Page 7

GIVE OR TAKE THE BLOWTORCH

Sabrina

The funny thing about a dull throb is it still hurts like a motherfucker. Sunlight spills through the curtains—too bright, too soon, and like a hammer to my head. My dress is twisted around my waist, the delicate fabric going every which way, including down my chest.

Great. I’m flashing the top of my boobs at…I pause, listening. Nothing but silence.

Okay, so I’m flashing my boobs at myself. Wonderful. I grab the bodice and wiggle it back up when I remember—my tiara. I reach for it, but it’s not tangled in my mess of hair or tossed onto a pillow. My French twist is askew too. I peer around, but the tiara’s nowhere in sight.

I sigh, regret slamming over me, hard and sharp. The tiara was the only thing I truly wanted to keep from last night. It’s probably on the floor somewhere, tangled up with my dignity .

My mouth tastes like mistakes as I push myself up, the rustle of this awful tulle dress filling the quiet room.

Too quiet.

Hmm. Where’s Tyler? Did he stay? Did we…oh god, did I…?

The memory hits me like a slap.

The last thing I remember is Tyler kissing my forehead and saying he’d be right back. To get a condom, I thought. Or at least, I’d hoped. I was half-drunk, fully committed, and one hundred ten percent ready for the hot dad to make all my fantasies come true. And then…nothing. I conked out.

I groan, dropping back onto the bed, the tulle of the skirt rustling like a soundtrack to my humiliation. He must’ve come back to find me passed out cold, mouth open, probably snoring, and still dressed like a fairy-tale disaster.

Ugh. I didn’t radiate sex appeal last night. I radiated Weird Barbie making rude sex eyes in a garish dress.

When I sit up, the dull throb in my head jeers How do you like me now?

I wince but then spot a glass of water on the nightstand and a little silver dish with three ibuprofen in it.

My throat tightens with unexpected emotion.

It’s such a thoughtful touch that I want to cry for reasons I can’t even explain.

I down the pills with a gulp of water, grateful for small mercies. A neatly folded note sits beside the glass, but before I can reach for it, there’s a knock at the door.

A flare of tension rushes through me. It has to be Tyler.

I don’t think we screwed last night, but did we…

this morning? For a few seconds, my hormones dance a jig.

Oh, I hope he fucked me really good. But when I glance down at the sea of lace and tulle—and feel my panties still firmly in place—I’m pretty sure nothing came off last night or this morning.

Damn shame.

I shuffle to the door, past his suitcase, bracing myself to face him and his understandable rejection of me. Peeking through the peephole, I see…room service? I crack the door open just enough to avoid inflicting my dragon breath on the unsuspecting server.

“Sorry, I didn’t order room service,” I mumble.

“Mr. Falcon did,” the server says brightly. “He asked for it to be brought to you around ten a.m. and to be left outside the door if you didn’t answer. But here you are.”

He wheels the cart in and sets the tray on the desk. The spread is ridiculous: a bread basket with toast and scones, plus fruit, coffee, and condiments.

I try to muster some decorum, but the embarrassment is real. Do I tip him? With my own money? On Tyler’s room?

“Uh, can I tip you with…Venmo?” I ask since that’s all I’ve got.

The server shakes his head, smiling. “No need. Everything has been taken care of by Mr. Falcon. Please enjoy.”

He slips out, leaving me alone in Tyler’s room once again. My stomach growls. Apparently, eating is a good idea. I grab a piece of toast and take a bite, moaning softly. Heaven.

Thank you, Mr. Falcon.

As I devour another bite, something shiny catches my eye across the room.

There it is—my tiara—sitting neatly on the small couch, placed atop a royal blue Sea Dogs hoodie.

Setting down the toast, I pick up the tiara, then the hoodie, feeling warm all over when I spot what’s beneath it: a pair of leggings, tags still attached.

They’re clearly from the hotel gift shop. Pretty damn close to my size.

The thoughtfulness of it all makes my chest ache. Who does this? Nobody—not for me, at least. Not when I’ve actually needed it. And now here’s Tyler, being…well, perfect.

And what did I do? I threw myself at him.

Smooth move, Sabrina. I press my hands to my face, cringing as last night’s greatest hits flood back: public oversharing, drunk rambling, and—oh, yes—confessing every single one of my sex fantasies to the hot dad of one of my students.

He’ll probably fire me. Yup. I bet that’s what the note’s about. A polite, thanks, but your services are no longer needed. Of course, he’d do it nicely. While serving me breakfast.

