Page 126 of Lovebug
“Maybe you should write insect romance,” he says as he peels me out of my spandex pants.
That gives me pause.
He laughed when he said it, so I assume he’s not serious. But just in case I say, “No Wally. No one wants to read about insect romance. Believe me. Insect romance is dragging your lover upside down. It’s marathon lovemaking sessions lasting upward of seventy-nine days. Insect romance is high speed chases, mid-air mating dances, spiky stunt penises designed to break off in case of emergency, cannibalism, decapitation…”
“Jesus,” he says.
“I know.” I marvel right along with him.
Then… a sudden stillness comes over my body.
An idea has landed.
“What?” Wally cocks his head as he takes in my stillness. “What is happening right now?”
I take a deep breath and rattle off my desire. “A woman dressed like Olivia Newton John dressed like Bad Sandy in Grease wants to role-play a praying mantis mating ritual with you in her childhood bedroom. Any objections to that?”
He takes that moment to rest back on his elbows and then he gives me this look.Thelook. That’s right, this incredibly sexy, shirtless man is lying in my tiny bed giving me the look I feel like I’ve been waiting for my whole life. The look that saysI know you. I know you and I want you.
You. You. Wonderful, precious, irreplaceableyou.
“Mabel,” he rumbles, “I’m game for whatever you’ve got in mind. You’re a grown ass gorgeous woman and I think you’re fucking incredible, so...”
“So...?” I realize I’m holding my breath until he speaks.
“So... game on.” He flashes me a gorgeous grin.
“Excellent,” I purr. “Time for me to rip your head off.”
“What?!”
With that, I dive on top of him and latch onto his neck with my teeth, never feeling so understood and seen and wanted in my life. I had no idea how much I’d been needing that, missing that. It’s been so long since I felt truly connected to someone. It’s a feeling I want to hold onto for as long as I—
“Mabel Geraldine, what on earth are you doing?!”
I feel Wally’s body still beneath me. We hold our collective breath, like if we don’t breathe, maybe we can make it so that what’s happening isn’t actually happening. Then a masculine voice clears a throat. I’ve heard that throat clearing my entire life, and it’s never failed to snap me into awareness and action. As soon as I hear that sound, I unlatch my mouth from Wally’s neck.
We turn our heads toward the door in unison.
Abraham and Helen McGonigle stand frozen at the entrance to my room, mouths agape, my mother’s hand over her heart.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Mabel, why are you dressed like a whore?!” my father seethes. “And who is that man?”
“Why am I dressed like a—”I can’t even bring myself to repeat that ugly word. “Dad, I’ll have you know that I am dressed like the remarkable, wholesome Olivia Newton John in the final scene of Grease!”
“Sweetheart, you watched Grease?” Mom gasps.
“I sure did, Mom! AndPretty WomanandDirty DancingandTop Gun, and the list goes on!”
“Abraham, I told you we shouldn’t leave her alone,” my mother slurs a bit.
“Mom, are you drunk?” I marvel.
“Noooo honey, nooooo. Tipsy maybe, but not drunk.” She stumbles the tiniest bit on the old pink rug.
“Your mother had a glass of wine at dinner,” Dad says as though that’s not a monumental occasion. But it is.
