Page 71 of Pot Shot
I wouldn’t need them anymore.
“No wonder you hate pot,” Nomi says into my chest.
“But I don’t now. It took a long time to accept, but if Dad was just a stoner in our garage, this model would have motorized tracks.”
Nomi’s lips quirk at the corner as she regards me. “So. That’s Dr. D’Angelo’s origin story.”
“You make me sound like a villain.” My voice comes out husky and low, hands forming a warm knot at the base of her spine.
“Hey.” Her mouth curves higher. “If the dastardly monocle fits.”
I hold her to me, a little embarrassed by how much I don’t want to let her go. “I was the son of a disabled, out-of-work, drug addict who eventually overdosed. After that, no one expected me to become anything, even my family. So, I had to become everything they never expected. The best.”
“Did you, though?” Nomi asks softly. “Or did they love and accept you no matter what you did?” She reaches up and, tentatively, brushes a lock of hair from my forehead. “I think it’s a good thing, to be loved without conditions or expectations. To be loved just because you’re you, and you exist. That’s enough.”
My throat tightens painfully as I look down into Nomi’s beautiful, open face.
Isit enough? CouldIbe enough, for her?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NOMI
It’s a busy day at Stranger Coffee, made busier now that Julian’s working full time at the clinic again. He left a comprehensive regimen for when to brew coffee, mix syrups, and make various whimsical foams that Eve and I try to follow, but two stoners who get stressed out by crowds does not a Barista Julian make. His many admirers still come in, hope writ large upon their faces they might see the grumpy beaut with a heart of Arabica. Alas, they get us and our substandard coffee instead, their disappointment palpable.
The weird thing is, I miss him, too. Eve’s not nearly as fun to bicker with, and I’d gotten used to his broad shoulders and busy hands behind my counter. Julian’s beautiful in all his iterations—the surly doctor, the outraged citizen, even the mouthy debater—but Barista Julian is the most attractive one yet. He has this never-ending supply of soft, thin button-downs in dark plaids that he wears open-throated and rolled up to his elbows with well-worn jeans and leather boots. And the man wasmadeto wear an apron—the rectangle of white cutting across his mid-section, the strings looped around his hips and tied tightly in the front—straightporn. But it’s the joy, I think, that makes Barista Julian so appealing. He loves making coffee, and contented, passionate,happyJulian takes my breath away.
When the clock strikes two, I emerge from the bathroom changed, freshened up, and ready to go. “I’ll be back soon.”
Eve gives me a once-over from my clay-colored jumpsuit to my heeled clogs. “Why are you dressed so cute? Are you wearingmakeup?”
“I’m not.” I reapply my tinted lip balm, which is by definitionbalm.
She raises one eyebrow.
“I have my annual physical with Dr. Appa.”
“Ah. You might see Julian, so you want to look hot.”
“No, I don’t!” I cringe. Is it that obvious? Will it be obvious to Julian? “I probably won’t even see him.”
“Just because I’m for ladies doesn’t mean I don’t understand the complicated games heterosexuals play. And honestly, everybody plays this game. Don’t worry. You look smokin’ hot.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Your ass looks like an upside-down bubble heart in that jump-suit.”
I flush happily. Lesbians give thebestcompliments.
The second I enter the frosty air-conditioning of Dr. Appa’s clinic, my nipples immediatelyping.
Shit.Okay, yes, I admit I want to look hot, but I’m not trying to put Dr. Appa’s eye out, either. I fold my arms over my chest and approach the desk. Khalil, the Gen Alpha receptionist, doesn’t look up. “Nomi Wyeth?”
“Yes?” Why do today’s teenagers always make me feel so uncertain? I clear my throat. “I mean,yes.”
“Patient Room #2.”
Of course it’s that patient room.Of course.
