Page 7 of Kiss My Glass
“Eat!” she orders. “Stuff your faces so I don’t have to hear another stressful word!”
Nate hands Frankie a glass and a bottle of beer. She assesses the label in a manner that’s familiar to me. I look at classic cars that way. Wanting to love each one but knowing that only a few will live up to expectations.
“It’s a new local craft place,” says Nate. “Hope it’s not undrinkable.”
Frankie pops the cap like a pro. Pours it into the glass slowly and holds it up to the light. Smells it as if it was a fine wine. Takes a mouthful.
“Decent,” is her verdict. “Pine and citrus on the nose. Pineapple, mangoes, and melon in the taste. Some hoppiness. I generally prefer more bitter than sweet, but this is pretty good.”
Nate grins at Shelby. “Runs in the family, I see.”
“Frankie makes herownbeer,” Shelby says to me, then turns to her sister. “I’ve cleared a space in one of the sheds. Did you bring your laboratory?”
“For creating Frankenbeer?” I suggest. “Drunk, of course, out of Franken steins.”
I haven’t had the best run with jokes, but that one, at least, was inoffensive. I hope.
Amazing. Her mouth lifts into half a smile. “Could be my label if I decide to go commercial.”
Nate hands Shelby a glass of water, which she accepts glumly. He cracks two more beers, and hands me one. Raises his to me and Frankie in a toast.
“To you two. You answered the call and earned our undying thanks.”
“Yes, thank you.” Shelby is sniffling into her quesadilla. “Being sick andpregnant sucks. It’s so good to have family around me. I love you.”
My chest suddenly constricts, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because the Durants aren’t big on saying “I love you”. We prefer to express our fondness for each other through banter and insults. Our childhoods were packed full of competitive sport and academic pressure, so we never had time to just hang out. And soon as we became adults, we all moved away. We do our best to come home for Thanksgiving, and Christmas, but that’s only a few days each year. Hard to feel like you evenhavea family when you spend more time apart than together.
Nate and Shelby are locked in a soft, murmured conversation. Despite being complete opposites, the love and respect they have for each other shine like a light. This house is their home, and I doubt they’ll ever leave it. They’re about to have a child. First of several, I imagine.
I make the mistake of glancing from them towards Frankie. I expect her to turn away, but she regards me with an expression that’s more curious than aloof. As if she’s wondering what I’m thinking. Fortunately, for me, all the Durant siblings have a masterful poker face. A necessary skill when you grow up highly competitive and can’t afford to show weakness.
Frankie lifts up the platter and offers it to me. A truce? Maybe. Guess I’ll take it. Along with another quesadilla.
“Thanks,” I say.
She nods once, curtly, and replaces the platter. Picks up a quesadilla for herself, off which dangles strings of melted cheese. I watch, mildly hypnotized, as she catches the strings with one finger, then directs said finger into her mouth, and slowly removes all the cheese with her full, glossy, peach-colored lips.
Fuck. I have a semi. From watching someone eat cheese. From watching Frankie Armstrong eat cheese. The woman who, given that she can hold a grudge for months, probably still hates my guts.
At least when I’m out in the cabin in the dark woods, no one will interrupt me doing the five-knuckle shuffle. And yes, that’s another shocker, but this time, I’m not saying it out loud.
ChapterFive
FRANKIE
Idon’t know what’s worse. Sleeping in my childhood bed, ornotsleeping in my childhood bed because I can’t stop thinking about a guy I despise.
My old bedroom is an instant flashback. Shelby hasn’t changed the décor in here one bit. Same crocheted blanket on my bed. Same faded wallpaper with oak leaves and acorns on it that’s peeling in places (I may have helped it along when I was little). Same desk with Powerpuff girl stickers on it. Same posters of Pink, and Warhol’s multi-colored Marilyn Monroe on the wall.
Mom and Dad bought this house along with the vineyard the year they got married. It was built by the previous owner, who favored a folksy arts and crafts style, all exposed timber and shaker tiles, wagon wheels in the garden, that kind of thing. The house wasn’t renovated once in the whole of my eighteen years at home, because we had zero money. If Mom hadn’t been arty, the place would have been a crusty dump. But she had the ability to brighten even the shabbiest corner, with arrangements of flowers and leaves, painted stones, and candles. She covered the walls with our kiddie daubs, family photos, and the very occasional painting she had time to make. She wasn’t ashamed to scour the thrift stores for old furniture, and colorful throws and cushions to cover the holes. She used mismatched crockery before it became cool.
The one thing she never skimped on was new clothes and shoes for the four of us. We didn’t have extensive wardrobes by any means but everything we wore was of good quality. I’m not sure if it was a front, to make the world believe that Flora Valley Wines was doing well, or if Mom refused to let us be singled out and shamed by the wealthier kids at school. Funny now that Shelby looks like she picked out her clothes from Goodwill’s reject pile, and I’m the vintage thrift queen. Okay, I do have two quality suits for work but one’s blush pink and the other’s primrose yellow. I like to ensure my opposition underestimates me. It’s fun to watch their faces when they suddenly realize they’re being eaten alive by the young lady who looks sweet as candy.
I should turn out the bedside lamp, but I know I’ll only lie awake in the dark. I stare at the Warhol Monroe print. It’s the version with an orange face on a fuchsia background, lemon yellow mouth, and neon pink eyelids. I chose it because it’s the most unsettling combination, the most unlike the real Marilyn. People, and not just guys, often call me “Monroe-esque”. They think it’s a compliment, but they’re basically saying I should be grateful that I resemble her because I don’t fit today’s ideal of beauty. That’s why I have the Warhol poster, to remind me that image is fleeting, and that character is everything.
Character. Integrity. Honesty. That’s what I value. And that’s what Danny Durant lacks. He is a values-free void. A black hole of assholery. So why can’t I stop thinking about him? And why is my body reacting to these thoughts? Was there something other than a hint of tropical fruit in that craft beer? Crushed up Spanish fly, for example?
Okay, let’s do what I do best: assess the facts. Danny Durant is handsome, no doubt about that, if you like the preppy look: blond hair, neatly trimmed but with a wave on top as if he’s casually pushed it over with his fingers, tanned skin, straight nose like the statue of David, and a firm chin. Great cheekbones like his older brother, and the same eyes, but where Nate’s are a striking topaz blue, Danny’s are softer, like denim. His mouth is softer, too, and mobile, like he smiles a lot. The kind of mouth you justknowwill be terrific to kiss…
