Page 18 of Mixed Connection
Cypress Lake High was a place I wanted to remove from my memory altogether, but out of that disappointment, I found true friends. I kept the loss of my parents and my body image struggles to myself. From everyone really, except Paloma and Janelle. They’ve always been the only ones who know the real me.
My chosen family.
Between laughs with the girls, terrible lunch food that somehow I still find myself craving—nostalgia at its finest, that breakfast pizza was so good—and boring classes, I remember seeing Jameson and thinking he was such a cutie. I’d find myself catching glances from him when I was trying to sneak away from crowds, but I allowed my insecurity to brush it off, thinking he couldn’t be showing any interest in me. He was this bright spot among all his friend groups; I know this because where he seemed to be, laughter followed, and I so badly wanted to be a part of that. Our paths just never crossed at the right time.
“What’s got that beautiful smile on your face?” His deep baritone pulls me from my thoughts.
“I’m having a really good time with you, that’s all. Thinking about those passing glances I may have taken.”
“Tell me more.” His encouraging head nod keeps me going.
“It’s funny that we were finally introduced at the reunion,” I say, twisting the dainty gold band on my forefinger, a sudden thirst hits me with the small confession I’m about to give to himand I take a sip of water. “I may have seen you around school and I may have had a tiny crush on you.”
The waiter arrives just as I finish my confession, placing a steak with fluffy chive potatoes and bacon-wrapped asparagus in front of Jameson. For just a moment, I’m jealous of his plate. The truffle garlic butter is puddled on the steak and smells incredible, that is until the waiter places my order on the table. I almost lose my composure from the sex-on-the-plate that’s now set in front of me. Piled high in a twisted nest covered in a creamy white sauce, is my carbonara. The smell of browned butter and bacon creates a divinely delicious scent, and I twirl my fork into the pasta and take my first bite. The flavors burst on my tongue and I let out a moan of pure unadulterated pleasure. I almost forget that I’ve just confessed my crush to Jameson until he coughs slightly under his breath and I dart my gaze back up to him.
“I don’t know what’s sexier, hearing you confess that you had a crush on me too or hearing that moan after you said it.” He looks down to my mouth and back up to my eyes.
Grabbing my napkin, I dab my mouth to gather myself, did he say what I think he said? “You had a crush on me too?” My question is hesitant, I want to be sure I heard him right.
“I did and I’m glad to know you felt the same, even if we didn’t know it then.” He brushes his fingers on the side of my wrist and then I feel his thumb rub the top of my wrist back and forth, before he pulls back to take another bite of steak. “Tell me how you and Paloma started Shaken Tropes.”
“My inheritance became available after I turned twenty. I was fortunate to be left plenty to establish myself in a way that felt true to who I was, who I am. I realize an inheritance is a privilege not many get and I didn’t want to squander it away, you know? I kept it in savings for a while, only using it for emergencies, or books while in college.”
One night, my best friend and I were sitting together at her place, her business degree going nowhere and my marketing degree collecting dust. We were tipsy, having been sipping on a pitcher of our favorite sangria, when we came up with the idea of books and booze. We brainstormed and planned it out that very night. I don’t think we slept a wink, pumped up on the excitement of creating something that was ours. The wine gave us the confidence to finally put ourselves out there, and my family’s financial legacy made the pursuit of one of our dreams a lot easier.“ I grin, remembering that night like it was yesterday.
“I can understand that. Shaken Tropes is a great investment, and it’s something you truly love. Having worked on as many remodels as I have, and owning a business of my own, I get it,” he says, acknowledging the hard work I’ve put in. God, I love a man who listens.
“After early morning therapy sessions, I’d meet with Lo and we’d work towards our dream. We opened Shaken Tropes almost four years ago and it’s been incredible!” I reply, excited to share with someone who understands how hard it is to be a business owner.
“The lights in your eyes are like fireworks when you talk about Shaken Tropes. Seeing you love what you do is attractive as hell, if I’m being honest with you,” he says, as his eyes are fixed on me, listening to every single word I say. “What makes you say ‘therapy?’”
