Twenty-Six
Madden
* * *
I stop over at Mom’s Tuesday morning, a bag of breakfast in hand for Dev.
Brighton stayed over last night and then left before the sun came up. At one point, I caught her asleep in my arms. We must have assumed that position in our sleep.
Sometimes I think the sleeping human body is like a heat-seeking missile. If someone’s next to us in bed, we’re naturally more inclined to gravitate toward them. At least that’s the explanation I’m sticking with.
As long as the cuddling and lovey-dovey shit doesn’t become a habit, we won’t have a problem. And I say that as someone who enjoys the ever-loving hell out of my time with her.
I’m protective of it.
It’s perfect.
And I don’t want it to get ruined by bullshit feelings.
It’s so easy to get caught up in that stuff, to make life decisions based on fleeting emotions.
Plus, let’s be real here—Brighton deserves a hell of a lot better than me.
“Dev, food’s here,” I call when I walk in. She comes out of her room, phone in one hand, hair wild, still in pajamas.
I haven’t told her yet about Brighton and me, and I don’t plan to. Figure there’s no point in telling her unless I have to, and so far, my time with Brighton has never intersected with my time with my sister. Besides, I’d hate to get her hopes up. I know how much she worships the ground Brighton walks on.
“What’s the plan today?” I ask when we take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Meeting with Brighton at noon,” she says.
“You need a ride?”
“She's going to pick me up here.” She pulls a sandwich out of the brown paper bag. “Your birthday’s next month.”
“Yep.”
“Brighton’s taking me to get you a present.”
“You don’t have to get me anything.”
She pouts. “Yeah, but I want to. You get me something every year.”
I don’t need another reminder. I don’t need to commemorate anything about the day that I was born.
Not anymore.
In fact, if I could forget the day altogether, I would. But I don’t have that luxury. Instead, it’s the one day of the year I allow myself to wallow in my own self-pity. I don’t talk to anyone. I shut my phone off. And I do the thing that I always do so I can get it out of my system for another three hundred and sixty-five days.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hall sends Dev’s gaze into mine.
“Mom’s up,” she says.
I check the time. She’s never up this early.
Shuffling into the kitchen, Mom heads straight for the coffeemaker. “Morning, Dev.”
She ignores me, as per usual. We haven’t exactly been on speaking terms for several years now, but she lets me come and go because it’s what’s best for Devanie.
“Okay, I’m out.” I say, ruffling my sister’s curly mop as I get up from the table.
“Hey.” She brushes her hair back into place.
“Stay out of trouble today. And tell Brighton I said hi.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Why would I tell her you said hi?”
Shit.
I’ve got to be more careful. As far as my sister knows, the last time Brighton and I saw each other was the morning Brighton drove her home after that party.
“Because.” I leave her with a non-answer and get the hell out of there before I back myself into another corner. Devanie might be twelve, but she’s perceptive. She doesn’t miss a thing.
I’m halfway home when I get caught at the red light on Bellevue Avenue, which always tends to take a solid couple of minutes to change coming from this direction. Grabbing my phone from the passenger seat, I fire off a text to Brighton.
* * *
ME: Off at 10 tonight …
* * *
BRIGHTON: See you then. ;-)
* * *
By the time the light turns green, I realize I’ve been sitting here for the past two minutes, thinking about tonight with the dopiest grin on my face.
I think I’m starting to actually like this girl.
God damn it.
Twenty-Seven
Brighton
* * *
Today marks a lot of things.
First time ever having sex in the shower—fun, but not my favorite.
First time bringing a guy to my parents’ annual Fourth of July Extravaganza—he’s so excited he can hardly contain himself.
Also, today marks one month since we officially started fake dating and exclusively screwing.
I don’t dare tell Madden that though …
It might freak him out to know that I’m keeping track of a date that’s supposed to mean absolutely nothing to either of us, but to me, June 4th is like my own personal Independence Day.
Madden’s bathroom is cramped and the two of us fight over who gets the bulk of the steamed-up mirror first. We’re supposed to leave for my parents’ party in less than an hour, and I still need to dry my hair.
“Let me shave and I’ll be out of here,” he says, his hands gripping the thin bath sheet hanging low on his hips.
“Fine.” I re-secure my towel and take a seat on the lidded toilet, watching—admiring—the view as he lathers his chiseled face. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something so sexy about watching a man shave. The careful drag of the razor. The masculine, soapy scent of the cream.
He taps his razor on the sink before rinsing it out.
“There,” he says. “All yours.”
As soon as he’s gone, I grab my little travel bag of toiletries that he lets me stash under the sink, and I get ready, humming along to the Stone Temple Pilots song coming from the next room. I’m desperate for a distraction—anything to temper my nerves and get my mind off tonight, if only for a few minutes.
Three days ago, I got a call from Hershman Medical Research, where I’d interviewed for a research assistant position a couple of weeks ago. It was my fifth job interview ever, one that I was positive I bombed. The questions were nothing like the ones I’d been asked in the four interviews that preceded it, and I found myself stumbling over answers and losing confidence every step of the way.
I was off my game that day, and I couldn’t walk out of there fast enough.
And then they called me ...
...and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Tonight, with Madden by my side, I’m going to tell my parents that I’m not going to medical school this fall and that I’ve accepted a job at Hershman Medical Research.
I’m hopeful they won’t make a scene since they’ll be surrounded by their closest friends and the Who’s Who amongst their Park Terrace social circle. I’m also hopeful that by the time I see them again after tonight, they’ll have had ample time to cool off so we can have a rational discussion about this.
“Forgot my cologne.” Madden’s presence fills the doorway, and I try not to gape at what he’s wearing.
Khakis.
A chambray button down cuffed at the elbow.