A few years later, he did. They rekindled and the rest is history.
Now he’s out of the picture again, but it doesn’t matter because we’re friends—great friends—and you don’t throw that away on a Hail Mary shot at romance.
Plus, Barrett is my priority. I’m busy finishing the task my parents started—raising him to be a good man.
I return to the topic. “So, the first rule of homecoming is Peyton wears a dress big enough for stowaways and I don’t embarrass you. Anything else?”
Barrett drums his fingers on the bar. “That about covers it.”
“Count me in. In case I haven’t made that clear already.” Peyton pushes back from the stool, grabs her purse, and checks the time on her phone. “I need to go meet Amy and Lola, but the night is young.” She flashes me that killer smile then points her fingers at me like a gunslinger—pow pow pow. “And thanks to you, I will be blogging tonight. The Lingerie Devotee is back.”
I mime an epic explosion of awesome with my hands. “Boom. The resurrection is upon us.”
Barrett even chimes in with an imitation of a heavenly choir of angels. At least, I think that’s what his long, sustained Ahhhhhhh is supposed to mean.
With a flourish, she waves goodbye, heading out into the New York night. I watch her till the door clangs shut.
“Do you think she knows?” His voice is soft, the question earnest.
“Knows what?”
Barrett’s eyes lock with mine. “That it was all a cover-up? That you wanted to ask her on a date for real?”
But that’s where he’s wrong.
Once upon a time, I did.
Maybe I even planned to try again a few years ago. Perhaps I’d even prepped to walk up to her door with a bouquet of flowers, to swallow down all the nerves in the world, and to ask her to dinner at last. But before I could, Gage returned from London and captured her heart again.
I was oh-for-two, and every baseball fan knows you don’t swing on that kind of count.
“That was the past, man,” I tell him. “Let it go. I have.”
Barrett nods decisively. “That’s why you didn’t ask her out tonight? Because you let it go?”
“I asked her to the homecoming dance. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“No. I thought you were going to ask her for real. I legit thought you had asked her out. That’s why I said ‘You took my advice’ when I saw you hugging her. But instead, you made up the whole lame excuse about asking her to be a co-chaperone. You’re always telling me to go for it with Rachel, but then with Peyton, you make it seem like it’s this thing you have to do, like with homecoming. Why?”
“Because.” I draw a deep breath, searching for words. “Because whatever happened in the past, whatever I said to Mom once upon a time, is the past. Peyton and I had a moment, and the moment is over. We are great friends, and she doesn’t need to know we were talking about her this morning, okay? That’s why I said what I did about homecoming. I don’t want her thinking she was the subject of a dare.” I drag a hand through my hair, my jaw ticking. “Know what I mean?”
He’s quiet for a beat, mulling this over. “Fair enough. I get you.” He shoots me a crooked grin. “I mean, I get you by maybe, like, ten percent.”
I reach across the bar and tousle his hair. “I’ll take ten percent. Anyway, you hungry?”
He pats his stomach. “Always. We were working on sets all night. I’m starving. And since you’re the best brother in the world, I was hoping you’d be willing to make me some chicken kebabs.”
I smile, because cooking is easy. Whipping up a meal is a walk in the park compared to sorting out the twists and turns my heart undergoes when I think about missed chances with Peyton.
As I cook, he tells me about his day. This is my favorite part of the night—when Barrett relaxes and lets me into his world, a world I never expected to know so intimately.
After we eat, I lock up and we head home.
Around midnight, I brush my teeth and plug in my phone.
It’s dying, down to only 5 percent, but a message blinks at me.
Peyton: Thanks for the nudge! I saw Amy and Lola, and when I returned home I wrote my first post. Here it is.
When I read the blog, I like it more than I should.
5
Peyton
Amy is buzzing.
She’s practically bouncing off the coffee shop walls when I spot her at a table at Doctor Insomnia’s after leaving Tristan’s.
She launches herself at me as soon as I’m through the door, and our friend Lola, who’s joining us, shoots me an apologetic look. “I tried to put a leash on her, but some animals can’t be controlled.”
“Peyton!” Amy clasps her hands on my shoulders. “I. Have. To. Tell. You. Something.”
“You don’t say,” I say dryly. “Let me guess—you want us to try goat yoga with you? Because you don’t need to command an audience with me to get me to say yes to that. I’m there.”
Amy’s green eyes dance with delight. “Goat yoga! Yes. Sign us up now. Like right now. But this is better.”
Lola clears her throat, narrowing her pretty brown eyes. “But is it better than the Cirque du Soleil class we took a few months ago?”
“Ah, memories.” I shudder, as if they were of anything other than the torture Amy exacted on us. I take a seat on the couch, and they follow. “Remember how we all hung upside down in huge swaths of fabric and looked as gorgeous and talented as aerial artists?”
Amy’s brow knits with confusion. “Wait. You didn’t like the cirque class?”
I shoot her a you can’t be serious look. “We were terrible. We were like a pack of octopuses on Xanax, climbing curtains.”
“But the point was to be terrible. It was cathartic to move like Ursula. We were getting Gage out of your system, and it worked,” she says, bopping her shoulders. “He’s gone. He’s so far out of your system he’s practically living on Neptune.”
“Amy,” I chide. “Don’t you know? He resides on Uranus.”
She cringes. “Eww. That word is wrong. In my revision of the dictionary, I will abolish Uranus.”
Lola cuts in, fanning her forehead. “Please stop saying Uranus. It makes me want to pucker my lips, and I suddenly feel moist, so moist all over.”
Amy and I crack up, pointing at Lola.
“You win, girl,” I say. “Best use of the worst words ever.”
Amy mimes removing her tiara. “The crown goes to the esteemed Lola DuMont tonight.” She turns to me, handing me a latte she must have ordered for me, then taking a drink of her own. “And I might have another crown for you if you say yes to something.”
“Tell me more,” I say, rubbing my palms. “What have the two publishing Bobbsey Twins cooked up?”
With her dark hair, carved cheekbones, and chocolate eyes, Lola looks nothing like Amy’s cutie-pie next door, but I like to call them twins when they’re cooking up schemes. “Are you two starting a new line of lingerie guides and you want me to craft them?” I flutter my fingers against my chest like a delighted starlet, all gracious and surprised. “Because the answer is yes, yes, and more yes.”