“Or …”
“Or?” Brody asks.
“I can be the deciding judge of your reputation.” It wasn’t like I had a ton of experience kissing different guys. Other than Adam, I had a couple of dates during my sophomore year, and those boys were all about shoving their tongue down my throat. I had to wipe my face down after.
Brody’s hand disappeared from my arm and moved to my lower back, pulling me in, eliminating the remaining inches between us. I wondered if he could hear how hard my heart was beating. There was no other sound in the closet. I didn’t see his face dipping down toward mine. I didn’t see the way his eyes looked into mine, questioning my temptation. Instead, it was like being thrown into a hottub after standing in the middle of a snow-covered mountain. His lips; full and soft, cool, and gentle as they brushed against mine. How could he see where my mouth was if I couldn’t see him at all? Butterflies. There was no other way to describe the feeling, as cliché as it was. I could imagine them at the moment—monarchs breaking free from entrapment, excitedly flying in every direction to find a way closer to freedom.
Brody’s hands cupped around my cheeks as the kiss deepened. He was experienced in how to use his tongue with subtle, quick movements that wouldn’t leave any trace but the taste of beer. Maybe I was comparing his lips to the inexperienced and the same set of lips I had kissed daily for two years, but I was positive Brody’s reputation was quite accurate. His body pressed against mine as he urged me to take a few steps back until I was up against the cement wall. He lifted me up to wrap my legs around his waist so he could pin me with his weight. I looped my arms around his neck and gave into the kiss—gave into him, pleaded for the moment to never end. I hadn’t felt that way before, and it wasn’t the beer or the fact that shouts of “Happy New Year” were echoing outside the door. Brody parted his lips from mine and touched his nose to the tip of my nose. “Happy New Year, Fireball.”
“Happy New Year,” I whispered back.
“To new beginnings,” was the last thing he said before leaning back into me and claiming my lips as if they held the last bit of oxygen in the small closet.
It was unexpected when a light bled into the space, causing me to squint against the sudden brightness. I held my arm above my eyes to find the source of light—to see Adam standing in the doorway with a blur of others behind him, holding their mouths with shock.
“I thought I knew you, Journey. I thought—dammit, do you have any idea how much I love you? You just broke my heart less than two weeks ago and here you are with Brody Pearson of all people—a quarterback—that’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it? Not some semi-talented musician running off to chase his dream to Berkley. I should have known the real reason you ended our relationship.”
“Adam, stop,” I choked out. Brody released me from his hold, and I steadied myself on the ground. “Adam!”
I hadn’t thought to apologize to Brody for causing a scene or for stealing his New Year’s kiss. I needed Adam to know I was sorry for being the person I would normally hate. I wanted to tell him I ran away from pain because it was easier than enduring the effects of heartbreak, which was inevitable with a country between us. I had a journal with our wedding planned out, one I would never show a soul because I swore off marriage since it was too common. I played with photographs and morphed them together to see what our children might look like someday. I wasn’t just messing around with Adam for two years. I loved him, and if we were the same people after college and found each other again, it would have been our fate speaking for us.
I chased him out of The Barrel House, reaching the front walkway in time to see him drive off in his mother’s beat-up old Subaru. I fished around my back pocket, finding my car keys and ran to my car. I had to explain myself to him. He needed to know about the fate I planned on.
“Journey!” Melody shouted from the front door as I shut my car door. “You’ve been drinking. What are you doing? Are you crazy?” I could hear her through my closed window, but I had to block her out. I followed Adam in the direction he was driving, speeding up to try to catch a view of his taillights.
It was four miles.
There was a bend in the road and a ditch filled with ice.
A wall of rocks plunged into a ninety-degree angle off the side.
My heart froze in my chest as I watched Adam’s car flip over the edge, landing upside down on a frozen brook, too shallow to cover the deadly fragments of several broken boulders.
I could barely think fast enough to put my car in park before jumping out and across the same ice, stopping just before the ledge. Through blood-curdling screams, I stood pleading with Adam. “Please, Adam! Come back, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Are you okay? Adam! Please tell me you’re okay! I’m going to get help. I love you. Just hold on. Hold on. Okay?” I was trying to find a way to descend the rocks so I could reach him, but a passing car stopped. “Is everything okay? Do you need help?” the man asked. I stared back, silently for a long second, watching as the whites of his eyes grew larger when he spotted a set of tires below the cliff. “Oh my God. I have a cell phone. I’ll call 9-1-1. Are you okay?” The man jumped out of his car and grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the edge.
“My boyfriend,” I said, pointing down at his silent car.
“I understand. But, are you hurt?” the man repeated.
I shook my head even though I was physically okay.
Mentally, I was aware I would never be the same again because lust killed love.
7
Sweat is drippingdown the back of my neck as I pull into Mom’s driveway. If she sees me like this, she’ll know something is up. I take in a few deep breaths and turn the air conditioner onto a mild setting. I focus on the front door—the same front door I’ve always known, except we usually have a wreath, decorated for the time of year. Mom didn’t put a new wreath up before the holidays or after the holidays. There’s something about a wreath that screams home, but now, this house is full of broken pieces, it’s hard to find that comfort.
It doesn’t matter how many weeks or months have passed since Dad left us, I still walk in through the front door and peer into the family room on the left, looking to see if Dad is resting on the couch with his slipper-clad feet resting on the coffee table.
No one sits in his seat. The leather of the sofa memorized the indent from his body, and even though they are just wrinkles in the material, sometimes I tell myself he’s still there, listening and smiling.
The clatter of plates draws my attention to the kitchen, remembering the mention of lunch. “Perfect timing,” Mom calls into the hall, leading to the foyer.
I follow her voice while peeling my stare away from the family room. I don’t understand how Mom is walking around the house every day, surrounded by pain and memories. It’s like a fresh wound every time I step through the front door.
The round kitchen table has two place settings. “You don’t have to prepare a full feast,” I tell Mom, meeting her by the sink for a kiss on the cheek.
Mom stares at me for longer than a second, and her eyes narrow as if she’s trying to read something written within my eyes. She takes my wrist and pushes the sleeve of my coat up to my elbow. “Again?”
