Love Don’t Change | Short Story

A Nerd and Her Blog | Short Story

© A Nerd and Her Blog

  “I don’t understand what takes you so long in there,” he says, “what all do you do?” His voice is tinged with so much annoyance and exasperation, Everly Adams has to glance at the bed she and her husband share to ensure that the man lying on his side, his chin propped on his palm, is, in fact, her husband.

  Her eyes avert to the ceiling: an attempt to roll her eyes. But she sighs, for, at that moment, it dawns on her that she never quite mastered the art.

  But — she also realizes — it’s awfully dark. Their room is completely void of light, except for a small pool of yellow light that spills from a lamp on the bedside table on the right side of the room. But it really doesn’t go far. So, if she were to succeed in rolling her eyes, it being the slight movement it is, wouldn’t be seen.

  A towel wrapped around her naked, wet body, Everly lies in the bed, getting as close to the edge she can get.

  “Why the hell did you just get in the bed? Goddammit,” Anthony rants, his hand wandering about the sheets, “you’re gonna wet the sheets, Everly!”

  Her arms fold, her small lips pout, making them look bigger than they are, and she sighs, exasperated. Perching them atop her chest, a silent, wet tear falls from her eye, wetting the pillow beneath her head, as she realizes: It’s gotten worse. They’ve gotten worse.

  They’d finally reached that stage where couples argue about anything and everything, even something as simple as getting the sheets wet.

  A divorce couldn’t be far.

  She reaches to the table at her side, and her pale, slender fingers roam the table’s wooden surface until, finally, she feels the shape of her phone.
  They curve around its edges, almost immediately, like it’s routine.

Or habit.

Like it’s natural.

  She texts her boyfr-. Friend? Really close friend? Really, really close friend? Everly doesn’t know. She hadn’t decided. Her and Sam had kissed, gone out on dates, even made love. Yet she didn’t call him her boyfriend.

  It just seemed wrong.

  And final.

  Everly: Hey, I know it’s late. But it’s happening again. Cheer me up?


  Sam: Yeah, of course. Come over tonight?


  Everly: Sure. See you then.


  Sam: Alright.


  After drying herself off, Everly slid on a pair of white, lacy underwear and a matching bra, which, she knew, seemed irregular. But Sam liked it when she was creative. Also, the two had discovered that the color went better with her skin, which was so pale, it looked like that of a porcelain doll.

  She knew what the night would bring.

  But she didn’t mind, nor care.

  Sam would penetrate her in such a way that would bring Everly nothing but bliss, in a way that made her forget about everything that brought tears to her eyes or a frown upon her face, and all she would be able to think about was the next kiss, the next thrust, or the next orgasm.

  When they’d lie awake talking after making love, she’d tell him that it’s a talent. He used to simply laugh it off. But then he started noticing how sad Everly would be when she came, and how happy she’d be when she’d leave, and he had started to believe it.

  When she stepped out of the bathroom, Anthony was just as Everly had left him: resting on their bed, his head propped on his palm. Although he did look sad. Or calm, maybe? She didn’t know. She’d only seen anger on his face for the past few years; she didn’t know what anything else looked like at this point.

  “What happened to us?” he asked, quickly. His voice was soft and faint, almost frail, it seemed. His voice cracked, and Everly felt like if he had said anything else in that moment, it would break.
  Everly stood, silent and baffled.

  What did he mean?

  “Looked at your phone.” he said casually, pointing to the bed, where it lay. Noticed your…get-up, which is clearly not for me. Not with the problems we’ve been having.”

  So he knows — that we’ve gotten worse — too, thought Everly.

  “Come here.” he says.

  Everly notices that the cracks in his voice have been mended, but she can still hear their presence: deep and hidden — like a sweater with a hole after being sewn — and she stiffens.

  “Come here.” Anthony repeats, his voice hardening.

  Everly takes slow steps towards the bed, and then she collapses on it, dumbfounded.
  Nothing seems real right now: sneaking off to Sam, getting caught, or cheating in the first place.     

  Everything and everyone seems so distant, they’re almost not there.

