Page 31 of Raise The Bar
Maggie
“Was it the dick pics? Because I understand if that’s the reason.”
The look on Betty’s face combined with the way she shudders at the memory makes me cackle.
“It’s not the dick pics,” I say with a sigh. “I’ve just got too much on my plate right now. Can you hand me the pot holders, please?”
It’s Thursday evening and I’m almost finished with the batch of soap I’ve been putting off for days. Betty is assisting me, sort of. Mostly she’s sipping her glass of wine and handing me the occasional thing when asked.
“Rilla will be disappointed. She still wants you to forward the dick pics her way,” Betty smirks from a safe distance across the kitchen. “I talked to her yesterday and she is coming for a visit on the first weekend in August.”
“Yessss!” Rilla is Josh’s sister and Betty’s oldest friend. I met her last fall when Josh and Betty became a thing. We got along like a house on fire and we’ve kept in touch ever since. We all spent a weekend together in Martha’s Vineyard in May where Betty ran a marathon and Rilla has been planning a weekend trip to Boston ever since.
Rilla is what would happen if Statler and Waldorf from The Muppets had a child. She’s a fiercely independent firecracker of a human, with a sharp wit and a good heart. She lives in Maine, where she’s employed part-time as a bartender and has been working on her debut fantasy novel for several years. She’s a kindred spirit and knowing I’ll see her again soon gives my already good mood a boost.
Soap making is not a complicated process, but it can be dangerous if you’re not careful. I’ve got safety goggles on and rubber gloves that go past my elbows. I’ve just added my lye mixture to my oil mixture and am blending them together with an immersion blender.
There are three fans going at top speed, blowing the fumes towards the open living room windows. Even with all the air circulation, the kitchen is warm on this July evening. I miss the kitchen I shared with Mark, with its ample counter space and stainless steel stove with built-in ventilation. I remind myself that it’s the only thing I miss about living with Mark, and focus on the task at hand.
I’ve pre-prepped the molds and pour the mixture into them slowly to avoid any splashing or spilling. With the number of times I’ve done this process, I’ve got it down to a science.
Once the pour is completed, I set the molds aside to solidify. The original recipe was for twelve bars, but I always double it so I get twenty four. I typically make two different batches a week, depending on how much soap I have in stock at my office. While I enjoy the process, it’s a bit of a pain in an un-air-conditioned apartment in July.
Betty leaves to go to the bathroom and my phone buzzes from where it sits charging on my counter. I remove my gloves and check the message.
Callum:I’m pretty sure I’m sharing an elevator with Kiefer Sutherland
Me:Pics or it didn’t happen
I smile at the phone waiting as the three dots appear on the screen. A moment later, I get a blurry photo of the back of a man’s head and I howl with laughter.
Me:What the hell is that supposed to be, Clark?
Callum:I panicked!
Callum:I’m about 80% sure it was him
Callum:I can’t believe how much taller I am than Jack Bauer
I start tidying up the kitchen and the phone buzzes again.
Callum:What are you up to?
Me:I just finished making a batch of soap
Callum:Pics or it didn’t happen
I move to take a picture of the perfectly poured molds, but decide to snap a selfie with the safety goggles I’m still wearing. A few moments after it sends, the dots appear again.
Callum:Only you can make mad scientist look hot, Lois
A warm sensation spreads through me. We haven’t seen each other in almost a week, but we’ve been texting back and forth since Friday. The texts are playful and occasionally suggestive, but neither of us brings up what happened Friday night. I’m not quite sure how to casually work me attacking his mouth in his entryway into casual conversation.
“Whoa.” I startle at the voice, looking up from my phone to see Betty staring at me. “Who is that look for?”
“What look?” I ask, trying to make my expression as blank as possible.
“The look that screams ‘I want to crawl through this phone and do things to your body.’”
