“Um, I was listening to that,” I snap, reaching to change it back before he swats my hand away.
“I’m not listening to that shit.”
“Sorry, not everyone can be in an indie band and be a snob,” I retort, referencing the band he’s in with my brother.
“Ali should have taught you better with your music taste. He did you a disservice, Emilia.”
“My brother did teach me about music. Hence why I love the Stones and INXS, but I’m not so stuck up that I can’t also jam to current pop. Being a music snob isn’t a great look, Reeve.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I realize I’ve probably been a bit of a bitch, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Reeve isn’t exactly peaches and cream for most people. When his attention is fully on the road again, I change the station back, relishing in the fact Britney Spears is now on. He doesn’t try to change the station for the rest of the drive.
As we pull up to my flat, that I share with my brother, that I realize how much I’ve had to drink. My head is spinning slightly, and I’ve been staring at Reeve the entire drive home.
“Will you walk me up?” I ask, knowing he won’t say no. Reeve may be a major asshole to most, but for his friends, his family, he would do anything. I’m lucky to be in that category.
He doesn’t say anything, just turns off the engine before rounding the car to open my door. I’m a little wobbly on my feet, so I cling to him, my body relaxing as his arms slip around my waist to hold onto me.
“Don’t worry,” I say as we make our way up the stairs, one of his hands wrapped around my waist while the other holds my heels. “I messaged Ali that you’ve given me a lift home.”
He nods, and I reach into my pocket to pull out my keys. It takes a few tries before I get it in the door, but eventually we have success.
“Want a drink?” I take my shoes from him, then throw them into my bedroom before swaying to the kitchen to pour myself another champagne. I love champagne; champagne is good stuff.
“Not tonight, Em,” he replies, leaning against the kitchen bar.
“Right,” I mumble. “I always forget you don’t drink much. Water then?”
His lips thin as he watches me prance around the kitchen. “I should get going. I’m supposed to give Owen a ride home.”
“You’re going back to the party?” I focus back on him, my drink no longer holding much importance. He’s leaving.
He nods.
“Ah, I see, wouldn’t want to leave that blonde bombshell waiting.” The words are out before I have the instinct to know better. Damn drinking.
Reeve’s eyebrow quirks up. “Blonde bombshell?”
I try to brush it off. “The one you were with at the party. She was practically mounting you.”
Again with the loose lips.
“You watching me at the party, Em?” There’s that smirk again.
“Don’t be so self-involved, Reeve. It was impossible to miss. Anyone with a set of eyes could have seen it.”
It doesn’t take me long to walk over to him, my height even smaller without my heels.
“No one else said anything. Did it bother you?” he retorts.
“No,” I say, rearing back.
“You sure, Emmy?” He looks down at me, and my body melts from the heat coming off each of us. Lord, someone open a window.
“So what if I was,” I reply, catching him off guard. Sure, there have been times I wanted to climb Reeve like a tree, but I’ve always controlled myself. I’ve had to. But I’m an adult and I’m sick of being treated like a child. I’ve just never known if he felt the same way, but tonight, his actions and his questions stop me from holding back.
“I should go.” He takes a step back.
“Don’t get scared now, Reeve. You asked me a question and I gave you an honest answer.” I prowl toward him, confidence in my movements. My dear friend alcohol is definitely contributing.
He still says nothing, his gaze burning into my own. I don’t hesitate, just reach up to pull his head down to mine. For a few moments it seems as if he’s gonna do it, gonna kiss me, but then he abruptly pulls away.
“What the fuck, Emilia?” he says, panic etched into his face.
“Don’t ‘what the fuck’ me, Reeve. I’m not the only one feeling this. Don’t act like I’m crazy.” Wow, I’m sure on a roll right now.
“I don’t know what you think I’m feeling, but I can assure you I see you like a sister and that’s all. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”
He turns around, dragging his hand through his hair as he lets out a breath. I take that as my cue to turn too, afraid he’ll see the hurt and rejection.
“You should go,” I tell him, blinking back tears before he can see them.
“Fuck, shit, Emilia, I didn’t mean to snap at you, I’m sorry. You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re saying. When you wake up in the morning, you’ll realize this was a mistake.”
I internally scoff. A mistake. Sure.
“It’s fine, Reeve, let’s just forget about it. But you should still go. I’m tired and I need to go to bed.”
He darts his gaze from me to the door, seemingly unsure if he should believe me or not.
“Emmy,” he says, a softness in his voice I’ve yet to hear before.
I plaster on a fake smile. “It’s fine, you’re right, I’m drunk and not thinking straight. Let’s forget about it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I don’t wait for his reply. I open the door, not giving him a choice to stay. With one last look at me, he turns and exits, and I quickly shut the door behind him.
It’s less than a second later that the tears fall and regret begins to creep in. I grab the bottle of champagne, bypassing the glass, and then I head to bed, eager to forget this entire night.
January 2018
I push open the red door of Saint Street, the midafternoon sun peeking through. My successful morning gives me extra pep in my step as I barrel down the carpeted stairs, my feet careful not to trip over one another. My mouth tilts upward as I take in the familiar red velvet booths and spot Owen leaning against one of the deep-brown walls. Ali is thinking about changing the color and adding wallpaper, but there’s something so intimate about how he’s got it set up, I’d hate for it to change.
“Slow your roll, Em.” Owen laughs before walking over. He perches himself on a round table in the middle of the room, flashing me his golden boy smile that matches his golden hair. Owen could charm the pants off anyone. Too bad for me, I’m not that girl. All he’s ever been to me is a surrogate big brother.
“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Ali’s voice catches my attention and I turn to face him, behind the bar, cleaning already sparkling glasses. Perfectionist. Saint Street is no ordinary pub. It took Ali a few years, but the 1920s speakeasy feels are instantaneous.
“I’ve had a great day,” I announce, throwing my bag onto a free table before walking over to Ali, him placing a ginger beer on the bar for me. Perks of having a brother like Ali, who probably knows me better than I know myself.