  Nonexistent.

  “Lie down,” he whispers.

  Moving stiffly and slowly, she lies on her back.

  “What happened to us?” he asks, again, his voice calm and weak again.

  Everly remains silent, body rigid and eyes facing one direction only: up.

  “Look at me,” he demands, turning her chin.
  Her eyes widen, and tears well in her eyes.

  “Let me show you something,” he says.

He turns to a drawer at the bed’s side, and pulls out a book. A big book. Their book. Of all their memories and moments. He flips to the first page.

  Their wedding day — Everly thinks, looking the page over — was an odd mixture of embarrassment and beauty. But she still loved it. Every moment of it. The vows. The dancing. The food. Even herself tripping on her dress while her and Anthony danced the night away at the wedding reception. Everly had freaked out, and Anthony had done the complete opposite. He’d caught her before she’d fallen, and after they’d stopped dancing, he’d told everyone that knew Everly had almost fallen that it was a stunt the two had practiced, and that Everly had not — if nothing else — messed it up. She’d fallen in love with him even more that day. Something she didn’t even know was possible.

  “This is our wedding day,” he whispers, “you remember it?” He pauses, and then says “It was beautiful. You were beautiful. You know that?…Even when you almost fell at the reception party. I fell in love with you even more that day. Something I didn’t even know was possible. Did you know that?”  

  Smiling, he flips to the second page of the book: their first date.

  “You insisted that we get pizza. I said no. I wanted to give you something better than that —.”
  “And I told you, that you’re the best I’ll ever have.” Everly finally spoke, softly, finishing his sentence.

  “I said that was cheesy, a line out of a movie. So, we made a compromise.”

  “We got both.”

  It is now that Everly realizes Anthony is crying, but smiling. And even through her tears, Everly finds it in herself to do the same.

  He turns the page: to the birth of their first baby: Winston Adams.

  “Best day of my life.”

  “Me too,” Everly says, “I was so proud to be bringing a child into the world. A child created by you.”

  Nodding, Anthony returns the book to the drawer, and says, upon returning to his upright position, “What happened to that?”

It had become more than crying.

  Stronger.

  Louder.

  Uncontrolled.

  She collapsed onto Anthony’s chest, sobbing.
  Tears ran from her eyes rapidly; after one would fall, almost immediately, another would follow.

  Her sobs turned to wails: the desolate sound of one who had lost all hope.

All faith.

All happiness.

  Her body convulsed manically.

  Anthony cradled her in his arms, caressing her hair and wiping the tears from her cheeks when they fell, while rocking her back and forth. Left and right. Over and over. Again and again.

  Until she stopped crying.

 This reminded Everly of the old days, when she’d be crying with so much intensity, her body would tremble and shake, he’d sniff, and she’d feel as if she couldn’t breathe. And all he’d do was hold her.
   She had missed this, and it had only had to happen again for her to realize it.

  “You know, Everly, even through all our pain, my love for you…it didn’t change.” Anthony whispers, softly, in Everly’s ear. And then he kisses it: faintly.
  God, she’d missed this.

  “Me too,” Everly replied, between sobs, her thumb roaming about his soft, pink lips. She looks into his eyes, only to find that they were already looking into hers. Closing her eyes, she brushed them against his own faintly and softly.

  Her eyes opened, slowly.

  And then Anthony kissed her back, softly, like she had before.

  And then he brought her close, and their kiss became more than that. Dancing. Yes. Ballroom dancing, Everly concluded, taking note of the way their lips moved together, like they were one.

   Wrapping her hands around her back, he unhooked her bra. And his hand, soft and warm, slides into her panties, rubbing at the moistening flesh that lie beneath.

  She moaned, satisfied.

  “Do you want this, right now?” he asks. His breath was hot and moist, and she took it in, letting it intoxicate her.

  “Yes.” she gasped lustly into his mouth, rubbing her hand up and down the bulge in his pants.
  She moaned, again.

  She hadn’t felt him like this in so long.

