Page 38

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

I contemplate asking Nora if she wants to help churn out the orders.

After all, we had such a good time bonding over the last woo-woo project we did together—putting a fertility spell on my sister.

However, she, Esteban, and the boys are at a Kidz Bop concert at the Chicago Theatre.

They invited me, but—aside from a root canal—there was nothing I would rather do less.

And since it’s the weekend, Nora decided to make a night of it and do a staycation downtown.

I, of course, suggested they get a room at The Brockmeier once I heard their plan, but something about a rumored Lady in Red haunting the floors and the no-kids rule in their art-deco indoor pool made them spring for a Marriott instead.

It’s probably better this way. With my luck, Nora would flush a tampon, clog the ancient pipework, and Ollie would be the one who would have to present a complete plumbing restoration plan to the stakeholders come Monday morning.

While he and I have made great progress growing closer, I’m not sure that’s how I want him to meet my sister for the first time.

So that leaves me to hold down the entire Roscoe Village fort for the night—coach house, main house, and everything in between.

As such, I decide that since the main house will be unoccupied for the evening, I’ll make my way over to Nora’s side of the quarters.

Her tub is a lot bigger, so I can make more product in less amount of time.

Plus, she has about six pints of fancy gelato in her freezer and a completely stocked wine fridge.

The house is quiet. I can’t decide if it’s eerie or blissful.

It smells like an expensive gardenia-scented candle.

If it wasn’t for rogue soccer balls and various Fortnite figurines strewn about the living room, it would feel like this place is mine.

Like I picked the white shaker cabinets and marble backsplash out myself.

Like I left the end table lamp light on so that I could come home to a warm, soft glow.

This feels nice. This feels grown up. I know it’s just for pretend, but in the moment, I don’t feel so transient in my life.

Perhaps this is what Ollie means when he talks about the desire to lay down roots.

As I think of him, I wonder what he’s up to.

Maybe if he’s not busy making a CAD drawing of The Brockmeier 2.

0, he’d want to join me in making a batch of potion in my sister’s soaking tub?

He did once tell me that he was willing to help, if only to prevent staining the porcelain.

And with all the progress we’ve made thus far, I think it’s time.

Time to let him in just a little bit more.

I pull out my phone and shoot my shot.

What are you up to tonight? I fire off.

Wall-mounting an electric fireplace.Hbu? he writes back a moment later.

Working on some MBA orders. Could use a hand if you’re free. Love Potion and pizza?

Is that your version of Netflix and chill? he asks. Because if so, count me in.

After I order the pizza, I set down my phone and fish around for my smudge spray.

I’ve got about two more applications left in the bottle as I coat my palms in the fast-drying liquid.

Sure, it’s an expensive and laborious undertaking to make a batch, but I’ll continue to do it.

Because despite what the cheeky label says, this stuff hasn’t been a cock block at all.

Although it has protected me from visions of him and I doing whatever , it has allowed me to be vulnerable in his presence, which has led to some amazing times.

I can’t wait to see what happens tonight while we’re alone in this big, empty house.

“I’m trying really hard to be American. But I just don’t think deep dish counts as pizza. We’re using forks and knives to eat it for crying out loud.”

He’s not wrong. Pizza is supposed to be a handheld delicacy. But the truth is, the more grease I get on my fingertips, the more I have to wipe my hands with a napkin, and the less smudge spray stays on. With such little left in the bottle, fork-and-knife pizza it is.

“If engineering fails, you should consider being a food critic,” I joke. “Now hand me that jar of flower petals. We need to get concocting.”

“Concocting? Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“Depends what you think it is,” I counter.

Ollie looks at me with eyes that say, let’s fuck. I agree with the silent suggestion—especially because there are no little ones sleeping within earshot.

He grabs my hands—no visions erupt—and pulls me out of the bathroom. He’s never been in this part of my sister’s house, but demonstrates how he intrinsically knows his way around a space without having to see blueprints.

“Another guestroom?” he guesses as he points to an untouched looking queen-sized bed.

“Bingo,” I confirm.

Ollie lets go of my hand and picks me up like he’s carrying me over a puddle and makes a sharp right into the bedroom.

“We’re totally alone, yeah?”

“All night,” I confirm.

“Good. Let’s get a little loud this time,” he states before one of his famous French kisses.

