Page 8 of Love Never Happens with your Brother’s Best Friend

Rita throws her head back and squeals then runs, whooping with laughter.

I’ve kissed a lot of girls since then. Not the senator’s daughter, but others. And nothing comes close to that kiss with Rita. It’s as if every other girl in the world is only a second-rate Rita. No one has measured up to that funny, skinny, ferocious teenage girl with braces on her teeth and wild streaming hair. Which is probably why I’m still single and why I have acquired this reputation for being a heartbreaker. I meet amazing women and we’ll go on a couple of dates, maybe. But then, I feel I am being dishonest because my heart just isn’t in it. It’s not that I don’t want a girlfriend, it’s just that for me there is only one. And I left her here. And she made it clear that she didn’t want me. So, there it is.

When I got home that evening after swimming and running wild with the other kids, a letter was waiting. It rested up against a vase of flowers on the kitchen table. My mom was getting dinner ready. She didn’t hear me come in, but she turned around when I called out hello. I run into the kitchen and spot the white envelope which is addressed to me in official typed letters.

The letter glows as if it has mythical power. I stare at its gleaming whiteness. This is something I’ve been longing for, but the implications of what it contains have me frozen to the floor. Inside the envelope is the decision that will dictate the course of my future. The letter holds the key to my whole life. Has my application been accepted? Yes, or no? Am I in? Or out? The possibility of my scholarship application not being accepted makes me suddenly nauseous.

Wiping her hands on a tea towel, my mom turns toward me smiling, and says, “Go ahead. Open it.”

We sit at the table, and she watches as I tear open the formal business envelope. I begin to read. But I need to read over the words several times to make sure I haven’t misunderstood. The letter holds the best news imaginable. My application for a full scholarship has been accepted at the prestigious Boston Academy for the autumn intake. I am moving to Boston to play football. My absolute dream come true.

My mom grabs me, and I think she’s going to squeeze me to death. She wipes her tears away with the backs of her hands and kisses the top of my head, then squeezes me some more. I’m in a daze. A full scholarship is like winning the golden ticket. Not only for me, but for my parents. I’m so excited I could burst.

“I’m going to tell Dylan!” I say waving the letter like a flag.

I charge off out of the house and down the street. I keep running all the way. Up the drive, setting the dogs off barking. I jump up the steps, two at a time, then shout out for Dylan when I’m at the front door. Ted, Dylan’s dad lets me in.

“Where’s the fire, Brodie?” he says, laughing.

Dylan comes downstairs. I’m out of breath, I can hardly speak, but I show him the letter. By this time Dylan’s mom has come to see what the commotion is all about. And Rita comes in from the back door. They stand around waiting for me to say something.

Finally, I breathe and swallow and say, “I’m going to Boston to play football for the rest of my life!”

Dylan grabs me and we jump around in the hallway together yahooing, as his mom and dad laugh and say congratulations. I’m so caught up in that rambunctious happy moment I don’t notice that Rita has slipped away.

I realize I’ve been standing outside the café for a little while. Feeling self-conscious, I check the time on my phone. I'm early. But then, a stream of message alerts, all sharing a similar theme, beep at me.

Kent breaks off engagement with Nancy Sheldon. Young innocent girl’s life in ruins. Luv ‘em and leave ‘em Boston Bullets star does it again.

I pause my social accounts, turn off my phone, and walk into the café.

Chapter 5

Rita

Mr Weston, of Westie’s Quality Motors, comes into The Half Moon, orders a ham sandwich and coffee to go.

“Sough dough or rye?” asks Kate.

“Make it a rye, please Kate,” Mr Weston says patting his stomach. “It’s supposed to be the healthier option, isn’t it?”

Kate disappears into the kitchen to make the sandwich, while I load up the espresso filter basket to make the caramel lot-a-choka-ccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.

“It’s a lovely day, Rita,” he says as I ring the order up on the till and swipe his card.

“Sure is, Mr Weston. How’s business?”

“Business is great. We have just taken possession of a shipment of high-quality vehicles this week, and I’ve already had a number of potential customers come through for viewing.”

“That’s good,” I say handing Mr Weston his bank card and a receipt, which he folds and puts away in his wallet.

“Sure is. And, if you’d like to be the proud owner of a quality vehicle, Rita, don’t delay. Because these babies will fly out the door in no time at all.” Mr Weston chuckles making his cheeks wobble.

“Thanks, but I have my bicycle. I don’t need a car.”

I finish making Mr Weston’s coffee and Kate brings out the sandwich wrapped in a brown paper bag.

“Thanks, ladies,” he says, smiling as he takes his order.

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