Page 52 of Can't Kiss the Chef

“Thanks,” I take a sip of the pumpkin-flavored beer. “This is amazing.”

“Isn’t it good?”

I nod before eagerly taking another sip.

“Come meet my friends.” He takes me and leads us to the other side of the tent.

Then it hits me that I haven’t really met his friends yet. The club in Philly is no place to have a deep conversation. Since we’ve gotten more serious we have either gone out just the two of us, or he has come and spent the night in Westvale with my \

friends.

Six giant sized men tower over me.

“It’s about damn time,” a redhead in a Canadian tuxedo blurts out.

I’m introduced to Amy and Lauren, whose boyfriends, Sam and Austin are Dalton’s friends from home. They welcome me with open arms even though my black leather leggings and long black sweater clash with their sweater dresses and cute preppy headbands.

When I check my phone to see if any of my friends texted me, I’m shocked to see that I’ve been here nearly two hours.

“I should go find my friends. They will be wondering where I am.”

“Make sure you find us before you leave,” Amy says. She wraps me in a hug.

She doesn’t want to see you again. People like her think you’re not good enough for them.

My imposter syndrome always shows up when I’m with a new group of friends my parents would approve of.

“I will, I know the guys want to go to some bar later. Let me get your number and I’ll text you the name.” Lauren holds her hand out.

The rush of air when I step outside of the tent is a welcome reprieve from the packed bodies and stale beer.

I take my time strolling from tent to tent enjoying the unexpected time alone. I stop at a booth that is selling hot pasta oil from a local restaurant.

“This is so good,” I mumble with my sample of bread and oil still in my mouth. “I need like eight–”

I suddenly lose my appetite. My eyes are burning, but I can’t look away. The second hand embarrassment sits on my chest. Why is no one stopping my little brother from feverishly making out with some girl that I have never seen before.

“Like you have never made out with someone while drunk in public before.”

I turn on my heels and point my finger at his chest.

“I’d expect nothing less from the king of public makeouts, but the sun is still out,” My voice cracks.

“But I’m serious, Lo, let him make his own mistakes. We’ve all done it.”

When I turn back I’m happy that I can see my brother’s face without a disrupted view. Oliver’s laughing at something the girl said after putting her number in his phone.

Byron’s right, he can handle himself.

“Lowy!” Oliver howls from the other side of the tent.

“Lowy?” Byron bites back his grin

I ignore him, more focused on my brother’s stumbling strides. I’m hit with the unmistakable scent of beer when Oliver leans in and tries to give me a hug. I place my hand on his chest and push him back up straight.

“Stop using that nickname,” I mumble through gritted teeth.

“No.” It’s the kind of defiance that only a sibling can get away with. He brushes my shoulder, nearly knocking me over before going to look for his friends.

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