The Flavor of You

Before

This week couldn’t be a fucking shittier one and I blame it on Maggie—my last rendezvous. Innocently, I figured it would be a simple night with a pretty brunette and a couple bottles of wine. That was not the case.

What exactly happened, you ask? Great question. She hexed me.

I can’t prove it, but I know the snarl on her lip when she asked what we were the morning after we spent the night together last week, and my immediate confusion to what she meant by ‘we’ meant something bad: a hex. I even drove to an incense store and bought sage because my quick online search said that was the best thing I could do if I think I’ve been hexed. I know I have been.

The next morning? I spilled my coffee all over my new white shirt before I got to Randy’s for my monthly financial check-in—which is fine. Shit happens, you know?

But, what doesn’t happen is what I experienced in the days following ending things with Maggie: the paneling order that I needed to finish the carpentry for the Shephard Building getting canceled, my truck mysteriously getting a flat tire after sitting in my driveway all night, and the literal pile of wet dog shit I stepped in when I left work to get lunch.

I don’t even know who owns a dog in this town.

Yet, here I am, rounding the corner that leads to Mom’s house after the second worst week of my life because I’m trying to be a good son and spend time with my family, when all I really want to do is go to bed and wish this day a big fat good-fucking-bye.

Before I step out of my truck and make the short walk to my Mom’s back door, I count to ten in my head. With every count, I reboot my system, turning off I-could-kick-a-puppy-Tucker and turning on Happy Tucker; the only Tucker my family ever sees. That’s the only one I let my family, and friends, see. They don’t see the anxiety, the perfectionism, and the stress. They see an aloof, fun version of Tucker, and damn if I don’t give it my all every time I’m with them.

By the time my count gets to ten, my blood still hasn't finished simmering; so, I count to twenty, repeat the process, and then abandon the idea altogether because…fuck. This isn’t working.

At least tonight is…what is tonight? Burgers? No, we had that last week.

Stir-fry? No, that doesn’t ring a bell.

It’s…tacos, right. Hence the bottle of Don Julio in my hand that I picked up from the store on the way here. Since Mom makes the main course, my siblings and I bring over sides. And yes, tequila is a side.

I tell myself that I only have to stay for a few hours, and then I can go home and sleep off this day.

Getting out of my truck, I walk the familiar path to the back door, my boots stomping on the gravel, sawdust that follows me home from work falling with each step I take. Putting on the practiced smile that comes all too easy to me, I climb the deck steps and make my way toward the light filtering through the kitchen. Laughter and music percolate through the screen door. I decide to use whatever they’re laughing about to help put on the Happy Tucker persona—to say something to force their gazes off of me and onto someone else. Lean into the happy-go-lucky person that is…apparently me.

“Too bad. I’ve gone too far without the taste of these cookies on my tongue and I forbid myself from going one day longer,” Quinn says as I open the door.

Quinn is from New York and is in town to paint a mural on my brother, Parker’s, coffee shop wall. She applied to a job posting that the Town collectively opened with our Fun Fund money—a pool of money that goes toward bettering the Town by the townsfolk's choice of means—and Mom ended up choosing Quinn out of all the applicants. Quinn isn’t an artist by trade, but damn does she have the ability to be. Every time I pass the mural, I’m amazed by her work. She plans to spend the rest of the summer here, living in our childhood home with Mom, finishing it before she heads back to New York.

Unsurprisingly, working so closely with Parker made both of them start to like each other. Just the other week I saw them kissing at a Gala that our Mom’s friend, Bruce, organized, and now they’re constantly giving each other lovey-dovey eyes. I feel half-sick and half-jealous of their affection.

“What are we trying to taste on our tongues?” I ask through a smile, pushing my hair out of my face, an instinctive move despite having gotten it cut yesterday. Even that looks terrible to me, so I may as well add that onto the shit list.

“Tucker,” my mom scolds with a shake of her head as she works at the stove. “Get your head out of the gutter.”

“Hey Tucker, this is Sam, my best friend from New York. She’s in town to visit me,” Quinn says as I look up and see her. A golden-haired, fair-skinned girl smiles at me from next to Quinn.

I blink once, twice, at Sam. Because…Christ. Sam is hot, and exactly my type. Killer blue eyes, full lips, high cheekbones, curvy, and if my first impression is correct, a little dangerous. There’s something about her, about the vibe she gives off, that makes me think she’s trouble. It could be the way she pops her hip while she looks at me, or the one raised brow. Or, it’s the seductive smile that my eyes catch on.

For the first time today, I find my lips tugging into an actual smile. I watch Sam’s gaze do a once-over—her light eyes track me down to my shoes and back up to my shirt, a wicked gleam meeting my own when she reaches my face. Touché. 

It seems like my luck may just be turning around.

“Well, hello Sam.” I gesture for her hand, and when she gives it, I can’t help but focus on how nice it feels on my own. “Quinn, you didn’t tell me you had such pretty friends.” A whiff of vanilla meets my nose when I lean down and give the back of her hand a small kiss. When I let go, I can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like against…other parts of my body.

Sam blinks a few times at me, tilting her head with intrigue. “Well, had Quinn told me she was around such fine men, maybe her pretty friend would have stopped by sooner.”

Forward. Feisty. I love it.

I raise a brow as she shrugs. Almost as if she means it and wouldn’t take it back if she had the chance.

“Tucker, honey, will you go find some more wood for the fire? Bring in anything that is dry enough from the rain we had this morning.”

“Sure, Ma.” I almost turn to leave, but then an idea pops into my head. An idea that could possibly actually turn this day around. I look at Sam and point toward the door.

“Would you like to join me?”

Sam smiles. “Don’t mind if I do.”