The Third Best Thing Read online

  The Third Best Thing

  Maya Hughes

  Copyright © 2020 by Maya Hughes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber, Qamber Designs

  Cover Image: Rafa Catala

  Editors: Tamara Mayata, Lea Schaffer, Sarah Kremen-Hicks, Sarah Kellogg

  To Nicole, our walks bring more laughter to my life and stories to my imagination.

  Contents

  1. Jules

  2. Jules – Three Months Later

  3. Berk

  4. Jules

  5. Jules

  6. Berk

  7. Berk

  8. Jules

  9. Berk

  10. Jules

  11. Berk

  12. Jules

  13. Berk

  14. Jules

  15. Berk

  16. Jules

  17. Berk

  18. Jules

  19. Berk

  20. Jules

  21. Berk

  22. Jules

  23. Berk

  24. Berk

  25. Jules

  26. Jules

  27. Berk

  28. Jules

  29. Berk

  30. Jules

  31. Berk

  32. Jules

  33. Berk

  34. Jules

  35. Berk

  36. Jules

  37. Berk

  38. Jules

  39. Berk

  40. Jules

  41. Berk

  42. Jules

  43. Berk

  44. Berk

  Epilogue – Spring Fling

  The Letters

  Want More Maya Hughes?

  Honesty Time

  1

  Jules

  I tugged the drawstrings of my hood tighter around my face and crept across the street. My breath came out in small puffs in front of my face, and I prayed no one would see me. Each step made the note in my pocket crinkle, the sound so loud that I froze in the middle of the street, as though no one would notice me in black, creeping across of the road.

  A door opened a few houses down. Fear shot through me. Some people came out onto a porch halfway down the block, laughing, and the bass from their music filled the silent air. Not everyone had gone home for the break. My heart skipped into overdrive.

  My gaze darted to the house looming in front of me. The two-story townhouse was the nicest on the street by far. It was a former frat house that had been taken over by the Fulton U Trojans’ star players earlier this year when the frat had been kicked off campus.

  Do it. Go for it and no one needed to know. Be quick, Jules. In and out. I snuck a glance over my shoulder and scurried to the other side of the street. The cold barely touched me with the liquid courage coursing through my veins.

  Someone turned the corner, driving down the block. I dove for the bushes, hoping that with my black hooded sweatshirt and black jeans, they wouldn’t spot me. Not that it wasn’t suspicious tiptoeing around the neighborhood in my attempt at inconspicuous attire.

  After a bottle of wine and way too many chocolate chip cookies, here I was with a dirty note in my pocket and liquid courage that waned with each second, standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the porch. What was I doing? What would I do if I got caught? If one of the football players came out and found me crouched in front of their porch? Would I play dumb? Run for my life? Drop out of school and start riding the rails?

  The house had been dark for the past few days. I’d only managed at home through Christmas morning before I’d bolted back to campus. My gift of socks and a low-calorie cook book had been the last straw after a week of needling and snide comments. Mom had said I’m hard to shop for, but she knew what I needed. Thanks, Mom.

  My sister had gotten a new Audi. Seemed comparable. I’d fled and immersed myself in the kitchen—baked until I thought the house might burn down from the oven being on for almost two days straight.

  I was stalling. The longer I stood out here the greater the chance that someone would catch me. Someone like Berk. Elle would freak when she got back to campus and I told her. Was I going to tell her I’d done this?

  Now or never. My hands clasped tighter around the envelope in my pocket.

  It had taken me eight drafts to finally write out everything I wanted to say to him. Putting pen to paper and letting every dirty, naughty thing I wanted to do to him and have him do to me loose in all its inky glory. Dr. Schuller had said I should embrace my sexuality and take risks. I don’t think he thought getting shitfaced and writing raunchy notes was the best outlet, but, hey, I was improvising.

  Darting up the stairs, I looked over my shoulder and slipped the note into the mailbox. Odds were, I’d chicken out and grab the note tomorrow morning once the booze and hangover wore off. A little of my anxiety ebbed away. I’d have my night of bravery and adrenaline, but I could take it back. The gold metal lid banged against the body of the box, making a loud clang. This was totally reversible.

  The porch light flicked on and I slapped my hands over my mouth to hold back the yelp. Scurrying down the stairs, I dove for the bushes again, making the acquaintance of the leaves and twigs.

  “Hey, no parties tonight.” The spine-tingling timbre of his voice cut through the night air. Oh god, it was Berk.

  I buried my head in my hands. Why was he here? Not that he shouldn’t be in his own house, but why the hell was he there? Had he come back while I was drinking and baking? Why weren’t his lights on? I almost jumped up to shout those questions at him.

  The creaking of the mailbox sent my stomach plummeting through the earth to its molten core.

