Page 27 of M.M. Scrooge
“No, no, it’s fine.” I wave off his excuse for me. John’s a good guy. A mechanic with ambitions of owning his own shop one day. A man’s man, and though he can be awkward around the whole Daniel-is-gay thing, he’s supportive-awkward, not cringe-awkward, which is kind of adorable. And he treats Libby like the goddess she is. I’d love him for that alone. “I mostly teach the same classes every semester, since I’m the lowest on the totem pole. So that’s Introduction to Religious Studies, Introduction to Philosophy, and Critical Thinking over and over ad nauseam.”
John twirls a lock of Libby’s hair absently. “What classes would you teach if you could choose anything?”
Oof, great question. There are so many. “I wouldn’t mind teaching the course on free will. Oh, or maybe a deep dive into good and evil.” One perk of studying philosophy is that the scope is absolutely enormous. I could justify a course on just about any topic I want to teach.
“Like god and the devil?” John asks. I gotta love the guy for trying to engage in a subject that interests me to no end but has got to be pretty dull to him.
“Sure, but there’s more to good and evil than the Christian ideas on the topic. I could easily fill a semester with variations on the dichotomy. And the theme is broadly accessible, so it should encourage even shy students to join the discussion.” Gosh, designing my own courses would be a dream. But alas, that day is a long way off, if it ever happens at all. Academia as a profession crawls along at a snail’s pace. Most of the time, I don’t mind the wait, but the intro courses get more boring with each passing year. At least I like the university I work for. “How about you, John? How are things going at the shop?”
I probably understand even less of John’s work than he does of mine, but it’s still nice to hear him talk about what he knows. Transmissions, oil, rusty lines, and loose bolts. Payroll, billing, and new hires. The endless search for a good diesel engine mechanic.
I’ll admit it’s awfully convenient to have a brother-in-law who knows about cars. I can just leave mine with him and not worry if the shop is pulling a fast one on me. Such a relief.
Hot chocolate is consumed, and our conversation dwindles. Mom heads to bed first. Then John. But Libby stays, and the look she throws me says, you’d better stay too. That’s cool. I’m down for some sister talk.
She abandons her spot on the couch and squeezes in next to me on the loveseat. A pleasant waft of her vanilla-scented body wash hits my nose. Another comforting bit of familiarity on our first holiday without Dad. She’s been using that same stuff since we were teenagers.
“What’s up, Libs?” I poke my feet under her thigh.
She allows this without complaint. “You tell me.”
I shrug. “Sorry, I got nothing. You’re the one with the exciting stories, not me.”
She waves this off. “How’s the love life? You seeing anybody?”
An image of a naked Max flares vividly across my mind, complete with rivulets of water dripping down all those sexy muscles. I dismiss it immediately. “Big fat nope, sis. Nada. Zilch.”
Libby narrows her eyes. “You were thinking of someone just now. Spill.”
“You’ll only be disappointed.”
“Spill anyway. We’ve got all night.”
“There was this guy at the gym I joined, but it was just sex.” Good sex. Great even. But turns out he’s a name-calling douchebag, so the sooner I forget about him, the better.
“Was it hot?”
“An inferno, yes. And also literally hot because we were in the shower at the time.”
She fans herself. “You know how exciting that sounds to a woman who’s been with the same man for nine years, right?”
Concern flutters in my chest. “Is something up with you and John?”
“Of course not. John’s great.” She emphasizes this with a fond grin. My sister’s so pretty, with those big hazel eyes we have in common, her freckled cheeks, and her gorgeous smile. “He’s a keeper, and I’m keeping him. But the idea of a one-off with some random stranger from the gym sounds spicy.”
Spicy is one word for it. Also naughty, scorching, mind-blowing. “We didn’t have a condom, so we had to…improvise.”
She grabs my knee and squeezes. “Oh my god, do tell.”
Heat rises from my neck to my cheeks, but I give her the details anyway. We’ve been sharing everything since we could talk. Dishing to Libby about shady shower sex with a stranger isn’t much different from telling her about my first kiss, my first time, and my first broken heart. It’s tradition. And tradition feels important tonight. I confess everything, even the shitty parts.
“What a jerk.” Libby seethes on my behalf. “I can’t believe he called you beanpole. You’re slender and lithe like a ballet dancer and perfect just the way you are. He’s stupid for not seeing it. His loss.”
“Thanks, sis.” Libby always has my back.
“You need someone hot and sweet. What about dating apps? Have you tried those?”
“You mean hookup apps? No, thank you.” If my last experience with casual sex is anything to go by, I’m probably better off without it. The older I get, the less I’m interested in a one-off and the more I’d like to find something that could last. Not that hooking up with Max wasn’t a bit of a treat, just that I’m up for a full-course dinner, not a piece of candy, no matter how pretty the package.