The man who is oh-so-good with his hands has virtually no issue sliding my thrift store AC/DC concert tee over my head and unhooking my black lace bra.

Although I would have happily done it myself, he unbuckles his belt with a swiftness I never knew was possible and drops trou.

At what seems like the last second, he flings off his crewneck sweatshirt and signature orange beanie and tosses them across the room.

We keep the lights off in the guestroom, but the bulbs in the hallway are on, backlighting an all-naked Ollie. From my vantage point—which is sprawled out on the bed—he looks like a Swedish god, chiseled in all the right places.

I wiggle out of my leggings as Ollie puts on a condom. Moments later, he descends down upon me and slides inside with that infamous ease. I clutch onto his back muscles, careful not to dig my nails too hard in the heat of the moment, as he thrusts. His groans and moans are addicting.

Following along, I allow myself to get vocal, too. Turns out, I like not worrying about others hearing me. This is another solid benefit ofhome ownership, I mentally note.

We pant, we kiss, we grab each other’s hair, and we gently use teeth in all the hot zones.

The combination of all that, and more, causes me to lose track of time and space.

What I am sure of, though, is that we’ve both just climaxed at exactly the same time.

Our breathing is heavy, our bodies are dewy, and we linger side-by-side for longer than most people our age do after they finish screwing.

“I liked that,” he says. A moment later adding: “A lot.”

“Me, too.”

Ollie is in a continued state of bliss as he watches me pour the botanicals into the tub. The bathroom immediately starts to smell like a flower shop, which is a tough order considering moments ago it smelled like pepperoni and sex.

“Is it supposed to look like my grandmother’s bowl of potpourri broke open into a giant vat of strawberry Jell-O?”

“Yes,” I assure him as I stare at my creation in the soaking tub. “In fact, when it looks like that, that’s how you know it’s ready to be bottled. Roll up your sleeves and grab an empty vessel from the box.”

While he does that, I put on a pair of rubber gloves. I have to protect my hands as much as possible before I submerge them in the tub so as not to wash off one of my last layers of smudge spray protection before I run out.

“Do I need a pair of those?” my eager student asks.

“The gloves? No. It’s just that my hands get really dry from doing this so much,” I fib. “Now do like me: take a jar, dip it into the water, and fill it up. Then, cap it with a cork plug, dry the bottle with a towel, and sticker it with a label.”

“Like this?” he asks, giving the process a try for himself.

“You got it. Now all we have to do is repeat that fifty more times. Got it?”

“Fifty? I thought you only needed thirty?”

“A few more orders have come in.”

“Since we…?”

“Yes, since we . Plus it’s good to have backup. Valentine’s Day is a major holiday for lovers. I’m banking on these being big sellers and I want to be prepared for a surge after they work so well.”

“Oh, yeah. Valentine’s Day. We don’t have that in Sweden. I still can’t believe people really celebrate that here. It seems so commercial.”

“Life’s too short to spend time getting worked up about whether or not Valentine’s Day is a real holiday. Yes, it’s commercial. But given the nature of my business, commercial is good.”

Commercial is how I move out of Chicago, I say to myself, wondering if that’s still the plan considering how well things with Ollie are going.

“Fine. I’ll buy in. Moonie, will you be my Valentine?”.

Time with Ollie has gone by so effortlessly fast, it’s almost scary. Regardless, I nod my head yes and he leans over to kiss me sweetly.

As our lips part, the two of us kneel over the ledge of the bathtub. Our pizza-stuffed bellies rest against the porcelain as we take turns filling the jars and chatting.

“This is really mind blowing to me,” he states as he fills his third vessel.

“What is?”

“The fact that I’m here, with you, doing this. It’s just…I design buildings down to their nuts and bolts. I solve complex construction issues. I know every city code in the book and how to work around them. I do not…bottle up ‘Love Potion.’”

“Feels good to take the stick out of your ass though, doesn’t it? I mean you’ve got to admit this is kind of fun.”

“Yes, I haven’t had this much fun since my Intro to Chem class back in the day.”

Ollie holds up a bottle for my quality control check. I give him the thumbs up. He moves on the next one as I mentally note how far he’s come from the days of not being able separate an escape room from reality.

“So do you think this stuff really works?” he asks.