  Under his breath, he muttered a “What the hell?” Probably trying to figure out who wrote letters nowadays. The answer was drunk college juniors who barely had the balls to talk to you in person. “Who’s out there?” He leaned against the railing just over my head.

  My heart pounded in my ears. I expected him to transform into Edgar Allen Poe and discover me under his porch. I peered up with my back glued to the brick.

  He looked up and down the street with the note out of the envelope in his hand.

  Every cell in my body screamed to run, tingling and firing all at once. If he looked down, I was dead. They could just bury me here. My mom and sister would visit—maybe.

  “Fuck me.” The paper rustled and he turned it over. “I want to feel every inch of you inside me.” Oh god, he was reading it.

  That meant he’d already read the part where I detailed what I wanted to lick off his body. If I hadn’t been petrified into stillness, I’d have slapped my hands over my face, which was glowing red with embarrassment.

  “Is this a joke?” He came down two steps. “I’ve been working on my flexibility; would you like to put it to the test? Who in the hell?”

  My fingers clawed at the brick behind me.

  More paper rustled and the heavy thud of his footsteps retreated before the front door closed. Minutes stretched out for so long my thighs ached from my crouched position. I stood there until it was nearly sunrise before bolting back across the street and swearing off booze for the rest of my life. But I’d done it. He’d probably have a good laugh, throw away the note, and move onto the parade of women who strutted in front of him like peacocks whenever they had the chance.

  But two days later, while in my kitchen scooping out the last of the brown butter and toffee chocolate chip cookies, I spotted movement on the other side of the street.

  Berk stood on his porch
staring at the mailbox.

  I jumped over the kitchen chair and plastered my face against the glass. What was he doing out there? Was he dusting for prints? Oh god, he was going to know it was me, he was going to walk straight across the street and ban me from ever going near his house again. Was this what a panic attack felt like? Like my heart was going to explode?

  He waved to someone who walked by. One minute went by and he slipped something into the mailbox. Another minute and he took it out. Tapping it against his leg, he glanced over his shoulder.

  I flew back from the window, hiding behind the curtain. Oxygen became something I remembered breathing once.

  He dropped the white piece of paper back into the mailbox.

  Was that a note for me? Was he responding? Had he written me back? I yelped and did a happy dance for all of ten seconds before freezing with the dough-covered scooper in my hand.

  I couldn’t wait to read what he had written to me. Was he telling me to leave him alone or was it a reply? Was it his response to everything I’d described?

  I had to go get it.

  Oh shit.

  2

  Jules – Three Months Later

  I stared at the pole in front of me, daring the shiny brass not to cooperate. Bass from the speakers rumbled the floorboards under my bare toes. It was always better when I couldn’t hear anything other than the music, not even my own thoughts. “Let’s try not to split my shorts this time.”

  Gripping the pole, I let out a sharp breath and swung around it, letting my body weight pull me in a complete circle. Momentum wasn’t hard to achieve. The heavier something is, the faster it can be whipped around three inches of brass.

  You’ve got this, Jules. Staring down the pole and daring it to let me fall on my ass, I tightened my grip. Maybe attempt number thirty-seven would be the magic number. The muscles in my arm bunched, ready for action. I swayed and dipped to the music, creating a routine I’d gone over in my head. The smaller tricks helped distract me from what I was about to do.

  I braced my arms and death-gripped the warmed metal. The blood rushed to my face as I lifted my legs over my head. I probably looked like a splotchy tomato. I wrapped my thighs around the pole, using my non-existent thigh gap to my advantage.

  The intensity of the music drove higher, getting closer to the bass drop. I changed my hold and grabbed onto the brass, going high enough to nearly bang my head into the ceiling. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to climb this high when I tried this, but since when had anyone accused me of thinking things through? The stack of handwritten letters tucked under my bed were a testament to that.

  I switched my hands, holding on behind my knee and kicking my other leg out straight. My heart hammered against my chest double-time to the driving beat of the music. Core muscles don’t fail me now. I let go with my hands and swung my upper body out using only my legs to anchor me. I was spinning like a character in a music box—albeit a kind of screwed up one. I stretched out my upper body perpendicular to the pole and struck a fierce pose. At least, I hoped it was fierce. The website had called it the Divine Diva. Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.

  Sneaking a glance at my mirror, I looked more like a spider monkey clinging to a tree to stop from dropping out of the rainforest canopy into the jaws of predators down below, complete with profuse sweating and shaking. Panting and sweating didn’t feel very diva-like. Taking a deep breath, I relaxed into the pose, pointed my toe straight up at the ceiling, and extended my arm like the jiggly bingo wing it was.

  A giddy laugh bubbled up from deep down. I snuck a glance at myself in the mirror again. I was a lumpy diva, but, fuck it, I was a badass, too. And I was slowly skidding closer to the ground as the sweat that gathered behind my knee loosened my grip.