  “I want to take you out tonight.” he murmured. The white sheets were pulled up to her — something Anthony would always do after they’d make love. “I don’t want you to feel exposed and unloved,” he’d say. — revealing everything but her soft, freckled shoulder. Anthony rubs it.

  “Mmm!” exclaimed Everly, “Where to? Olive Garden?”

  “No.”

  “Little Caesar’s?” Everly inquired, confused.

  Anthony loved Olive Garden.

  “Nope.”

  “Then where?”

  “Both.”

  “I’ll go get ready,” Everly says, taking the cover from the bed and wrapping it around her.

  “Alright. And Everly?”

  “Yes?” she asks, turning back.

  “Take all the time you need.”

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Writers: Do You Want to Be Successful? Then Stop Watching TV! Here’s Five Reasons Why…

A Nerd and Her Blog | Article

© A Nerd and Her Blog

Once reading the title of this article, I’m sure many of you:

A. You said, “Hell no!”

B. You thought, I’m a writer, and I watch TV, followed by, ???.

C. You clicked on this post, read the first sentence, and then exited it.

To all of you that defied my assumptions, I will say that the article post title above was — completely ad utterly — clickbait.

With the advent of apps such as Netflix and Hulu, crime rates rapidly rising, and costs doing the very same, sitting on your couch while watching “Riverdale” not only sounds like the cheapest way to go, but the safest, too.

However, it is not healthy for writers to watch too much television. And if you have ever stayed up until 2:00 a.m binge-watching “The Vampire Diaries,” then you know why. And you know I’m right.

Writers should limit the amount of television they watch for primarily five reasons.

1. Television Limits Creativity.

I know, I know. This sounds odd. Or, far from odd – impossible. How can the playing field for vampires, witches, functional lawn gnomes, and monsters limit creativity? It seems as if it would inspire it, enhance it. But no, it has the complete and total opposite effect, if you watch too much. Once you have sunken into one world, it is hard to venture into another. For example, most likely, if you watch a television show that revolves around fantastical creatures, then all of your story ideas will revolve around fantastical creatures. Similarly, if you watch too many romance films, then all of your creative ideas will revolve around romance. Your creativity would be completely limited, because your mind would be closed off to anything and everything that lies outside of what you watch on a TV screen.

2. Television = Procrastination!

Don’t tell me I’m wrong, because I know that we have all been there. Have you ever…

  • Have you ever watched the next episode of “Pretty Little Liars,” knowing there is something far more productive you need to do?
  • Have you ever spent the entire day watching TV, using, “I’ll do it later.” as an excuse?
  • Have you ever thought, One more episode, and watched ten more after that?

If you answered yes to one or more of these questions, then yes, I am right. And if you didn’t, then, I will give you twenty dollars.

Ha, just kidding!

Well, maybe I’ll give you a penny.

Anyway, all of the above listed show procrastination, and it is because of yourself and your television that you have it. Do you want to get rid of it? Then cut off the TV and hit the notepad! When you say, “I’ll watch this episode, and then I’m done,” mean it. Say, “One more chapter!” instead of “One more episode!”

3. It’s a Waste of Your Time!

Imagine this.

You are lying comfortably on the couch. With your cover pulled to your shoulder and “Switched at Birth” playing on the television in front of you, you don’t think you’ll ever leave. And you don’t.

Really think about it. It is a complete waste of your time! All you are doing is watching people talk on a TV screen. If you watch too much, it can get boring. Unexciting. Tedious.

So, do this instead!

  1. Write!

Well, duh, you’re a writer.

2. Exercise!

Yes, exercise. And I don’t mean the type in which you only exercise your fingers and, if you’re anything like me, your mouths. Take a walk. Do Zumba! Sign up for a class or go to the gym! Although it’s maximum effort and minimum relaxation, it’s more rewarding and satisfying than watching TV will ever be

3. Go Out with Friends!

Hit your friends up! Catch a movie! Go to the mall! Go to the gym! Or to Olive Garden or McDonalds!

4. With Television, Follows a Lack of Originality.

This reason is a further elaboration of the first. Like I said before, the ideas that pop into your head will most likely be similar to what you are watching.

