Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell

35

Rachel

I’d forgotten that Brody and I have to do one more party together on the boat. It’s a group of college students this time, friends from the University of Washington—a totally different vibe from the partiers so far. Most of the students are much savvier about toys, having grown up on a steady diet of Internet ads, Tumbler gifs, and Rule 34.

Rule 34, I learn, states that If something exists, there is porn of it. No exceptions.

“The rule came about when a comic artist on the web learned that there was Calvin and Hobbes porn,” their de facto ringleader tells me.

“Oh, God!” I say miserably.

I want to look at Brody, to see if this makes him as unhappy as it makes me, but it hurts too much to look at Brody. Blank-faced, stoic Brody. Not even a scowl to let me know he’s in there. And the few times I’ve tried to catch his eye, he’s turned away. Not that he’s ignoring me. He was entirely civil to me as we loaded the boat. He held out his arm so I could balance myself climbing in. He has been nothing but polite.

And I hate it.

My chest has not stopped aching since he told me that he doesn’t want to be the guy in my plan. Not that I should have been surprised. If you decide to bag the bad boy, it’s pure fantasy to think that you’ll live happily ever after with him. Especially if the two of you reside on opposite sides of the country and are as different as two people can be.

Still, knowing that doesn’t stop the pain.

“Rachel?” Ringleader asks me.

I get back to business.

In addition to the savvy students, there are also a few in the group who are like me: they grew up knowing this stuff was around but never quite got up the courage to delve into it. Maybe they were afraid their browsing histories would keep them out of college, maybe they were afraid to own toys in a household with nosy little siblings, or maybe they just kept meaning to get around to it and never found time.

So I aim my chatter at them, and like almost everyone who’s brave enough to attend a party in the first place, they eventually open up, asking questions, and, well, buying a truckload of new toys.

I’m going to miss this, too. Part of me thinks maybe I’ll get my own Real Romance business when I get back to Boston, but I’m not sure how that’ll work with a full-time job. And maybe it’s just a fantasy, too, that I’ll be able to capture and keep part of Rush Creek Rachel when I go home.

Maybe Rush Creek Rachel only existed for a brief, glorious moment.

Maybe I need to let her go, too.

I fly home to Boston.Louisa picks me up at the airport and brings me to the large apartment she shares with her two friends. I really like both of them. They’re fun, lively, and kind. And my room passes muster. It’s bigger than I was expecting—probably a good fifteen-by-fifteen—and gets western light through two big windows. We all use the same kitchen, but everyone is generous about sharing and great about respecting each other’s stuff, and it even looks like we might set up a rotation so we can each cook one or two dinners a week.

I go back to work for the library, this time for a librarian named Brenna Cho, who is also a great boss. I learn the ins and outs of the adult desk, memorize answers to the most common questions our patrons ask, and generally start thinking like an adult librarian. I make myself indispensable there. Brenna says the day Hettie let me go was the best day of her working life, and I know she means it. It turns out I like working with adult readers just as much as I liked working with kids, which surprises me. Maybe it’s because adults are basically just big kids, especially when you get them excited about a new book. Maybe a little slower moving but more likely to wash their hands in the bathroom.

Or not.

In the evenings, I sit in the shared living room. My mom and I finished watching Crash Landing on You before I left Rush Creek, so now I’ve moved on to Start-Up. I binge watch episodes and ugly cry when things go wrong for Dal Mi. When it gets too late to start a new episode, I don’t want to go to bed, so I stay on the couch flipping through my Instagram feed.

Brody doesn’t have an Insta, but Amanda, Lucy, and Wilder Adventures all do. So does my mom’s Real Romance business, and that’s how I find out she’s still doing the parties on the boat. She reposts a photo from Wilder, too, so I hop over there, and see that Brody’s new concept is going great guns. There are photos of Jem leading a book club, of Nan’s gorgeous baked goods (also reposted on the Rush Creek Bakery feed), and of the Glory Day Spa massage sessions, complete with blissed out customers.

In the background of one of the photos, I can just make out Brody, and I enlarge the photo to see the expression on his face.

Louisa snatches the phone out of my hands.

“What the—?”

“You’ve been on that couch for three hours and twenty-three minutes,” she accuses. “And last night you were on it for four hours and twelve minutes.”

“Louisa!”

“I timed you,” she says, frowning at me.

“I’m tired,” I protest.

“You’re not tired,” she says. “You’re marinating in your own misery. Get off that couch and come out with me.”

“Where—?”

“Brusque.” She’s not accusing me of being short with her; that’s the name of a new bar in Davis Square that she’s been trying to convince me to try with her for almost a week. Apparently, a new young singles pickup scene is coalescing there.

Nothing in the phrase “young singles pickup scene” appeals to me in the slightest, but there’s no arguing with Louisa, so I drag myself off the couch and head to my room to try to find something decent to wear.

I stand in front of my closet and stare at the possibilities.

Or lack of possibilities, maybe.

That’s where she finds me, fifteen minutes later. I haven’t moved.

“Rachel,” she says quietly. “I’m really, really worried about you.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, reflexively. Then I hear myself and sigh. “I’m really not miserable. This is a great setup for me.” I indicate the room. “It’s a great room. This is a great house. I have a great job. Objectively speaking, everything’s perfect.”

Louisa crosses her arms. She looks extra scary. “Rachel. Do you hear yourself?”

“Wha—?” I start to ask, but all of a sudden, I do.

Perfect.

Perfect job, perfect apartment, perfect setup, perfect situation.

It’s all exactly right, except it’s really, truly, all just wrong.