Page 5 of Stirred Up

Brady pinned the guy with his pointed glare each time he came near me to offer assistance and cracked constant jokes about the guy being a putz a little too loudly. The case cracker, however, was Brady’s “the man needs to bend her over already” comment that got him physically removed from class. Turns out the “her” in question and Teacher were actually a couple, happily married. And me—sitting pretty, hands gooey, loving the vase I was slowly creating—was shown the door before I could finish. Why? Because of Mr. I Know Everything and Can’t Keep my Opinions to My Damn Self.

Despite the past, Brady’s a huge part of my life and I’d give in this one time, but not without leveling the playing field a little. With only ten minutes left in the lunch break that Brady managed to hijack, a sinister, but brilliant, ideahits me and I act before I can talk myself out of it.

“Hello?”

“Kathy? Hi, it’s Addison Porter, how are you?” I grip the phone tightly, excitement coursing through me.

Thanks to the Brady flu disaster of ‘03, I conveniently have his housekeeper’s number… too tempting to resist. I’d spent an entire weekend pampering him, sick in bed, only to collapse down beside him in the end. Luckily, he was coming out of his sweat-induced fog just as I was heading into it. The familiar shiver races up from my spine, recalling how he held me in his arms, kissed my forehead, and promised to take care of me. And he did, showering me with unwavering tenderness for the rest of the week. He held my hair while I emptied my stomach, continuously cooled the washcloth he pressed to my fevered skin, and fed me my favorite soup. Despite his herculean efforts, we still needed Kathy for drug store runs, bless her heart.

“Well, I’m fine, dear. How are you?” She’s such a nice woman; I comethis closeto nixing the whole plan and making up a random excuse for the call.

This close.

“I’m good, thank you. I was calling for Brady, he’s tiedup in cases today. Dylan’s staying with him for a while and really wants to earn his keep, so Brady thought it’d be nice to give you all next week off and let Dylan take care of it.”

“A week off?” She breathes out wistfully, evidently already imagining ways to spend the free time. “I could go visit my son.”

“You should!”Easy there, Addison, not too obvious. “I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ll do. This is wonderful, please tell Brady and Dylan both thank you.”

“Of course I will. You have fun, don’t worry about us, or about calling Brady. I’ll tell him we spoke and how excited you are. In fact, don’t even take your phone with you, Kathy, escape for a while and enjoy your family.”

“You know, I think I will. Thank you, dear,” she says brightly, her excitement ringing through.

The day my brother keeps his own shit picked up, let alone cleans an entire house, and for a week, I’ll give up chocolate and chick flicks. Those two Neanderthals are gonna be swimming in filth by tomorrow night, mark my words. The mere thought makes me giddy, erasing my earlier aggravation and making the rest of the day bearable.

Infinity sminity—take that, Mr. Appointment Maker.

****

Never once have I felt as out of sorts as I do standing in front of the feminine hygiene products. Gone is the whistling, carefree girl that strolled in the store, still basking in the torture she’d sprung on an unsuspecting friend. Here I am in the corner drug store where I came for fresh razors but the damn “Feminine” sign drew me over. My eyes and brain can hardly keep up; there arewaytoo many products available for the vagina.

“Excuse me,” a woman says out of nowhere, reaching for the douche kit in front of me.

I smile and take one myself, tossing it into my cart.Totally normal.I can do this. Unsure what the other items are, I pluck one from each category and hightail it to the front of the store. Waiting in line, I snatch a bottle of lotion from the display. Jasmine works for me; in the cart it goes.

What I had not anticipated when I’d filled my cart with half a dozen freshening products was the young cashier, of course male, currently straining to control his amusement as he scans each item slowly.Yeah, yeah, I like aclean vagina; keep scanning, buddy.I thrust the cart forward and begin bagging the itemsmyself.

Chapter 3

I wake with a lead weight in my gut, the panic of today’s looming appointment sinking in the minute my eyes peel open. Nope, not ready to face it. I slam my eyes shut again, roll to my stomach, and bury my face in my pillow. My nerves are alive and rampant, eating at me to hurry up before the clock runs out and I’m left going to the appointment unshaved with the stench of the vet’s office lingering.

With a huff, I’m on my feet shuffling to the bathroom. This is it—V day. No, not the flowers and candy one, the vagina one. I glance back at my cell phone perchedmockingly on my night stand, my only escape plan. Beads of cold sweat break out over my forehead and the base of my neck, hell, even my breasts are damp. They’re not ready to play peek-a-boo with the doc, let alone be fondled and judged. The debate to call and cancel is off the table. I already took the morning off work and my healthisimportant, not to mention I’ll walk across fire and snakes—snakes on fire—before I let Brady win!

Cursing him under my breath, I grab the two full bags of products and slam the bathroom door behind me. If I’m gonna do this, I’m gonna do it right. I turn on the shower to let it warm up and start with the easiest task, brushing my teeth. A little floss, mouthwash, spit and voila! Pearly whites glisten back in the mirror.

After opening the new pack of razors, I strip out of my clothing and dig under the counter for the hand mirror. Because of theamplenotice I’d gotten, obviously there’s no time for a professional visit, so ladyscaping is left up to me. I’m not that worried, the work should be light considering I keep a monthly appointment at our local spa, but with my love life nonexistent as such, I need to fully assess the situation.

Focused more on my lackluster dating life, I grab the few feminine products that I can apparently use in the tub. I step one foot into the shower and instantly rear back with a trembling squeal when the scalding stream hits my toes.

“Crap!” I reach in to crank the nozzle a bit, cursing my lousy apartment building for the always unpredictable water heater.

Timidly, I poke a finger into the downstream and relax for the first time all morning. Gotta take the small victories. Easing into the warm shower, I first tend to the basics, hair washing, loofah scrubbing, and armpit shaving. Next my legs, twice, with my usual silky body butter, using long, smooth strokes, willing my hands to stop shaking; the last thing I need is a ton of little nicks from my pesky nerves.

With an expert eye, not a single sneaky loner hair around my ankle or hidden behind my knee is left untouched. And then, in the most limberly-challenged way possible, I prop my right leg up with my foot on the edge of the tub, mirror gripped in one hand, razor in the other.

This is it, one stray hair left in the wrong place or a tiny nick will reveal my anxious preparation. Not the time for haste. I duck my head so water doesn’t hit my eyes andgive my girl a slight trim, nothing over the top. She looks pretty good actually, so the job’s fairly easy, but with the obstacles and my anxiety, it takes longer than it should.

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