“You” = Thriller.

“Jane the Virgin” = Romance.

“A Wrinkle in Time” = Sci-Fi.

Sometimes, your television show will even inspire more than the genre! It can inspire the plot, the characters, the dialogue, which means that nothing is original. Nothing is yours!

5. Television Will Cause You to Lose Out on Your Real Inspiration — Everything Around You.

Think about it.

From who is the bully in your short story based on?

How did you come up with your novel’s plot?

Your natural dialogue…where did it come from?

A. The bully in my short story is based on Sally Soops, the person who bullied me in middle school.

B. The plot that my character endured is the same I went though.

C. My dialogue came from a conversation I had with my sister.

What do all of these have in common?

You.

Most writers gather their most authentic and interesting story ideas from their own lives. If you watch too much TV, you can’t create the next best-seller or win an award. So, interact. Have fun. And only then will I see you on “Ellen”.

Oof. I wrote too much. But you get the idea.

A/N: Hi, WordPressers! I’m back, for now at least, and so glad to be. I hope you enjoyed my article!

P. S – This is my first article, so I need feedback more than ever. Feel free to like, comment, and follow!

P. S. S – Check out my mom’s blog!

Lastly, I have a challenge for all of you writers out there.

How much do you write when you spend the day watching TV, opposed to doing something more productive? For example, exercising, socializing, etc. If your answers is more, then change your habits and comment below! If your answer is no, then don’t comment.

Just kidding!

Until next time, which will probably be in a month or so,

A Nerd and Her Blog

Happy Related Valentine’s Day!

It’s nice to know that, even when a boy doesn’t ask you to be his valentine, your mother will always volunteer to take his place.

But honestly, a Malentine is so much better.

1. She’s your valentine 365 days a year.

2. She buys way more food, drink, clothes, teddy bears and treats in a lifetime than any boy can do in one day!

3. She loves you more than any boy ever could.

____

A Nerd and Her Blog | Short Story

© A Nerd and Her Blog

The greatest pain — Cara Clint had discovered — was being surrounded by beauty, and not being able to write anything of it.

Of course, Sam and Eva agreed, as they saw everything she did.

From their fourth floor studio apartment window, they gazed out at the scene before them: the sun steadily falling below the mountains, and the clouds becoming more of a faint white until they finally disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a new sky: a crimson void.

It was the most beautiful scene they had ever seen.

Perfect — like the setting from a movie.

They would have written of it in every one of their stories…had they been able to write.

Disheartened, Cara lazily strode back to her seat, walking so messily and disoriented, it seemed as if she would fall. She collapsed onto her chair, swirling in her swivel chair until she made it to her wooden desk. She tilted her head back, feeling all over the surface until she felt a lump: her phone. Her fingers wrapped around it, pressing the home screen to reveal the last application she had opened: Inkvite.

It was still opened to her draft: a blank page.

Her mind reverted back to the perfect, refreshing scene she’d seen, but no words came to mind, or to the document before her.

Her head fell to the desk with a hard _thump._, exasperated, and her auburn locks fell all around her.

“We’ve got to fix this.” Eva insisted to Sam.

She honestly didn’t know what to call him. An acquaintance? A friend?

Maybe it was simpler than that, she thought.

Maybe they were just two people occupying a mind; nothing more, nothing less.

“That’s not my problem.” He said, matter-of-factly.

He threw his arms up, and Eva rolled her eyes, turning away from him, to face Cara’s brain.

She sat, putting her face in her hands.

“Don’t fret,” said Sam, “inspiration will strike, and she’ll write again…soon enough.”

Eva Cope’s lips would have probably curved at that moment — not quite a smile — if Sam wasn’t being sarcastic.

The slight lift in his voice implied that he meant just the opposite of what he’d said: “You should freak out. She should have been writing by now.”

With hopeful eyes, she looked at Cara’s brain, hoping to see a little light twinkle between the wrinkles, like it’d always do when she was going to write.

But to no avail.

Cara’s brain stayed dim and empty.

There were no ideas or words running through her head, Eva realized, just the startling silence of her empty mind.

