“Can we have a small dinner party at your house?”
I can imagine the smile on her face as she says, “Of course, we can.” Mom also loves to cook, incessantly, to the point where I think rats might be dying of obesity in the sewers by her house. “Who are we inviting, and what kind of food are you thinking? Oh, and what’s the occasion? Did you meet someone?”
I clear my throat, trying not to respond with the first words that fill my head. “I’m not meeting anyone anytime soon,” I tell her. “It’s about The Barrel House. I’ve decided.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding deflated. I’m not sure if I let her down about not meeting a man or if she’s concerned with The Barrel House. “Why don’t you come over and talk to me, sweetie.”
I glance at the clock on my dash, realizing I kept the day clear aside from a few more edits I have to do on Marcos’ photos. “Okay, are you home now? I can be there in about twenty minutes.”
“I will be here. I’ll start making lunch for us.” I’m not hungry but telling Mom this is like telling her she’s useless.
“Thanks, I’ll see you in a few.”
Did I meet someone? Melody must have said something to her about Brody. If Melody even sniffs a hint of a secret I might be hiding, she will have her nose everywhere until she finds out for sure. Mom, though, she wouldn’t normally ask me a question along those lines. Unfortunately, I’ve done a good job of scarring her from asking me about men.
Speaking of which, I’m forced to drive the road I avoid like the plague. It’s the only way to get to Mom’s from this side of the town. Part of me debates driving another two exits to avoid “the road.” If today is going to be the start of a new chapter, I might as well try to get past my fifteen-year-old demon.
It’s easy to say.
My palms clam up as I grip the steering wheel while pulling off at the town exit. This direction used to be the scenic route out of the town.
There are time gaps at parties, especially New Year’s Eve parties when the clock suddenly strikes midnight. Time was said to fly when there’s an excessive amount of fun, but the same applies when booze or beautiful distractions are involved, too. When they all happen at once, morals go out the window, and worries are forgotten. I can’t remember spinning the bottle. I can’t remember thinking the idea of spinning an empty bourbon bottle would lead to a fun time, but I drank a full Solo cup full of beer way too fast, then had a second cup a little faster. I don’t know if I was hoping the bottle would stop spinning right in front of Brody or if I would have been happy to kiss a wall, but my judgment was impaired.
Though I can’t remember any of the minor details leading up to the moment I saw Brody staring at me with a coy grin, I can recall my heart pounding in my chest, adrenaline pumping through my alcohol-ridden veins and a new sense of desire. There was definitely a desire to kiss the bad boy—the troublemaker with the cocky attitude and the devil twinkling in his coppery eyes. Being the center of attention wasn’t my thing, never had been. Somehow, Brody was aware of this and walked through the circle of drunken teens and took my hand without hesitation. “I thought you didn’t want to play this game?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” I told him.
I was focused solely on Brody’s face, blocking out the roaring cheers chanting, “Kiss her, kiss her …”
“Come with me,” he said, pulling me away from the crowd toward one of the storage closets. “This game just became Seven Minutes in Heaven.” Brody wasn’t announcing his statement to me. He was riling up the crowd, disappointing them by stealing the show.
The closet was close to pitch-black, with only the blinking green light on the smoke alarm above our heads. The cheers from outside the closet had continued, but the door muted some of the sounds. I didn’t know what I was doing at that moment, or why I walked into a closet with Brody to do God knows what, but he made my mind stop thinking in straight lines. Being around him was worse than consuming alcohol. I didn’t feel drunk at that moment; I felt winded by his existence.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he whispered in my ear. “I didn’t want to put you on the spot out there. They can think what they want.”
Brody Pearson didn’t care about making a scene. I was trying to understand this because the Brody Pearson I thought I knew was the exact opposite and lived to be the center of attention. It was evident every time he entered a room.
Then, I concluded that he didn’t want to be seen kissing someone like me. I recalled what he said earlier in the night about me being beautiful, and something ridiculous about my smile, but that didn’t mean he was planning to make a public display of his feelings. “I wasn’t worried,” I told him, unsure of what was going through his head.
“You’re not worried about what?”
“Doing something I don’t want to,” I continued.
“Well, what do you want to do with the next six minutes?” Brody asked me.
I couldn’t see the look in his eyes, his body language, or gauge the response he was expecting. “I shrugged, but you can’t see that,” I told him.
My breaths were coming quicker, and I closed my eyes to forget about the intense darkness surrounding us. I was uncomfortably blind. Brody’s hand wrapped around my arm as he pulled me a few inches closer. I could feel the warmth of his body closing in on mine. “Are you okay?”
I need to swallow the nerves, but he might hear them plummet to the bottom of my stomach. “I heard you have a reputation to uphold.” Maybe it wasn’t a great pickup line, but I was wondering about the rumors, curious about how many girls took a poll on the level of kissing capabilities.
“A reputation?” he questioned.
Maybe it was a rumor. There are plenty of those to go around between our two small towns.
“That you’re the best kisser in the area,” I uttered.
Brody let out a quiet laugh. “I haven’t heard that one, but we can go with it.”
