?” They embrace tentatively, Truly’s face making an exaggerated eyebrow-raised oh of pleasure at me over the curve of his bicep.
“That’s made the trip worthwhile, I bet,” I say, sounding extremely bitter. “Not that I’m jealous, but hugs are few and far between around these parts.” I hunch over the laptop like a gargoyle and begin to edit. Since Tom’s full-body hug in the kitchen, I’ve been brittle and cold.
“Aw,” Truly croons, and comes to me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders from behind. Her hugs are heaven. I wish they’d both hug me at once. “Tom, you know what our Darce is like. She’s like a Tamagotchi.”
“I’m a digital pet. Sounds about right.” I lean back against her and close my eyes. We rest our temples together, and just in this moment, I’m crystal clear on the inside.
Tom resumes his bench leaning. “I know exactly what she’s like.”
“She needs cuddles more than she will ever admit,” Truly says, hugging me tighter, “and she dies without them.” She releases me with a kiss on my cheek. “Oh, and candy, obviously. She runs on all different colors of sugar.” She begins unpacking bags of candy next to me.
“I almost feel like you’re buttering me up for something.” I grab the nearest bag and tear it open with my teeth.
Tom grins at Truly. “She’s an animal, isn’t she?”
Truly holds up a pack at him. “You can have these, if you tell me that you’ve made her feel better, because I know she tries her poor little heart out for you.”
That’s a nice way of saying, Darcy complains to me constantly about every blister and fuckup.
My stool is turned, I’m pulled to my feet, and Tom slowly, deliberately squeezes me against his body. “I am throwing myself at her feet. Every minute of every day. She just doesn’t notice.”
His hand cups the back of my head and my entire world is his muscles and the smell of his T-shirt. The wax-sweet smell of birthday candles and wishes and ugh, it’s going to hurt when he lets me go. Take what you can get, DB. You’re lucky he even wants to speak to you again.
I’m squeezed until I’ve got no air, then deposited back on my stool. I need that again, even longer and slower. Maybe a month of it. I should say something but I can’t. Truly hands over his confectionary payment without comment, her eyes amused as she glances at my face.
He uses a pair of scissors from his new desk. No wild gnawing. So civilized. “How’s business? Is there good money in underwear?”
He tips a few into his palm; succulent, delicious, and pink, and I want them. I’m drooling for the flavor in his mouth. A guy from the crew calls his name outside, the bleat of a lamb with no shepherd.
“Yes, weirdly. I’m loaded.” Truly rummages in her purse. “I actually brought a present for Darce. Take a look.”
She hands Tom a pair of Underswears—the striped nautical ones from her last release. He must have big hands because when he pinches the waistband on each side, the underpants look tiny. I know full well that when I pull those up, I’ll have no belly button and a three-foot-high backside.
Truly grins. “I know that’s technically a compliment, and against my company charter, but . . .”
“Let’s see. Oh, that’s cute.” He’s found the little anchor charm. My underwear in his hands. He turns them, and we both see she’s screen-printed “Really Not” above HUMAN FLOTSAM.
I finally find my voice again. “I really am. Thank you. Another one-of-a-kind pair.” I tuck them in my top drawer, along with all my other wearable paychecks.
Tom chews and considers the array of bad words on the screen as I scroll through again. “I really would have thought you’d make a more . . . uplifting collection than this.”
Truly knows what he means. “Oh, you mean like skimpy lilac underpants with goddess spelled out in sequins? But then I’d completely miss my target market. Snarky girls, like Darce, who don’t want a wedgie.”
Her phone chimes and she glances at it for a long moment. I sense conflict and frustration in her as she pockets it. “Why does everyone say I should make nice underpants?”