She returned to her dismal position: her head in her hands, her legs crossed. A silent, wet tear fell from her eye, down her cheek, and onto the crook of her lip. Quickly, she licked it up, swallowing its salty taste effortlessly.

She didn’t want Sam to see her, to see how disappointed and sad she was.

He would tell her to stop being dramatic; Cara would get to writing soon. And she’d stay silent, her head still buried in her hands to catch the silent tears falling from her eyes. She’d want to open up to him, but his sarcastic, narcissictic personality would stop her from saying a word.

But the truth was, in all honesty, she didn’t quite care when Cara Clint would start writing again; she knew it’d happen, and that was enough for her. What bothered her was what not being able to write did to her: how awful, empty, and overwhelmed it made her feel. Writing was like Paris, or Hawaii, or Heaven: A beautiful paradise.

She could do anything.

Live anywhere.

Be anyone.

She could put everything on paper — every emotion, every thought — onto paper, and manipulate it to convey whatever she wished: love, mystery, horror.

“This feels awful,” she sighed, her words muffled by her palms.

“Yeah, I bet,” agreed Sam with a nod of his head, “I bet you feel overwhelmed and empty and hollow. Broken.”

Eva looked up; Sam was cruel, but he’d never been like this before.

She dismissed it with a wave of her hand, though; he’d never been like this, but it wasn’t a surpise that that’s who he’d become.

“Yeah, it does.” Eva whispered.

“I bet you feel completely awful,” he paused, “these are just guesses. Educated, of course. But tell me, Eva, how do you really feel?”

“Just leave me alone, Sam.” she said, dismal.

She laid down on her back, turning away from Sam, away from Cara’s stagnant brain.

Her eyes fluttered, and she snuggled up against Cara’s brain matter, preparing for sleep.

She honestly didn’t care to check in on Sam.

He’d been so cruel today, she couldn’t even stand to look at him.

But, suddenly, a bright, yellow light slid in between the cracks of her eyes, forcing them open, and she couldn’t stop herself from turning.

An idea.

“But what is she writing about,” Eva inquired, wondrously.

Sam stood, taking slow, sophisticated steps toward her.

And then he whispered, when he’d finally reached her, “You.”

A few seconds passed, and then,

“What do you mean?”

“She’s writing about how you feel. When you’re not writing.”

“I was her inspiration?”

Sam nodded, smirking.

“You not being able to find inspiration, became her inspiration.”

Her eyebrows quirked, confused.

“Come,” he said, gesturing towards Cara’s brain.

Eva stood, walking to where Sam was.

They both stared at Cara Clint’s brain — Sam, satisfied, Eva, amazed — as words flowed effortlessly out of it.

This was a beautiful scene.

“The greatest pain — Eva Cope has discovered — was being surrounded by beauty, and not being able to write anything of it.”

A/N: Oh, my! The inspiration has a hold on me this week. I hope you enjoyed the story!

Have a great day!

P. S – Feel free to like, comment, and follow!

P. S. S – Check out my mom’s blog!

Her Own Rules | 01

A Nerd and Her Blog | Short Story

© A Nerd and Her Blog

01

Rule #1 — Only focus on work.

“Anne.”

It was rough, raspy, and sounded like it had grinded against sandpaper before coming out.

“Anne,” the voice whispered again, droning on and on. It honestly sounded like a child begging their mom and dad for a toy they wanted: “Mommm. Daddd. Pleaseee.

“Anne,” the voice exclaimed, catching the attention of a few students. This time, spit flew from his mouth as he spoke, forming a small droplet on Anne’s skin.

“Ewww,” she said, disgusted.

She blinked, and a tear soundlessly slipped from her eye, down her cheek, and onto the desk before her.

It is now that she realizes how long she’d had her eyes open.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because you were staring again.”

Anne didn’t respond, as she was still focused on the spit that had landed on her arm. Swiftly, she wiped the droplet off her skin and onto the edge of the table, finally turning her attention to Gregory Hill, her best friend.

“I was not staring,” Anne said sharply.

“Yeah, you were. Hard.”

