‘Hello, Nelly. It’s been a while’
Fuck yes, it has. My body vibrates with the desire to fling my arms around her, to pick her up and swing her around, but something tells me restraint is in order. Firstly, I haven’t seen her for years, not really, because dreams don’t count. God, this girl—no, woman—featured nightly in my dreams from ages twelve through nineteen. Dreams that, strangely, started up again recently. The best kind of dreams, ones that have matured in depth and meaning. And by that, I mean dream Nell and I fuck a lot.
I feel a certain kind of satisfaction as she stares at me, thoughstaredoesn’t really cover what she’s doing. She’s basically checking me out.Nell Ballantine checking me out, not rolling her eyes or screaming and running in the opposite direction.
Despite her reaction, my genuine happiness is masked by my childish taunt. She was Pen or Penny to my sister and Penelope to our parents. And Nelly when I wanted her attention.Which was always.AndSmelly Nellywhen I was feeling particularly vicious, though she never smelled less than delicious. And I would know given the years I spent trying to get close enough to catch a whiff of her shampoo. I loved the way she smelled and remembered the abject thrill of finding a tub of mandarin body butter she’d left in Melody’s bedroom. Let’s just say I’m surprised I didn’t wank myself to death with the stuff that weekend.
Maybe it isn’t the way she looks at me but rather the way she looks that makes it hard not to slip into old patterns because, Jesus fucking Christ, how does she look exactly the same? Tiny, like a naughty sprite, dark hair curling wildly around her face, and pale, milky skin.
As we stare at each other, I can’t help but be drawn back to my teenage years. Nell seemed to be at our house more than she was at her own because she and Melody were joined at the hip. And me? I was just the annoying little brother who was always in the way. I shake my head, not quite able to believe this is real.
‘If you’re going to stay with me, you can’t call me that again.’ I’d forgotten the lure of her soft American accent. Hearing it now, all stern and bossy, only serves to make my dick exceedingly happy.
‘What? Nelly?’ I respond, my words dripping with faux innocence. As she opens her mouth, I add, ‘Or do you mean Smelly Nelly?’
‘I mean it, Ben.’
Her tone—her puckered brow—it all brings back a deluge of memories. I’d made it my life’s mission to fuck with her. And then, when I got a little older, I realised the kind of fucking I craved was a different thing altogether. Noticing she’s still frowning at me, I can’t help but chuckle, accompanying it with another rueful shake of my head.
‘Nell, you are a sight for sore, tired eyes.’
So much for hiding how I feel.Felt—how I felt.
Her expression softens, maybe at this particular iteration of her name. I’ve never used it before, at least out loud. Maybe no one has. I can’t help but let my gaze wander from her face to breasts that are more than a handful, and for a short girl, she has legs for fucking days. A waist I could mostly span with my two hands and—
‘When you’re done staring,’ she asserts, stepping back from the open door to allow me to pass through. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘Sorry,’ I say with a grin I can’t suppress because, funnily enough, I’m not sorry at all. As I step over the threshold, I inhale a lungful of her intoxicating scent. ‘It’s like going back in time.’
‘It is a little tired looking.’ Her tone is flat as I watch her gaze move to the oak wainscoting before she closes the front door. Maybe the hallway could do with a lick of paint, but that’s not what I meant. Not at all.
‘Seems like you spent my entire childhood in pyjamas,’ I say, dropping my bag again while trying extra fucking hard to keep my eyes off her legs. Weekends seemed to consist entirely of sleepovers followed by lazy mornings of Melody and Nell eating cereal in their nightclothes or stretched out in front of the TV. I can’t recall what my sister wore, but I remember Nell’s pyjamas choices. Cute cartoon characters and super short shorts, it was as though she was constantly going through a growth spurt to explain why the cheeks of her arse were peeking out, and why the shirt was always tight enough to be able to tell the temperature of the house. Or maybe I was just a twelve-year-old pervert. Either way, this woman right here is the reason I have a type.
‘I worked last night,’ she says, gesturing me in through a door on the left. ‘I really ought to be in bed.’
‘Need any company?’ I can’t help but mutter as I pass.
‘What?’
‘Do you work for a good company?’
‘I’m a doctor.’ Her brows pull together in a cute frown. I know she’s a doctor. We might not have kept in touch, but I still follow her news through Mel. She’s someone who brings life into the world.Unlike me, who takes it out.I swallow the sudden acrid bitterness, the familiar metallic tang or gunfire that seems to follow me everywhere.
‘Oh yeah, I remember Melody saying so. That’s kind of like working in pyjamas, though, right?’ Suddenly, she looks offended. ‘Scrubs, I mean.’
‘Oh. Yes. I suppose so,’ she replies, gesturing for me to take a seat.
Fucking pyjamas. Great. I’ve basically just confirmed her lifelong suspicion of me being an idiot. But pyjamas... my eyes follow the smooth expanse of leg as I ponder how her taste in nightwear hasn’t changed. Instead of Pooh Bear or a Disney Princess, this morning’s pyjamas have Christmas puddings printed over her tits. As she flops into the corner of the sofa and stretches, I read the slogan underneath.
Keep your mitts off my puddings.
‘What’s funny?’ she asks, frowning again.
‘I was just making note of your instructions.’ I make a circle with my index finger in the vague directions of her deliciouspuddings, full and soft. God, I remember the year she got tits. They seemed to come in overnight. If that year of my life had a title, it’d be something likeThe Year of the Bonerbecause it seemed to be permanent.
‘What instruct—’ Taking heed of my finger, Nell glances down, her frown morphing into a fierce blush. ‘Your damn sister,’ she mutters.
‘I guessed as much. You should see the T-shirt she got me last Christmas.’
