Barrett’s grin spreads wider than the Hudson River. “I see you took my advice.”
4
Tristan
I want to throttle him.
And to think I was simply hoping the little punk would follow his heart’s desire and go after the girl.
This is my thanks? No way do I want Peyton knowing she was the subject of a dare to ask her out.
But Peyton can’t resist the gumdrop. She perks up, her gaze sliding back and forth between Barrett and me. “Advice? What sort of advice?”
Time to improvise. I can’t give my brother a chance to serve up a single tantalizing detail, not about this morning and not about what he overheard years ago. What I’d said then had been true, but I’m not that guy anymore.
I refuse to be the guy pining for someone he can’t have. I am most definitely not the type of sad sack who harbors feelings for a woman for a decade.
“He said I should ask you to homecoming,” I blurt, falling on the conversational grenade. “That was his advice.” Good thing I read those school emails. Good thing I signed up to be a chaperone. “His school has a homecoming dance in a couple of weeks. I offered to chaperone, ergo . . .”
Peyton’s eyes glitter with excitement. No surprise. She’s outgoing and friendly, vibrant and popular, and has always loved events. “Homecoming! Gah! Next thing I know you’re going to tell me they’re playing badminton there, too, and we all have to wear fancy costumes.”
Barrett chuckles. “Sorry, Pey. We won’t have your favorite sport at the dance. But it’s still going to be hella fun when you come. Isn’t it, Tris?” My little brother targets me with a satisfied smirk.
“It’s going to be rad,” I say, piling it on.
“Absolutely,” Peyton chimes in. “And seriously, Barrett—that’s so sweet that you told Tristan to invite me.”
My brother pastes on a devilishly delightful grin. “I am definitely a sweetheart.”
Sweetheart, my ass. “If by sweetheart, you mean he said it’d embarrass him if I went alone, then yes, you can call him a sweetheart for saying I’d bring you to stave off the embarrassment of me.”
There. Cover-up achieved.
“Whatever the reason, I’m happy to go.” She turns her attention to me, wagging a finger. “And you’re in big trouble for failing to mention this sooner. You know I love dances.”
It’s like she’s stabbing me in the heart.
Of course I know she loves dances. The night I kissed her was at a dance party in December. A retro eighties shindig where she rocked out to The Human League and A-ha. Nearly every time a new tune began, she’d shout, “I love this song!” Except every now and then, she’d whisper it. Right in my ear. Making my skin sizzle. Making me nearly lose my mind with longing.
When her favorite Cyndi Lauper song began, her voice turned softer, almost crooning as she’d said, “I always wanted to kiss to ‘Time After Time.’”
She’d had a few drinks. Same for me. With liquid courage, I’d said, “So do it.”
“Yeah?”
I’d nodded, buoyed by desire and tequila. “Yeah.”
She’d inched closer, I’d slid a hand around her waist, and we’d kissed like it was the entire purpose of the dance, of the night, of the entire year.
I’d never wanted to kiss someone so badly. Not before, and not since.
She’d melted against me, sighing and murmuring in my arms.
Now, in the restaurant with Barrett, I shove the memory away, clear my throat, and lean a hip against the bar, presenting my most casual front. “Actually, I forgot how much you like dances. And homecoming nearly slipped my mind, so thanks for reminding me to ask her, Barrett.”
“You’re so welcome.” As he strides to the bar, the look on my brother’s face is priceless. It says You are full of shit, and I love it.
Meanwhile, Peyton’s expression zooms into further delight. “I loved homecoming when I was in high school.”
As Barrett plops himself onto a stool, he turns to her. “I bet you were homecoming princess. Did you have a tiara and everything?”
“I was not homecoming princess. I was the arty girl playing around with fashion design. I was the girl who made her own dresses. Including my homecoming dress.”
“No way,” Barrett says, his eyes lighting up.
She straightens her shoulders. “And the yearbook committee named me ‘Most Likely to Costume Period Dramas in Hollywood.’” Her expression is pure deadpan. “It was not a compliment.”
“What kind of dress did you make for homecoming?” he asks.
She runs her hands over her plaid skirt, as if recalling. “It was a Marie Antoinette style, if you must know.”
I stifle a laugh.
“What? I liked frilly things.”
“And you still do,” I point out.
“It was baroque with poufed sleeves and lace. So much lace. The skirt was so big I could have hidden a small family under it.”
Barrett raises a hand. “Peyton, any chance you can still wear that to the dance?”
“Will you be needing to stow away small families under my dress?” she asks.
Barrett laughs, and it’s such an honest sound that it surprises me. So much of our conversations straddle the line between brothers who love each other and a parent figure who has to look out for a kid. With Peyton, he lets down his I-love-you-I-hate-you armor. “Sounds awesome,” he says.
I point at her. “She’s going to wear a costume, and you’re worried I’ll embarrass you?”
He hums, tapping his chin. “Sounds about right. Besides, Peyton’s cool. Unlike some people I know.” He cough-laughs, then smiles at Peyton, lingering, and a warning light flickers.
Does my little brother have a crush on Peyton?
Is that why he hasn’t asked out Rachel? Because he’s harboring a crush on an older, unattainable woman?
I groan privately. That would be foolish, but it’s entirely possible.
Peyton is . . . well, she’s Peyton.
If I were seventeen, she’d be precisely who I’d long for.
She’s generous, gorgeous, and one of the kindest people ever.
Her big heart was obvious before, and especially after, we kissed. The next day, school let out for winter break, and I went home to Colorado and helped with my sick dad. I’d planned on asking Peyton out when I returned to school, but the day before I left to go back, my father took his last breath. I didn’t go back to school right away, and once I did, I wasn’t in a good frame of mind to ask out the most beautiful woman I’d ever met.
Besides, we came from different worlds. She was high class and prep school, with a mother who ran an art gallery and a father who shaped young minds as a professor. My dad had been a construction worker, my mother a bank teller. I was the scholarship kid, and there were plenty of guys in our dorm who had no problem dropping subtle hints that Upper East Side Peyton would only want someone from her fancy neighborhood, not the guy on financial aid who worked in the school cafeteria.
Soon enough, she met Gage from Greenwich, Connecticut, and she dated him that spring. When he graduated, he went to work at a bank in London and told her he’d look her up again when he returned to New York.