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"There's my moving truck," I say, pointing with relief. I'm glad they're here and didn't drive away with my things. It's that fear that led me to leave my most cherished items back at the house.
“Looks like you’re not the only person moving in,” Harper says as another moving truck pulls up.
Unlike mine, this one is three times the size and freshly painted in canary yellow. Music is blasting, and I can see the silhouette of the driver and passenger singing and laughing.
They pull up right next to my movers and park. A horn honks to our right, then continues to honk. Two huge Ford trucks filled with men shouting pull up next to the new truck.
“What do you think is going on?” I question. Feeling like this is college all over again.
Harper and I watch as all the newcomers get out of their trucks.
“Holy. Shit.” Harper exhales.
Holy shit is right.
Men. Six of them, to be exact, all gather in a circle as they welcome each other. They stand tall, wearing workout clothes. Shorts that show off muscular thighs and sleeveless shirts with sculpted arms.
For the first time in years, I have butterflies in my stomach.
“Are they movers?” I ask in shock. I’ve never seen professional movers look or dress like that.
The men continue to laugh, joke, and slap each other’s backs. One of them even has a cowboy hat on. Then, like something out of a movie, a few of them start to remove their shirts.
“This is some Magic Mike shit. Where the hell did you say you moved again? Is this Texas or Hollywood? Fake grass, strippers as movers….” Harper murmurs. Drool drips from her glossy lips.
“Men in Hollywood don’t look like that,” I reply. These men are ripped. Not like bodybuilders, more like they worked on a farm. Tan skin, hair cut short, and… a few of them have guns around their hips. Another has one tucked in the back of his workout shorts.
“Why the hell do they have guns?” I gasp. I spin my luggage around as a barrier as if it would stop a bullet.
“You’re in Texas, baby girl; wake up and smell the masculine male roses.” Harper sniffs loudly, “Yummy, it smells good. Hard and thick, locked and loaded.”
“Stop!” I hiss, worried they will hear her.
We watch with our tongues wagging as they begin to unlock their truck and start to grab boxes. One of the men, the first guy everyone greets, has his right arm in a sling, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to help the others.That’s sweet.
His back is broad; his brown hair is cut very short. When he tries to lift a box, he gets punched in his other shoulder by his friend, who points to his arm in the sling. Then, the friend slaps the back of his head.
Peter and Henry used to goof around like that.
Harper and I watch in awe as they effortlessly lift big boxes. Just thinking about being lifted by them has my insides clenching.
Oh my god…did that just happen again? Did I just look at a male and not think of Andrew?
Shit, I did. That’s a good sign, right?
Maybe this new chapter bullshit is working. Maybe it’s because I’m so far away from my past. Or maybe I’m frustrated enough to create new memories.
I’m tired of being erased. I want to be cherished and respected.
“Please, for the love of all things, Poppy, please, please, please,” Harper starts to jump and makes praying hands. Her wide blue eyes stretch to begging puppy-level cute, “Tell me those are our movers.”
I snort a laugh, “You saw my movers.”
“No!” Harper whines. “I want them.” She elbows me, “Go ask them to help us.”
“I’m not asking them that.” I rasp.
She smiles.
