Page 92 of Again, In Autumn

David yells, “This is good lemon meringue pie, Vee!”

“I know!” I hiss, hiding behind Grayson’s legs. I snatch a yogurt cup off the ground and tear open the top. As Maggie approaches, I shake the contents like I’m flouring my cutting board.

Cold, slimy noodles land on my head.

“Don’t use my child as a shield,” Francesca threatens.

Sauce dribbles down the side of my face as I run for a lonely tube of whipped cream just as Caroline does. She grabs it before I can, my lovely yellow pie splattered across her body like she’s a Jackson Pollack painting. She runs off as wet hands land under my armpits.

Adam snarls in my ear, “You look too clean, Vee.” He drags his palms down the sides of my body, his breath hot on my cheek.

I gasp.

This doesn’t seem like typical food fight behavior.

We fight with food, not hands, and although Adam’s not harming me, he’s definitely crossed a line that would have him red-carded out of this match if anyone else noticed. Because we can’t do this. Grope each other.

Not that I mind.

Striped with mashed potatoes, his hands on my hips, I grab a handful of whipped cream from the top of my head. It’s not the first time today that we’ve stood this close, but the gratuitous touching has just made its debut. I grab on to a passing thought.

If he can touch me like this, I guess I’m cleared to return the gesture.

His hold loosens, and I turn to face him. I push my hands together. “You are far too dirty,” I mutter.

I reach underneath his hoodie and press my palms to his bare skin – who’d have thought – and drag my hands down the length of his torso, my breath catching in surprise at his flesh. My fingertips glide along the ridges of his abs.

His chest rises and falls.

My cheeks burn. I keep my eyes on my hands as they press into the front of his hoodie, patting the whipped cream underneath, but he’s staring at me. I sense it, the same way I sensed him watching me all day.

“There,” I breathe. “Now you’re filthy.”

He smirks. “Oh…I can get filthier.”

Since I don’t have an ounce of sexual charisma, I always wondered how he said things like this without turning into embarrassment soup. He challenges me with his eyes, and I have tunnel vision while war rages around us.

He wants to get filthier. That’s definitely an innuendo. What Adam doesn’t know is that after he de-flowered me, I went through a bit of a slut phase. I might be easily flustered, but I’m acquainted with filth.

Alice charges at me then, and Adam and I separate. Her grumbly little pudding-covered fingers dig into the tops of my shoes.

“Alice, stop it!” I order. I bounce from foot to foot, backing away, her assault like bullets in a western movie. She jams her sticky vanilla scented hands between my shoes and socks and then runs off giggling.

“Ugh.” I look down at her fingerprints. “Little weirdo.”

Adam steps back into her shadow.

“Well, Vee,” he says, holding what’s left of my chocolate pie in his other hand. “I’ll bet this was delicious. It’s such a shame it came to this.”

“Don’t you –” I stop, getting a good look at him now.

His hair sticks up in the front, smushed back with mashed potatoes, and noodles hang from his shoulders. I walk backwards and clap a hand to my mouth, checking out the destruction, snorting into my palm.

He gestures to his body, following me. “If you think this funny, we’ve got to find you a mirror.”

“I always look elegant,” I argue. I scoop a yogurt from inside my ear. “I’m a lady.”

“That’s not what I remember,” he murmurs, his eyes going dark.

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