Page 14 of Married with Mayhem

Meanwhile, I’m standing here like a bedraggled, red-eyed pound puppy who just pulled some mismatched clothes out of a dumpster.

Monte surveys me up and down in a quick, shrewd manner. I’ve been stared at since I was thirteen and swelled to a double D cup almost overnight so I’m very familiar with the way guys will smirk and gawk when their minds go to the gutter.

But Monte has never looked at me that way and he’s not looking at me that way now. He looks at me the way a doctor would, like he’s trying to arrive at a diagnosis for my distress. I guess he has all the girlfriends he can handle. Or maybe I just don’t do it for him. Funny how this has always been both a relief and a disappointment.

Once Monte is satisfied that I’m not damaged in any visible way, he relaxes. “Did you fly all the way here with nothing but that pink backpack?”

“No.” I jostle the weight of the backpack on my shoulder. “I flew all the way here with a tremendous overstuffed suitcase that cost me a small fortune in excess baggage fees.”

“Great. Where is it?”

“Somewhere in the bowels of the JFK Airport ecosystem with thousands of other luggage pieces that will never reach their destinations. I was told by a mildly hysterical ticket agent that I’ll receive a call when it’s available, which probably won’t happen before tomorrow. Anyway, can we please get out of here now? I’ve had enough of mingling with my fellow travelers and I don’t want to get accosted by another Gavin.”

“Gavin who?” Monte’s eyes narrow as he glares this way and that.

“Never mind. I’m sure he’s fallen to the zombies by now.”

His brows pinch. “What?”

“MOVE ALONG!” A woman with a red, sweaty face and a neon vest waves at us with a bright orange stick. “NO STANDING!”

Monte nudges me away from the curb. “It’s a fucking zoo here. I had to park so it’ll be a hike to the car.”

“Lead the way. Anything is better than this.”

He automatically assumes the position nearest to the street and hovers close as we leave all the frenetic honking and shouting behind.

“Why are you limping?” he says after ten seconds.

“I broke my ankle.”

“Just now?”

“Eight weeks ago. It’s still a little sore and I’ve been neglecting my physical therapy.” I need to bend my head back to look up at his face, only to find him peering down with a frown.

“Sabrina, I wasn’t kidding when I said it’s a hike to the car.”

“I’ll make it. Just don’t ask me to sprint.”

He digests this information and drops down on one knee with a sigh. “Hop on.”

“Hop onwhat?”

“Me. I’ll carry you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“At the rate you’re staggering along we won’t reach the car before midnight. Piggyback time.”

I like to think I’m pretty imaginative, however I cannot visualize climbing on Monte Castelli’s back for a piggyback ride. The image simply refuses to take shape.

“Monte, I can’t.”

“What are you worried about? I won’t drop you for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m wearing a skirt!”

“Keep that hoodie tied around your waist. You’ll be fine.”

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