Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
He’s so dry he’s almost hard to read. But I speak deadpan, so I keep going.
Ivy: Do you know that bar across the street from our building?
Hayes: I haven’t been there, but I believe in its existence.
Ivy: Well, to make a long story short, my friend Jackson and I were there last night on the rooftop patio at sunset. We saw someone on the rooftop of our building taking off his clothes, and Jackson whipped out his binoculars, and I took them from him and maybe possibly checked you out while you watered your eggplants and strummed the air guitar. On your hose.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Then I add one more word.
Ivy: Sorry.
There’s no reply for a whole block as Roxy struts, tail high, head whipping back and forth at all the people she passes, both two-legged and four-legged. My neighbor is going to think I’m a very dirty girl. He’s probably going to ghost me. Or worse. Report me to…the rental board? Oh, shit. Is there some sort of San Francisco housing authority? Maybe he’ll register me as a balcony peeper.
But before I can double apologize, I spot the owner of Better With Pockets adjusting her chalkboard sidewalk sign in front of her store. It’s my favorite dress shop in the neighborhood, and Beatrix Martinez has built her business with an irreverent social media strategy. One I’d like to be a part of.
Her lip ring glints brightly in the morning sun, but her expression is unreadable as I tell her I struck out on my own and that I’d love for her to keep me in mind.
“Cool, email me some ideas,” she says, and I don’t know if that means she actually needs help or she’s just being nice, but I’ll take it either way.
“I will,” I say, hopeful she’ll actually read her email, then continue on my walk, returning to my phone, where a text blinks at me.
Hayes: Are you sorry though?
Oh. Oh. He’s not irked. He’s…intrigued. I can work with intrigued.
Ivy: Actually, I meant to say…Sorry, not sorry.
Hayes: Good answer. Also, this explains a lot.
My cheeks flame, even as my fingers fly with my question.
Ivy: What do you mean?
Hayes: I noticed last night that you tried really hard to look only at my face, Ivy.
Something about the way he writes my name out in text feels…commanding. Like an order. Maybe he is a bad boy in bed.
Ivy: I felt bad for having seen you naked and you not knowing.
Hayes: Why would you feel bad?
Ivy: Because I’d seen you naked!
Hayes: I’m still not seeing the problem.
My cheeks go hotter. He’s kind of…sarcastically flirty.
Hayes: Or do you feel bad because you were trying to get another look?
I chew on my lip, debating. But…what do I have to lose?
Ivy: Look, all I’m saying is if the Emoji Association ever needs a spokesperson for the eggplant, it should be you.
There. I pretty much said I like your dick. There’s silence on my phone for a few minutes until an image lands.
You can’t see his face. You can’t even see his torso. The photo is a tight shot of a man holding an eggplant against his shorts. And I sway closer to the screen, squinting. I’m pretty sure that’s the outline of his cock right next to the veggie. And…he’s half-hard. I stare so long I become a danger to traffic. Then, I force myself to read the note.
Hayes: Just thinking of you.
He’s not white-knighting me after all. But I’m not going to send a similar shot. Well, I am out on the streets. Instead, I write back asking for something else—info.
Ivy: I have to know, why were you naked on the rooftop? Was it Naked Gardening Day?
Hayes: That’s a thing, right?
Ivy: I googled it but it’s in the spring. Is that your kink though? Naked gardening?
Hayes: Is voyeurism your kink?
That’s an excellent question. In the moment, yesterday’s rooftop entertainment felt like good old spectator fun. Like, why not check out some public, non-sexual nudity? But now it sparks questions I’ve not considered before. Like, if I’d been alone at the bar, would I have watched longer? Or if I saw that man stripping off his shirt through my apartment window, would I stare?
I’m noodling on a reply when another text lands.
Hayes: Because if it is, tell me when you’ll have those binoculars out next.
The hair on my arms stands on end. With excitement. With possibility. I don’t even know what he’s offering. To strip for me? To touch himself on the rooftop? Something else? This is next-level text flirting, and I’m not entirely sure what to say.
I don’t have this sort of experience. My ex wasn’t a sexter. The guys I dated before him sent messages that were more of the hey variety.
Hayes doesn’t wait for my answer before he sends another text.