Page 2 of Totally Geeked

I turn my head to the side, my strong jaw catches the light and even with the slight scruff that somehow always looks better than a clean shave I can see the small scar on my chin that holds one of the best memories from my childhood. It brings warmth to my chest and a smile to my lips.

Maybe it is time for a change.

I dress and grab my phone, immediately deactivating all my dating accounts. Turns out, they don’t make leaving easy, all of them popping up with offers to pause the account in case my circumstances change.Wow. If you did meet someone on these things, they really make you think it will last, huh?

I scroll through my contacts next. Far too many are men who never called or texted me back. Time to cull those fuckers, too. I’m brutal, deleting threads of text along with names and numbers, all in the hopes that by telling myself I deserve better, somehow the universe will bring me someone better. It can’t be as bad at picking men as I am. My phone chimes with a new message, and I flick open the text app.

GORDON: Don’t forget about tomorrow night! I’ve invited a few guys I think you might like, too.

As a best friend, Gordon is great, but as a cupid, he sucks. The last guy he thought I might like wasn’t even gay. He brought his wife along, thinking they’d been invited to a meet and greet with the new Banana Ball players, was pretty freaking awkward when I asked how long they’d been in an open relationship. Let’s just say they left pretty quickly.

HARRISON: I don’t need you to set me up.

GORDON: It’s not a setup. They’re in the league. I invited all the players. I figured it would be a good chance for us new additions to meet everyone before training starts up.

We haven’t officially met all the OG players. Word is, they are happy to be expanding the league, but like any newbie joining an established team, there will be…teething issues we’ll have to work through. Meeting them in a neutral, relaxed environment might not be a bad idea. Plus, it would beat hanging out here in this apartment, waiting for the universe to do its thing. What the hell.

HARRISON: Okay, I’m in.

GORDON: Awesome, see you at seven.

I plug my phone in to charge on top of my drawers, and when my gaze locks on my reflection in the tall mirror beside it, I look myself square in the eye and tell myself, “You deserve better than the Franks of this world. You are kind. You are lovable. You are enough.”

Chapter two

Arlo

“Package,” my younger brotherNoah calls, coming into my kitchen and dropping the cardboard box on the counter with a thud. “Can I open it?”

“Is it addressed to you?” I ask, putting down my sketchbook and climbing from the couch.

“No.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

“But it’s from your publisher. I want to see it.”

“It’s my book. Oh, then the answer is hell no.”

“I’m calling Gordon, he’ll want to see it, too. Don’t open it yet.”

“Open it, don’t open it, make up your mind, little brother.”

“I’m bigger than you now.”

“But you’ll always be little to me.”

Noah laughs and pulls out his phone to dial our big brother. He’s right. He hasn't been little to me in years. Both Noah and Gordon are what you might call Herculean guys, while I’m the dictionary definition of gangling. Tall, thin, and awkward AF.

Gordon answers on the first ring, he’s nothing if not dependable, especially when it comes to us. I hear Noah tell him about the book delivery as I grab scissors from the top drawer. I cut down the center of the top of the cardboard box but hesitate to open it up. Inside is everything I’ve ever wanted. All I have to do is flip the lid and my dreams of becoming a published author are realized.

“Hurry up,” Noah whines, reaching across the kitchen island to try to grab the box. “We want to see.” He almost gets a hold of the lid, but even his long arms are just not quite long enough to reach it. Both my brothers have long arms, legs, too. When I said they were Herculean, I wasn’t kidding. They’re tall, tanned, athletic, perfect eyesight, coordination, reflexes, you name it, they have it. Me, I’m a foot shorter, skinny, two shades paler, wear glasses, because no way can I stomach sticking a finger anywhere near my eye, and am currently sporting a really itchy cast on my left wrist. Name another human that can break their wrist and two fingers tripping over their own feet on flat ground in their own home?

“Turn me around,” Gordon says from the phone in Noah’s other hand. “I want to take a screenshot of his face when he sees it.”

“You two aren't making this any easier,” I complain, pushing my glasses back up my nose for the billionth time today before slipping my fingers under the folds of the lid. Inside this box are the first copies of my book. A book I never thought in a million years someone would want to publish, and with my own illustrations in it, too. “What if it’s crap?”

“Oh my god, it’s not going to be crap,” Noah says, trying again for the box, but he drops the phone and Gordon yells at him to pick him up.

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