Luckily, sex, AKA the hypnotic twitch of James Plum’s furry top lip, and the frequent licking of his red wine-stained bottom one, served as a distraction. At school, he made it pretty clear nothing would happen between us, but the eye-fucking across the room, even as his hands roamed all over the guy who licked his ear, the same one who’s taking him home, says different.
I’ve never taken such risks, been so obviously, overtly and publicly flirty as I am with him, but the rush I get when he’s all flustered—mumbling about fish for instance—is addictive. Even in the dimly lit parking lot, I could see his blush. He was horrified.
Speaking of which.
“Ugh, most of your team are horrific and so immature to pick on you because of your glasses. You’re not much better.” My sister complains, as I pull out into the still-busy traffic. I remind her that, technically, they aren’t my friends, but that’s disregarded with a huff. “You ignore me half the night. Drag me away from Quinn, Brady and that hottie Sam—the one decent guy there—just so you can follow some other guy and his date, then creepily refer to me as asweetheartto make him jealous. I’m not your ‘sweetheart.’I’m your sister.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” I one hundred percent did. “Sam isn’t hot.” Sam is hot. “And you are sweet, and my friend. Probably my best friend.” Sadly, that is truer than I would like it to be. It also plays to my sister’s one true weakness. Herself.
“Aww, you’re my bestie, too. And Iampretty sweet.” She reaches over the center console, to hug me. Real safe.
“Driving here, sis.”
“Oh, right, sorry.” After a tiny squeeze, she slides back to her seat but doesn’t shut up. “Now that you’ve declared your brotherly love for me, tell me in great detail who that slab of beef you wanna pound is.”
Now there’s a mental image. “That was James Plum, the Bear’s new physio, the mountain I’m busting to climb, the quest I’m planning to conquer,the beast to my beauty.
“Plum.” Cherry scoffs. “That was no plum, that was a peach. Did you see his ass?”
“Did I see?” I snort so hard I set myself into a coughing fit. “Did I … No, baby girl,I didn’t see the plumpest ass in the greater Boston area. I’m gay you twit, of course I saw.”
Determined to kill us, Cherry whacks my arm, almost sending the car veering into the wrong lane. “Some way to speak to your bestie, the one who stopped you making an even bigger fool of yourself than you already had. You wouldn’t have seen shit if I didn’t bring your glasses.”
“Yes, well some of us are blessed with beauty, some with brains. Guess which one you are.”
“We’re twins, idiot. We’re both hot, vibrant and young. You know who didn’t look young? The astonishing-ass guy. He’s a bit old for you. And what’s with that mustache?”
Ahh, the mustache. “Hey, leave the ‘stache out of it. That thing’s hot as fuck, just like the rest of him. And he’s not old, he’s not even thirty, plus with age comes experience, and with experience comes me … frequently and substantially.”
Slapping her hand over her mouth, Cherry makes an exaggerated gag. “Ugh, you are proof that homosexuality is not a choice. I’d be a lesbian so hard if it meant never dealing with disgusting, slutty men.”
“Hey, for a dork like me, slutty is a life goal. I choose to take that as a compliment.”
“Yeah, well maybe you should choose to take my advice. I’m serious about Old Man Plum. Playing Hide the Cubby may seem like all shits and giggles, but fun for you could mean trouble for him.”
“Please, I am nothing if not discreet.” I don’t have to look at Cherry to know she’s rolling her eyes. “Not that there’s an immediate need for discretion, Mr. Plum seems to have all the company he desires right now.”
“That’s a great thing, Cory. Trust me. No good has ever come from a student-teacher relationship.”
“Not a teacher.” I remind her. “And something good will come of it–”
Cherry folds herself into her sweater like a turtle. “Please don’t say it.”
“Me.”
It’safter eleven when Cherry and I stumble into the house, stilling almost immediately.
“It’s quiet,” she whispers. “Why is it quiet?” Many homes would be at this time of night, but in this house, a relaxed noise-free evening means trouble. Mom and Pop—who comes over for dinner every day—are night owls, their games of Crazy Eights often lasting ‘til the wee hours.
Linking arms, we leave the darkness of the lounge and shuffle our way towards the soft light emanating from the dining room where hushed conversation can be heard. There we find Mom and Pop, sitting at the dining table. Paperwork covers a good portion of its surface, frowns mar their faces, turning two of the most un-serious people I know, solemn.
A dread-flavored lump forms in my throat, the Plum-fueled high I was riding instantly evaporates.
Pop’s chronic kidney condition had him in the hospital for two weeks last month, and I fear this is a result of that. If it is a money thing, Cherry and I need to be delicate. Mom’s as proud as she is loud. The slightest sign of us interfering in potential financial problems will see her deny, deny, deny.
Relying on our twin tuition to explain just that, I give Cherry a wink and drop into the empty seat beside Mom, eyes discreetly scanning. “No cards tonight, Pops? Did you finally concede that your daughter is a superior card shark?” What starts as a laugh turns into a wet, rolling cough that rattles his lungs, and my nerves.
“Never. Your mom and I were—” Before he can finish, Mom jumps to her feet, hands swiping the paperwork into a pile.
