Full Package(3)

He tilts his head. “How’d you know she likes me?”

I nod toward the row of chairs in the waiting room at the end of the hallway. A dark-haired woman in a busty emerald-green costume nibbles on her lip and checks her watch. When she raises her face, her eyes light up as they land on Aquaman.

“I’m guessing the mermaid brought you in? And waited for you?”

“Yeah,” Aquaman says with a dopey smile as he looks at his woman.

“Bed tonight. Use the bed, man,” I say in a low voice.

He gives me a thumbs-up as he leaves.

And, that’s today’s latest chapter in the tales of the naughty deeds that land you in the ER. Yesterday, it was a zipper malfunction. Last week, it was a fracture from a back handspring. Yeah, you don’t want to know what was fractured.



Later, when my shift ends, I change into my street clothes in the locker room, button my jeans, and tug on a T-shirt. I rake my fingers through my hair, grab my shades, and leave the workday behind me. The second the doors slide shut at Mercy Hospital, I turn off the medical portion of my brain, plug in my headphones, and crank up the audiobook I’ve been listening to lately. It’s on the theory of chaos, and it keeps me company as I head to Greenwich Village to meet a friend.

Once downtown, I leave the subway in a throng of New Yorkers on a warm June day and make my way to the Sugar Love Sweet Shop to meet my friend Josie.

Yes, this friend happens to possess boobs.

Because I have another theory—men and women can be friends. Great friends. Even if the woman happens to be the owner of the most fantastic pair of breasts this man has ever seen. A body is a body is a body. I can appreciate her figure empirically, in all its curves and softness, and that doesn’t mean I want to hang from the chandeliers with her, or even screw her on a table.

Fine, I’ll concede she’s totally table screwable, but I don’t let myself think of Josie that way.

Even if she looks amazing in that pink scoop-neck T-shirt and a cute little polka-dot apron tied around her waist.

When she spots me, she waves and calls me into the candy shop.

I go, and my mouth is only watering because I like sweet things.





2





Josie dangles a red fish in front of me.

“Caught it today,” she says with a boastful nod at the tiny treat in her hand. “Fresh from the candy shop shelves.”

“Did it put up a fight?”

She shakes her head as she drops the fish in its plastic bag. “Nope. It succumbed to my credit card. Reeled it in, just like that.” She snaps her fingers.

We’re at Abingdon Square Park, a small triangular patch of green at the edge of the Village. It’s one of the few parks that feels like its own island in Manhattan, and we settle onto a navy blue wooden bench. We’re not far from the sweet shop where she finished her sushi candy-making class.

She takes a new treat from her bag, and holds it in her palm. “You ready?”

I open my mouth. “Pop it in, baby.”

Yeah, maybe that sounded dirty.

Who cares? I don’t, nor does Josie, who also happens to be the little sister of my best bud, Wyatt. She’s requested I serve as her guinea pig tonight. The first taste test? A Swedish Fish roll, as she calls it. The red gummy is parked atop a Rice Krispies Treat center and wrapped in a green Fruit Roll-Up.

Moments like this remind me that perspective is key. Because, man, my life could be worse. Sure, I’m going to be living the Airbnb lifestyle any day now, bouncing from lumpy couch to lumpier futon, but sweetness is about to land on my tongue.

I bite into the candy roll, and it’s a carnival of deliciousness. My eyebrows wriggle, and I nod approvingly as I finish chewing. I adopt an over-the-top restaurant critic’s voice. “Just the perfect mix of marshmallow goodness that pairs ever so wonderfully with the tang of the Fruit Roll-Up. Add in the flavor sensation of the perennial favorite, Swedish Fish, and you have a masterpiece on your hands.”

Josie’s a baker, but not just any baker. She’s a world-class dessertier. I don’t know if that’s a word, but it fucking should be given how this woman can wield a mixer and a baking pan. There’s nothing sweet that she can’t make taste like a party in your mouth. Probably why her taking over her parents’ old shop, Sunshine Bakery, has been such a success.

Her eyes widen at my masterpiece compliment. “Really? You’re not just saying that, are you?”

I’m stone-faced as I answer her. “I never lie about treats. Case in point. Remember the time you made those chocolate chip cookies that contained the world’s worst food item?”

“You still can’t say the name of it, can you?”

I close my eyes, an involuntary shudder running down my spine. “Just trying to block out the memory of . . .” Taking a deep breath, I force out the next word. “Raisins.” When I open my eyes, I’m sure they’re still laced with horror as I recall what she did to those helpless cookies. “Seriously. How could you defile something as wonderful as a chocolate chip cookie with a . . . dried grape?”

She shrugs helplessly. “That’s how you discover what works and what doesn’t work in the kitchen. You have to try. I was trying something new. Cowboy cookies with chocolate chips, coconut and—”