Once a Nerd Ch. 12 - Sex Stories

Once a Nerd Ch. 12

... a time Iwillingly introduce her to Dean, no matter what Jedi Mind Tricks he thinks he's capable of, I'll have a thoroughly fabricated story to tell about how we met. Dean's reckless pursuit might not sound as bad if he's...at least twenty-five.

"I'm happy I chose to come here, and I'm glad to be closer to you. My life has so much more purpose than it did."

"Well," She sighs, fogging the rim of her glass. "...we needed to grieve. There's nothing wrong with setting some time aside to do that."

God's looking out for me this time, because she lets the subject drop. Finally, we turn to the pie. Mom insists on warming the slices in the microwave, ten seconds each, and that first bite—

"My God, baby, you knocked this out of the park! Those stuffy pricks don't know what they've missed. Did you try something different?"

—

I'm home a little after five, and Dean's hot on my heels.

His jarring knock makes the door jump in place a quarter to six. If you're wondering how in God's name he's been getting here and back, hebefriended an Uber driver. It's not a free ride, but he commissions the same guy for every trip. They exchangedpersonal numbers. His outgoing nature never ceases to amaze me. Of course, I force money down his throat every other week—sending the fare through Venmo and immediately blocking him. Dean despises it, a bruise on his Texas-sized ego, but a two-hour round trip once a week is an entire utility bill. Car payment, even.

When opening the door ...

... for him, he grins and wiggles a bottle of wine through the air.

"Wha—? Where'd you get that?!" I belt a laugh, because God, he'ssuch a dork.

"I have—"

"—your ways, yeah, I know." Opening it wider for him, he pauses in the threshold to drop a burning kiss at my temple. He'd do more, but his hands are full. I'm suddenly reminded of just how many consecutive days we'll have together, and butterflies go haywire in my stomach. Nearlythree whole days.

"Now, where's that goddamn pie?"

We adjourn to the kitchen, where I fish the clingfilmed tray out of the fridge. Setting it on the counter, I direct him to distribute our slices to a plate and warm them. Meanwhile, I crack into the wine. It's sangria from, what I assume, is a Chevron—there's a '10% off!' sticker on the bottom, and that's so painfully Dean. I'd also assume this is the first time in his life he's bought wine, as he does uphold the stereotype of preferring beer to anything else. Snorting, I dispense the syrupy drink between two glasses. It's sweet enough to taunt my nose with a sneeze.

"Did no one have any?" He gestures to the pie tin, frowning.

"Butter and sugar didn't agree with them. Mom and I had some, it was good."

"Sounds like it was a real rager." He scoffs.

"Intellectuals don'trage, Dean."

"Yeah?" He's leaned against the countertop by the microwave, arms folded across his chest. When I catch his eye, he curls a smile, sliding his tongue between the narrow gap of his teeth. "Little bit ...