Page 14 of Corkscrew You
“No problemo.”
I reach to open the pickup door but then remember what I’m wearing.
“I should give this dress back to you.”
I clasp the edge of the skirt. A gesture that, to be fair,couldgive the impression I’m about to take it off. Right here. In the cab of his pickup.
Which explains why Nathan says, “Whoa there!” and laughs. “Tomorrow is fine.”
My expression makes him laugh more. “Are you drunk, Shelby?”
“No sirree,” I deny. “I candefinitelyhold my liquor – or whatever that stuff was.”
I look him right in the eye to show that mine are clear, as opposed to crossed. And I maybe tilt aleetletoo far forward because all of a sudden, my mouth brushes his and my lips feel all hot and buzzy, like they’ve been stung. Maybe Iamallergic to eggfruit…?
“OK—"
His voice snaps me back to now. His hands are holding the steering wheel tight like he wishes he could be driving away right now. He won’t look at me. But I can see his face is all tense and hard. Angry.
I’ve made abigfigging boo-boo. Oh boy.
“Sorry,” is all I can say.
“Do you want me to walk you down the path?” His tone is one of flat, rote courtesy.
“I can manage.”
I can open the pickup door by myself, too, and I do. I hop down, and amazingly do not rip the dress.
But then I do the worst, most feeble thing. I hold the door open and hover.
“Sorry,” I say again.
He lifts both hands off the wheel in an impatient gesture, and finally turns my way.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Go home. Sleep it off.” I summon my last shred of dignity and shut the door. The second I’ve walked a safe distance from the pickup, Nathan floors it. I’m left standing all alone in a borrowed dress, feeling like a nincompoop, a word I learned from Ted.
I could blame Ted for this. Him and his cocktails. Or I could admit that I’m not used to drinking and that three of those eggfruit slammer things was two too many, even if Nathan was paying.
What Icannotdo is linger on how it felt to brush my lips up against his. The electric buzz, the fleeting sense that his lips moved to meet mine, firm and soft at the same time. That’s the eggfruit talking, and it and I are no longer friends.
I let myself into the dark house and am greeted by dogs, who will never care if you’ve been an idiot. I make my way upstairs, leave my teeth unbrushed, and slip out of the dress. The cats have occupied ninety-eight percent of the bed tonight, but I find a small sliver of space. Mercifully, I fall asleep before I can worry about whether or not I’ll have a job in the morning.
ChapterSix
NATE
Bordel de merde. What in the fig just happened? Or whatdidn’thappen? I didn’t kiss Shelby Armstrong, which is agoodthing, right? My brain’s saying absolutely, my guy, stellar self-control. And the rest of me from the eyebrows down is calling me animbécile.
And I am, but not for the reasons my dumb-fig body is giving. I knowshe didn’t mean to kiss me, and I shouldn’t have been so short with her. I should have laughed it off, helped her out of the car, risked a goose attack and made sure she got safely inside her front door. Instead, I practically broke the sound barrier in my haste to get away. What acrétin. What apoltron. What a totalloser.
And now I’m halfway to the family homestead, and Shelby, I hope, is asleep, and not sitting up worrying. I know I’ll spend my night trying to shut out even the merest thought of her lips on mine. For one, Mom has totally redecorated my childhood bedroom, and any furtive hand action would feelverywrong. I’ll apologize to Shelby in the morning, reassure her that it was nothing. By which I mean that I’ll reassure myself.
It’s well past midnight when I pull up the driveway of our home, but immediately I spy a glow on the far side of the trees. It’s the fire pit we Durants built eleven years back, a small act of rebellion initiated by my sister, Ava, when she turned sweet sixteen and decidedshewould host the party. Dad lectured us all about under-age drinking, and the evils of alcohol in general, but he let us do it because he knew nothing short of a bullet stops Ava when she’s determined.
To be fair, she ensured Danny and the twins stayed teetotal until she considered they were old enough, and she never let anyone get into danger. But today, after many more parties, I still associate fires with the smell of cheap alcohol and, occasionally, singed clothing. I may also have lost my virginity at one of those early parties but I don’t recall much about it. Another time where I let my balls override my brain.
As I walk from the parked pick-up, I can hear voices. It’s the twins, the youngest Durants, Isabel – Izzy – and Max. Twenty-two and both still in college, back home only until term starts in September. Izzy’s a scientist, studying nanotechnology or some such at MIT. Max is the only artistic one in the family, though he approaches it with the same Durant pragmatism. He’s at Juilliard, training to be a concert pianist. I know nothing about music but if Max tells me he’s next-level good, I believe him. Both twins have a healthy, and grounded, self-esteem. I’ve often envied them.