With dread swirling in me, I grab the note from the nightstand and unfold it.

You deserve more than St. Bernards, sloppy kisses, and a guy who holds you back. You deserve someone who lets you shine. Glad you left him. Never second-guess that choice.

Just so you know, you conked out before I returned with your leggings. Figured you’d need something to wear today—you probably wouldn’t want to wear that dress again. There’s a hotel laundry bag for it, and I left toothpaste and a toothbrush on the sink.

Keep that tiara, Sabrina. It’s legend, like you.

I’ve got an early tee time, so I probably won’t see you. I arranged for a late checkout so stay as long as you need.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, nothing happened last night. I promise. I slept on the couch.

—T

My throat tightens, and the dam breaks. This time, the tears are heavy, born of small acts of kindness rather than heartbreak. Despite the ache in my head, I feel…cared for. It’s a new feeling, but one I don’t dare get used to.

This isn’t how my world works.

I shimmy out of the dress, take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and pull on the fresh clothes. I turn my chin to my shoulder and inhale the hoodie, sneaking a hit of Tyler Falcon. He smells like woodsmoke—a cabin in the forest, guiding me home after a long, snowy trek.

I almost, almost , want to stay and thank him in person.

Instead, I grab a fork, stab a few blueberries, savor the tang of the fruit, then take a bite of a buttery scone, hearing my therapist’s voice telling me it’s okay to enjoy life’s small pleasures, even if they aren’t on your to-do list.

It feels a tiny bit wrong to enjoy anything today after yesterday’s disasters, but I’ve spent a long time learning how to savor little things.

The race of my heart when I see a frozen lake, the taste of melting caramel, the warm sun on my shoulders when I’m outside in the garden in the summer.

They all add up to free time . Something I was never encouraged to enjoy growing up.

I take one more bite, since that’s all I truly want — this taste of free time, in a way — then leave the rest on the plate.

Before I go though—and I really should take off before he returns—I jot a note:

I can’t thank you enough for being such a gentleman. Also, I love minty toothpaste, so thank you for that too. And everything.

-Sabrina

I place the note on top of his suitcase, then leave the room, ready to face the shambles that is my life when a notification pings on my phone for my next skating lesson with Luna Falcon.

I gulp. The day after I was supposed to return from my honeymoon.

Now it’ll just be a random weekday — one where I have to see the man I threw myself at .

I guess I’ve officially entered my hot mess phase.

Rhonda comes to the rescue, as advertised. I’m overcome with gratitude when she pulls up outside the Cozy Valley Inn in her black Prius, pineapple-shaped air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.

She leans across, shoves the passenger door open, and grins up at me. “Tell me everything.”

Her white hair blends seamlessly with her pale complexion, and there’s a grandmotherly vibe about her—if grandmothers wore purple sweatshirts featuring a cat riding a unicorn and brandishing a lightsaber. Below the graphic, it reads: Here I Come to Save the Day.

“Where do I even start?” I buckle my seatbelt and sigh. “Ever blowtorched your life and then woken up with a headache, no place to live, and the realization that you don’t make enough money to pay rent?”

She flashes me a smile. “Honey, you just described half of America—give or take the blowtorch.”

Her can-do spirit draws out a laugh I didn’t know I had in me.

“Well, let’s just say I’m in the half with the blowtorch.

I need to get my act together. Not only did I run away from a wedding where I was nearly gaslit into marrying a cheater, I was fired by my family and capped off the night by hitting on the hot dad of one of my skating students. ”

“Ooh, how hot?” she teases, pulling onto the winding road toward San Francisco. “Don’t leave out a single thing.”

I don’t hold back. I describe Tyler in excruciatingly delicious detail—from his rugged beard to his full lips to those piercing eyes that just…undo me.

“I think you need to bang him,” Rhonda declares matter-of-factly, “so I can live vicariously through you. ”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yes. Please, for all of us. Ride that hot daddy and then tell me everything.” She sighs happily as she switches lanes. “I wouldn’t mind finding a sexy pool boy myself.”

Her playful honesty is refreshing, but she quickly shifts gears. “Now, what’s next? You need a plan.”

“I do.” I tell her about the foster kitten I need to pick up. “Are you okay with a kitten in the car?”

She scoffs, giving me a look that suggests I’ve said something absurd. “Did you see my shirt?”

“Scratch that. Of course you don’t mind.”