Dismal, Anne turned her head once again, propping her head onto her palm to stare at Ethan Doyle, her crush.

“Anne! Stop it!” Gregory hissed.

“What have you been staring at, anyway? All you can see is his back.”

Anne nodded her head in agreement. Yes, that was true.

She’d been staring at him — his back — for so long, everything around her had blurred, until nothing remaind but Anne and Ethan.

She smiled, noting the harmonious, melodic way that their names fit together.

“Well,” Anne said, “he has a nice back.”

“Whatever,” replied Gregory.

He flapped his hand like a butterfly would his wing, as if he was dismissing the entire situation.

Satisfied, Anne returned to the same position she’d been in for the past thirty minutes: her head propped against her palm in a swooning manner, focused on one thing and one thing only — Ethan Doyle.

Anne McVeigh still remembered what had happened that day.

A few seconds after she’d returned to staring at Ethan, he had turned to Gregory, asking him for help with the assignment they had had to complete. Anne had exclaimed, “I’ll help!” before Greg could even get a sound out.

Apparently, their ideas of “help” had been different.

While Anne thought help was him coming over, and guiding him to the correct answers, Ethan thought that help meant dumping all of his homework on her desk, telling her when it was due, and whispering, “You’re the best.” before skipping out of class with Benjamin Greene, his boyfriend.

It was that day that her situation had become clear: Ethan had just been using her to get an easy “A”, knowing that she’d liked him. It was Gregory that had really liked her. His hints were so obvious, she’d wondered how she hadn’t noticed.

Her obsessive, committed personality hadn’t helped her when she was in sixth grade, but it surely did help her now.

She’d taken notes for two assignments from all of her core classes, and finished the questions that accompanied them. She’d even managed to complete one module for math, which was — undoubtedly — her worst subject.

She had become so obsessed with working, when having to transition from class to class, she wouldn’t pack up her things. She’d just carry her computer, pencil, and notebook in hand, wanting to waste no time.

All of her friends thought she was obsessed — something she well knew — but it didn’t bother her.

At the rate she was working, she could graduate with her Rahim’s class instead of her own, which was fine with her.

She had never liked the people in her class anyway.

The last bell of the day sounded. Sticking her pencil in her notebook, she closed it and stuffed it into her bag. She rose from her seat and joined the students who had lined up at the door before the bell had rung. Almost simultaneously, all of the students filed out of the door.

“Hey, wait up” Rahim said, breathlessly.

Upon reaching Anne, he slowed down, slumping down to put his hands on his knees, and breathing — hard and relievingly.

“Hey, what – what’s up?” Anne asked, stuttering.

“You want to go to the mall today?” he said, finally managing to catch his breath. He rose, a bright smile on his face.

“Wait. Ju – just you and me?”

There it was again: stutttering.

She swallowed to clear her throat, even though she knew that wasn’t the problem.

But maybe he’d think so.

“No. Don’t be scared,” he said, patting her back, “you, me, Leslie, and Bella.”

“O – oh. Well, no thanks. Got work to do.” she said, trying to cover up the disappointment in her voice.

She wouldn’t have declined anyway, but it’s still disappointing when your crush asks all of your friends to the mall instead of just you.

She shrugged her backpack higher on her shoulder, and it was then that he understood.

“Alright, I get it. Well, I’ll catch you later. Don’t work too much, okay?” he yelled while walking towards the door.

“Yeah, for sure,” said Anne.

No promises.

A/N: I guess I’m a binge-writer today! I hope you enjoyed this! The third installment should be published soon! Have a great day!

Have a great day!

P. S – Feel free to like, comment, and follow!

P. S. S – Check out my mom’s blog!

Her Own Rules | 00

A Nerd and Her Blog | Short Story

© A Nerd and Her Blog

00

The school towered ominously above her, like a bully. And for a moment — to Anne — it seemed like the school actually was. Like a parasite, it fed on her fear, eagerness, and anxiety, leaving it buzzing with life and power, leaving Anne empty and hollow and afraid. And with each step she took towards Millard High, the more it grew, and the more she shrunk. It looked down on her with a grim face and a large, muscular form, making her wince slightly from fear the closer to the doors she got. Although she did find it in herself to chuckle a bit, for it amazed her, amused her, even, at how scared of a place she could be, when she’d never even seen it before now. Nonetheless, she knew it’d be awful. It would be hell.