  Every move I nailed got me a little closer to appreciating how far I’d come. From the first days of slipping off trying to do a basic spin with my feet planted firmly on the floor, to being a diva. This was my freaking body and I loved the shit out of it.

  And if I kept telling myself that, maybe one day I’d believe it.

  I lowered myself onto my bedroom floor with a flourish, throwing in one more spin for my imaginary audience.

  The song ended and I braced my hands on my hips, panting and sweating like I’d run a 5k, with a grin so damn wide I felt it in my toes. Jumping up and down, I gave myself a high five and a few club-worthy woos. It made it harder to figure out if I was doing the tricks one hundred percent correctly, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to record myself to watch later or head to a pole dancing studio with full-wall mirrors. I wasn’t at that level of okay with me in all my glory—yet.

  I flopped onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling. My hip-hugging short shorts and sports bra gave me little coverage, but pole dancing wasn’t exactly about modesty. I’d given it a try at the urging of my therapist during freshman year and hell if it hadn’t helped—some. It was a way for me to build strength, body confidence, and maybe attempt to feel a little sexy.

  The door slammed downstairs and I shot up from the bed.

  “Jules!” Berk’s unmistakable call sent me from pole dancing heart racing to ‘floor it, Louise,’ careening toward a cliff. I shot up and fell off my bed, rattling the perfume bottles on my dresser. Scrambling off the floor, I grabbed my sweatpants and tugged them on, hopping from foot to foot and sounding like I’d taken up bowling in my bedroom. I snagged my glasses off my desk and shoved them onto my face.

  Berk was probably wondering how I’d trapped a wild animal up in my room. I grabbed my long sleeved T-shirt and hoodie off the back of my chair even though it was August. The fabric clung to my sweaty skin and I probably had a sweat-stashe going on, but that was better than him walking up here and finding me half naked. A panic spiral shot through me and I got dressed even quicker and threw open my door.

  My feet barely touched any of the steps as I flew downstairs.

  “Berk.” I fell into the kitchen, bracing my arm against the doorway. The butterflies in my stomach were replaced by a whole freaking safari. I tightened my lips to what I hoped was a non-serial killer level of smile. My heart was glowing like a spotlight, so I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. Tingles tiptoed up and down my spine at the sight of his floppy hair and jeans that hugged his ass and trim waist better than mine ever fit me.

  His head shot up and the half of the cookie sticking out of his mouth broke off and dropped onto the counter. “There you are.” His words were muffled behind two manhole cover-sized cookies.

  “Did you think I was hiding in my cookie box?”

  “Is that what you’re calling it these days?” Killer smile and a direct hit. “The old cookie box.” The edges of his eyes crinkled and his mop of hair was tousled and still a little damp. Probably from the showers over at the stadium. He’d made it a habit of stopping by after football practice.

  Do not giggle like an idiot. Be cool, Jules.

  “Among other things.”

  He tilted his head to the side, his gaze licking its way up and down my body. Okay, maybe that was wishful thinking, but it was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. “Why are you so sweaty?”

  Oh. Of course he wasn’t actually checking me out. “From…” My brain stalled and sparks started shooting out at six different angles like an under-oiled engine. Abandon ship! Abandon ship! “Running down the stairs.” I squeezed my fingers into a fist at my side to keep myself from slamming my hand into my forehead. Awesome, Jules. Now he thinks you’re so out of shape you can’t even run down the steps without pouring sweat.

  He nodded like a dude who streaked across a football field without getting winded had the same issue.

  “Did you break in just to steal cookies or was there something else?”

  There was a sheepish glint in his toffee-colored eyes. He dusted off his crumb-covered hand and held it up to his mouth, clearing his throat. “Do you have some milk?”

  I laughed and grabbed some out of th
e fridge, pouring him a glass. Sliding it across the counter, I kept my fingers on the far side of the water droplet-covered glass and away from his.

  Crossing my arms, I leaned against the counter. “Have you ever read that book, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie? Although in this case it’s like, If a Mouse Breaks into Your House and Steals a Cookie.” I lifted the corner of my mouth.

  “It was unlocked.” He downed the glass and set it back down. “Leaving your door unlocked on a street full of degenerates isn’t the best idea.”

  “Exactly. Who knows what crazy person could show up and start raiding my food supply.”

  “Exactly.” He tapped me on my nose with one of the cookies he’d weaseled out of the box when my back had been turned. “This isn’t a social visit. It’s time for some serious business.”

  “Are we in the same Philosophy class again this year?” I’d gotten the seat behind Berk last semester in Political Philosophy.

  He shrugged. “No, Ethics, but that’s not what this is about.” His gaze turned razor-serious. “This is about The Letter Girl.”

  Like a T-Rex had wandered into the kitchen, I stood stock still. Breathe, Jules. Breathing would be good about now. The Letter Girl.

  The girl I’d volunteered to help him find.