“Bathing in your own filth. Sitting in your own stew. That’s just disgusting, Tink.” I make a gagging sound and shake my head for effect.
She slaps my arm and grins up at me. “Come on! Do you really get that dirty?”
She raises her eyebrows in question, and I nod my head solemnly. “Oh, believe me, I certainly do.”
“Oh yeah?” she challenges, leaning back in my arms to see me better.
“I’m downright filthy,” I whisper, my words filled with implication. I lean over into her space and feel the pressure of her spine curving into my hand.
“Are we still talking about baths?”
“Were we ever?” I ask, now nose to nose with her.
A smile spreads across her face, and her blue eyes tease me. She leans forward and buries her head in my chest, overcome with laughter. The sound pierces through me, seeps into my chest, and settles into my bones.
She exhales a soft sigh and rests her head on my chest when the music slows. While the storm in her slowly calms, replaced with contentment and peace, my soul has never felt more turbulent.
Feeling restless and uncomfortable in my own skin, I dip Celia in grand style, marking the end of our dance. We’re at the edge of the dance floor. I grab her waist and hoist her up to sit on a nearby brick ledge.
“Wait here and I’ll buy you another drink.”
I raise my eyebrows in question.
“Cranberry and vodka,” she replies to my silent question.
I snake my way through the crowd and try to sort out my head on the journey. She feels too good in my arms … too right. Her tiny waist that my hands nearly wrap around, her blue eyes deep as the darkest ocean waters, her addictive laugh that flows through my veins like electricity, lighting up every part of me; she’s creeping into my head, my heart, and my soul.
Her trained words and actions put up a steel wall, screaming to me I’m wasting my time. But when she lets go? When she forgets to be sad? She feels it, too.
What if I can make her forget?
I find an empty spot and sidle up to the bar, holding out a bill to get the bartender’s attention. I’m so lost in thought, trying with all I have to tamp this shit down before I go back and meet Celia, I don’t notice the brunette eyeing me from her barstool.
“A bit of friendly advice,” she croons, her full, red lips quirking up on one side. “You’re never getting in there. Don’t waste your time.”
I jerk my head back in surprise. “Excuse me?”
She shrugs her shoulders and chuckles, her brown curls bouncing over her shoulders. “The little blonde perched up on the ledge? I’m just trying to save you the effort. You are planted firmly in the friend zone with that one. I can see it from a dance floor away.”
“Maybe I’m in the friend zone because that’s what we are—friends.” My tone is insolent, and the brightness in her emerald eyes tells me she’s enjoying riling me up.
“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, man. I can see your puppy dog eyes from across the dance floor, too. Save yourself the heartache and take an easier path to humpdom,” she says while examining her nails.
“Aw, such a poet,” I reply sarcastically, and turn back to the bar. After placing my order with the bartender, I look back to my curly-headed naysayer. “I’ve never been known to take the path of least resistance. The easiest route isn’t always the best one.”
She scoffs and tosses her curls. “The easiest route is the only one I’m interested in. No fuss, no muss, no feelings.”
“Music to every father’s ears,” I say as I pick up Celia’s drink and toss a few bills on the bar for the tip.
“Hey, I’m a realist. There’s nothing wrong with that. Happily-ever-afters are for chumps and fools … and apparently jolly green giants.” She eyes me from under her lashes and expels an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy,” I call out over my shoulder as I walk away from the nosy, red-lipped stranger.
“I’ll be watching.” Her voice has a singsong quality with a hint of laughter behind it, and it pries its way under my skin. I don’t know who the hell she is, but I’ll be damned if she’s gonna tell me who to pursue. It’s obvious she has no idea who she’s talking to either. Saying Celia’s off limits to me is the equivalent of waving a red flag to a bull.
Game on.
“Into the Ocean” by Blue October
The Past
“LUCAS, YOU WERE supposed to pick me up at the hospital over an hour ago. Should I call someone else to get me? Ugh, just call me back and tell me where you are.” I press END on the phone and drop my head into my hands.
It’s mind blowing how drastically the world can shift in a matter of days … hours … minutes.
The exact moment that threw my world into a tailspin is etched in my brain, never to be forgotten. It was the day I came home from school to find Grams in a helpless heap on the floor, barely conscious, with slurred words and sheer terror shining in her glassy eyes. I’ve never been more frightened in my entire life.
Between doctors speaking medical jargon I don’t understand, and Grams fighting to regain the tiniest bit of mobility and speech, I’m not sure which is more overwhelming. Watching her stumble to find the words, seeing her struggle to sound them out, wishing the tears of frustration in her eyes would disappear—it’s breaking my heart, piece by jagged piece. The doctors say her symptoms are normal for a stroke victim, and will probably improve, to some extent over time, but empty promises do little to comfort me.
I run the pads of my fingers across the blanket draped over Grams, softly so I don’t wake her. I brought it from home to help calm her—this orange one is her favorite. She made it with the most vibrant yarn she could find to remind her of a fiery sunset. The only sound is the gentle rise and fall of her breaths and the sharp ticking of the clock’s second hand, reminding me of Lucas and his recent inability to follow through.
If Lucas tells me he’s going to do something, he does it. If he promises to be somewhere at a certain time, I don’t question it. Whether it was pounding on Joey Ryder’s face in fifth grade for throwing dirt in my hair or driving me all the way to Shreveport for my SATs, Lucas always comes through for me.
Until the last few weeks, that is. Missed phone calls, forgotten pick-up times, and distracted conversations are the norm lately. When I catch up with him, he’s always in the same place. Locked in his bedroom, glued to his desk, furiously working on proofs, algorithms, theorems, or whatever they’re called in the physics world. Lucas has always lost track of time, lost track of himself, when he’s got a project going, but that never applied to me. I was the exception to the rule when it came to his absent-mindedness.
I just don’t understand why this is happening now. I need him more than I ever have, and he’s letting me down. The uncertainty of Grams’s health has left me feeling lost, and Lucas is supposed to be my constant, the roots that ground me when it’s all too much.
I swallow back the anger, the frustration, and most of all, the hurt, and scroll through my contact list, knowing deep down Lucas isn’t going to show.
“Hey sugar, you looking for a hot date?” Audrey catcalls through the passenger window after driving up to the hospital breezeway.
I toss my two-ton book sack over my shoulder and roll my eyes as I throw myself into the seat. “I think we’ve established that I was, in fact, looking for a hot date, but your jerk brother decided to stand me up.”