That’s just how it is for freshmen._

That’s what Anne McVeigh thought it would be like — the first day of high school.

But, surprisingly, it seemed harmless, like it would be as simple and effortless as a walk in the park, really.

And for a moment, it seemed as if it would be. For a moment, Anne McVeigh wondered why men and women created films like “Mean Girls” and “Pitch Perfect,” or why YouTubers posted videos like “The Do’s and Dont’s of Freshman Year.” —

Because they all seemed exaggerated.

They all seemed fake.

— But that moment didn’t last long.

Sure, high school didn’t seem like it’d be hell.

But she knew it would be.

It’d be like the first time she got in trouble by a teacher. The first time she’d gotten beaten by her parent. Or the first time she’d tasted macaroons:

Worse than it seemed.

She padded up the stone steps leading to the school, reciting one rule on each step.

Rule #1 – Only focus on work.

Rule #2 – Loosen tight ends with old friends, and be prepared to lose them.

Rule #3 – _Never_ associate with upperclassmen. And don’t even think about dating one.

All I have to do is follow each rule, and freshman year will be perfect, Anne McVeigh thought.

But would it, though?

Really?

A/N: It’s been a while. A long while. But I’m back…I hope. You all know how it is: School. All of the tasks can really take a toll on how frequently you write. I hope to change that.

It’s so good to be back!

I hope you all enjoyed the story!

Have a great day!

P. S – Feel free to like, comment, and follow!

P. S. S – Check out my mom’s blog!

Ben and Lucy: Search for Love (2/2) (A Humor Story)

A Nerd and Her Blog | Short Story

© A Nerd and Her Blog

“Here is your coffee, sir. Black, with creamer, like you asked.” A waitress says, picking up a steaming cup of coffee from a wooden platter, and setting it — softly and carefully, though not softly enough to stop it from making a sound — on the table.

It was the same waitress that had taken Ben’s order — Carol was her name, which Lucy’d discovered while looking her over.

Confused and wondrous, she asked herself, is that the only waitress that works here?

Lifting the cup to his lips, he tastes the coffee. “Mmm, tasty,” he declares, his voice muffled by the coffee cup. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Enjoy.” She says, putting the platter to her side and walking away.

“What the hell are you doing, Ben? We didn’t come here for that.”

Ben offers a smile — dark and mischievous and big, like he always did, Lucy had noticed, when he had a plan —and says, lifting a finger, “Excuse me, miss? I forgot to pay you,” chuckling softly.

By now, Carol had made it back to the front counter. And when he spoke, she looked up — annoyed and disturbed, but still managing to curve her lips — and walked over to their table. “Yes,” she agreed, “it will be $2.70.”

“Ok,” murmured Mark, reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out a five dollar bill, and handing it to her. “Keep the change,” is all he says, when a confused look flashes across her face. Curtsying — for what reason, Lucy did not know; it wasn’t as if this were a castle and Ben were a King and she a servant — she left.

Lucy sat, immobile and still and quiet, while Mark tapped a sugar packet repeatedly, making it fall into the coffee.

Ben had never done that before: be kind, courteous, generous — and Lucy had known him long enough to know that he never would.

But he had.

And for that, she had questions — For one, Ben had never been nice and soft-spoken, like Lucy. He’d always been the popular, snobbish, gay guy from New York City — like the stereotypes claimed. Secondly, why didn’t he just ask for sugar in his coffee; it’s not like he had to do it himself. That, Lucy realized after she thought of this question, was an odd thing to be wondrous of. But a man like Ben — cunning and sneaky and smart — always had a reason for everything. And Lucy never liked them. And why did he tip the waitress? He never gave tips. He always said, “If they wanted a tip, on the menu, next to the prices, they would’ve said so.” Once, when they were dining, he had given her an example. “For instance,” he’d said, pointing to the price of a small apple juice on the menu, “if they wanted a tip on this apple juice, then instead of just putting $3.75, they would have put, $3.75, plus tip.” Lucy had laughed, entertained and pleased to learn something from the ‘popular guy’, but now, she was suspicious — But all that came out was,“What the hell?”