“The inheritance I spoke of really helped me get on my feet, but it came with the loss of my parents. They passed when we were in high school and it left me with troubles that I really needed to work through, amongst other things. Therapy got me to a place where I could see my worth and that changed a lot for me,” I explain, leaving out deeper bits of the story that wouldn’t suit a romantic dinner.
Jameson’s smile never leaves his face as I tell him more about our bar, in fact, it only grows bigger as I talk about my passion. I explain the concept we created and how we visited bars that were similar in other cities. Between Paloma and my love of cocktails and romance books, our dream was born.
I scoot closer to him as I talk more about the romance aspect of the bar and when my thigh presses against his leg, his grin turns downright mischievous. My pulse quickens, I chance a glance at him and am met with his lingering gaze while he sips his drink. A blush darkens my cheeks as heat travels up my spine. I dangerously want to be that wine.
As chatter around the restaurant begins to taper off from people coming and going, we stay nestled in our corner. I’m enjoying myself far too much to consider leaving just yet. Reaching my hand out to his, I brush my fingertips against the top of his hand. Hands like his need to be touched, and those thoughts pull me to the stories he shared about his childhood, and then university days with Anderson, culminating into Triple C.
I watch his features grow more animated as he speaks. Talking with his hands, smiling, or shaking his head at the foolishness that ensued when he and Anderson were around one another.
“One particularly exhausting summer, working with his grandad, we decided it was time to cool down. Anders and I had been working all day. Punishment for breaking a window while playing ball in the backyard when we were supposed to be getting ready for dinner.” He shakes his head, looking lost in the memory. “We couldn’t go inside because we weren’t allowed in yet, so we headed down to the lake on his grandad’s property. Wearing nothing but my boxers, I climb up the rope and give myself a good swing—we had to be fourteen or fifteen at this time. Anyway, I push myself off the hill, and just as I’m about to let go of the rope, my underwear gets caught on something.Don’t ask me what.” He looks at me then, urging me not to ask him the question. “My drawers get stuck and all but ripped from my body as I’m dangling for dear life on the rope before I eventually tumble into the water head first. I won’t lie to you, I was screaming and I have never heard a scream so high-pitched leave my mouth since. Let’s leave it to pre-puberty, and now Anders won’t let me live it down.”
He reaches his hand around mine that’s leaving feather-light touches on his own and grabs his water with the other, taking a sip as he finishes his story. I try to hold in the bark of laughter, but at this point, my eyes brim with tears and as my smile grows further, my cheeks begin to hurt.
“Oh my God! So involuntary skinny dipping?” I say before snorting, bringing both my hands up to cover my mouth as my eyes widen.
“That was so damn cute.” His lip twitches before he reaches over, grasping my hand back in his before sharing more bits of his life with me.
He continues telling me about his love of flipping houses, and his friendship with Anderson—the amount of trouble two teen boys can get into is insanity. Jameson and Ander’s relationship seems so similar to mine with my girls and I love that for him.
Their friendship is reminiscent of the long weekends I spent at Janelle’s house. We always stayed up too late dancing and singing around her room, gossiping, doing what teenage girls do when they get a chance to hang with their friends.
Any time her mom had her own girls’ day by the pool she would make mango margaritas. She’d make them early to allow all the ingredients to meld together, at least that’s what she told us. After staying up much too late and singing ourselves hoarse, we’d sneak down to the kitchen and sip the sweet nectar mixed drink.
I’ve never been more glad to have my group of girls back together. It was incredibly hard losing my parents and then, not even two years later, Janelle enlisted—it felt like I lost her too. Now that I have her back, however brief, it feels as though she never left.
“Your stories with Anders remind me so much of my own.” I smile. “The weekends, especially during the summer, were always so much fun. Janelle, Paloma, and I would spend time at each other’s houses, sometimes switching midway through the weekend. But during the summer, oh sweet sunshine, that was our favorite time. Janelle’s mom would always make her famous mango margaritas.”