Ben gave a small smile, the right side of his lips curving slightly and said, in an ecstatic whisper, “I may have a plan.” Wriggling to the side — right, left, right, left — he began humming a tune — “Happy” by Pharrell Williams, Lucy concluded.

“Well, care to enlighten me?” Lucy asked, a slow, soft, innocent tone disguising her bitterness and jealously.

“Ok!” Ben hissed, slapping his palms against the table, and leaning forward, as if he was freed, liberated, now that she had finally asked.

“So, I was being all kind and generous and blah blah blah because I need him to think I’m nice. I. E, giving a tip, not asking for coffee with sugar —”

Which would make the stranger think that Ben doesn’t like to work others too hard, Lucy thought.

“And I forgot to pay. Well, purposely forgot to pay, so he would notice me. And, then, to top it all off, I bought this coffee for him, to use as an excuse to get real close. Quick,” he says, “see if he’s noticed me or not!” Lucy shoots him a quick glance, but when she sees the stranger staring at her — long and hard and deep — her eyes stay on him — like a piece of paper would glue.

“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” Ben exclaims, erratically tapping Lucy’s finger. “Is he? Is he staring at me?”

“N-N-No.” Lucy spurts out, stuttering, “He’s not. He’s staring at…me.”

“What?” Ben inquired, “No, he —” he paused, turning to the stranger, and then — a distraught and disgusted look on his face as he returned — finished, “is.”

Lucy smiled, and looked at the stranger, again, to find he was still looking her over.

Staring.

At her.

”Hey, give me your coffee.”

“What? No!” said Ben, picking up his coffee and leaning back in his chair.

”Don’t be like that,” said Lucy, softly and friendly, “it’s not my fault he likes me.”

”No,” he declared, sharply. “What do you need it for, anyway?”

“He’s staring at me. I need him to see me do something, so he thinks I don’t know he’s staring at me. That way, he’ll keep staring. And I’ll know that he likes me!” she exclaimed, reaching for the coffee again.

But it was too far away.

“Lucy, that’s the most stupidest plan I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re just jealous,” Lucy whispers, superiorly.

“No, I’m not.”

An entanglement of black and gray and white — so close together, for a moment, it seemed, like they were one — rushed past her, to the counter.

”Shhh,” she hissed intensely.

Grimacing, Ben quieted, and turned his head, to look at the stranger, talking to the Carol.

Lucy couldn’t hear; their conversation was inaudible, despite how quiet it’d become in the café.

But she did see.

She saw Carol give the stranger a napkin and a sharpie, the stranger take the napkin, nod — his thanks, she assumed — and write on it. After he was finished, she took it from him, taped it on a steaming cup of coffee, and put in on a wooden platter. Ben gasped, and Lucy smiled, thinking, this is it. After this, my search for love…it’s gonna be over.

Smiling, the waitress started walking toward their table.

Lucy grinned, her heart pounding so loud and hard in her chest, it was all she could hear. Every action was in slow motion now, and even though Lucy liked suspense — she’d considered drinking the coffee before reading the note — she knew she wouldn’t be able to contain herself. Not when she made it over there.

”Here you are.” Carol says, putting the cup of coffee in front of her, “the man over there says it’s for you.” Smiling, she walks away.

Ben was disgusted, it seemed: he quirked one side of his mouth up, and his eyes shrunk, as if the mere sight of Lucy was too much. And left.

But she didn’t care.

She wrapped her hands around the coffee, sighing as it defrosted her fingers. And then, she saw him: the stranger, staring at her, smiling brightly. Lucy’s smile grew, and, unable, it seemed, to make herself wait any longer, she read the note:

“Here’s my number: 929-528-3703.

Could you give it to your friend for me?”