by M. F. Lorson
“I texted!”
“The day before it was due!”
“This is all riveting,” interrupted Dad as he stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room. “But I am much more interested in what happens next.”
Leave it to Dad to ask the direct questions.
“Gabe, my Dad. Dad, my…”
“Boyfriend,” answered Gabe when I found myself at a loss for how to define our new relationship.
“Boyfriend,” repeated Dad, but the word did not sound nearly as pleasing coming out of his mouth as it had Gabe’s.
“If that’s alright with you, sir,” corrected Gabe, a small blush filling his cheeks.
Dad locked eyes with me, raised one eyebrow and then turned to perfect the art of mortifying his daughter, “In the age of consent,” he began.
“Annnnnnd, we’re going downstairs!” I squealed, grabbing Gabe’s hand and making a run for it.
Gabe
It’s no tabletop kiss over a birthday cake, but I had Sloane’s hand in mine, and that was more than enough. Sitting on her couch in the den, she wanted to hear every detail of the plan, so I told her everything from apologizing to Reagan and Harper, the heart-to-heart with my brother, and even the mad dash from English class to her front door. Curled up on the couch next to me, she ate up every detail.
I loved watching her fight back the smile she wore when she found out how much everyone helped me in my plan. Even her best friends.
“You’re going to talk to them, right?” I asked.
She nodded, looking down at her soft pink nails. “I don’t think I could go one more weekend without them.”
“Good.”
“I still can’t believe it,” she laughed. “You did all that for me?”
“Duh,” I said, pushing a cherry red curl behind her ear. She tensed as soon as my fingers touched her cheek. The quiet moment intensified as I inched forward, her gaze falling to my lips. I had to be an inch away when she pulled back.
“I just have to say something,” she said, and an ear-to-ear smile stretched itself across my face.
“What’s that?” I pulled her closer so that at least her folded legs were touching mine and I could hold her soft hand while she spoke.
“I wanted to be the first to apologize, and I told you at the party that I thought you were different, and you are different—I mean, obviously, but I was just jealous and bitter.”
“Sloane.”
“I’m sorry. There I said it first.”
I broke out in laughter because of course she wanted to stop our first kiss to point out that she apologized first.
“I thought the video counted as an apology, but okay. You can have this one.”
“Thanks,” she said, biting back a smile. “What I said in that video about grand gestures...you know I was talking about you, right?”
“It took me a while, but yeah. I figured it out. Under different circumstances, especially where you hadn’t been barfing, I would have kissed you right there.”
She went back to biting her lip, and the room grew silent again. Too silent. I could only imagine the father of a beautiful teenage daughter wouldn’t be a fan of complete silence coming from the basement when she had her brand-spanking-new boyfriend down there.
“How about a movie?” I asked, and I noticed Sloane’s shoulders sag in disappointment. “And not Sixteen Candles.” She threw her hands up in defeat.
“I guess you’d like to see my collection?” I watched as she pulled a box the size of my sensible sedan out of the closet. Inside were more DVDs than I had ever seen in one place. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said with a laugh. “Who owns DVDs anymore? But these were my mom’s. Sifting through this thing on Friday nights was one of my favorite memories.”
“Well, it is Friday,” I said as I started pulling them out to scan through.
We did that for a good forty-five minutes. Just laughing and talking as we chose our Friday night flick. We settled on Back to the Future because—classic. Nuzzled onto the couch together, we made it all the way to the part where Marty’s mom is creepily hitting on her son before I noticed Sloane looking at me. When I turned to face her, we were only inches apart.
She didn’t interrupt this time. Instead, she was the one to lean in, pressing her lips to mine and melting into my arms as the movie played. We didn’t come up for air until George punched Biff at the dance, and even then, we didn’t catch most of the ending.
When the credits rolled, we let them roll, Huey Lewis and the News blaring from her flat-screen TV, and I honestly don’t know how I went so long without kissing her. She has her legs draped over mine and fistful of my T-shirt when I hear steps coming down the stairs.
Sloane moved across the couch so fast my lips were still basically puckered when her dad appeared around the corner with a box of cheese pizza in his hands.
“Looks like the movie’s over,” he said in a tone reserved strictly for disgruntled dads.
“Oh, pizza!” Sloane jumped out of her seat and grabbed the box, setting it on the coffee table in front of us. I knew my manners and avoiding eye contact would have been rude and overtly suspicious, so I smiled and wondered if my welcome had been worn out.
“So, the girls aren’t coming over?” he asked, standing around with an uncomfortable look on his face. I considered for a moment what it might have been like, raising a teenage daughter without a mother, not knowing what he should allow and not allow. But at least he was trying. I could give him that much.
“Not tonight, Dad,” Sloane said with a bite of pizza in her mouth.
He couldn’t hide the disappointment if he tried. I bet he wanted a crowd down here instead of just me and her alone.
“One more movie?” she asked with a smile. What a charmer. I watched his jaw flex as he ground his teeth together. I almost felt bad, but then again, I kinda wanted to get back to kissing my new girlfriend...so not that bad.
“Of course.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Make it a good one,” he said as he left the room, keeping his eagle eyes on me the whole time.
Our one more movie turned into three more movies, and by the time the credits rolled on Karate Kid, I was nodding off on her couch with her nearly snoring against my chest.
Sloane
It was a beautiful feeling being somebody's girlfriend. Instead of a weekend spent organizing my bullet journal supplies and watching YouTube videos about cats, Gabe and I toured the town. We left no local establishment free of our patronage, no park bench unmarked by our pause, kiss, repeat routine. Every moment felt like catching two stuffed animals with one quarter in a claw machine. There was just one thing keeping me tethered. I still hadn’t made up with Harper and Reagan.
Gabe gave me a pep talk on the way to school.
“They are your friends. They have to forgive you.”
“You don’t know Harper,” I said through clenched teeth.
Gabe smirked, his ridiculously adorable, hard to look away from smirk. “She agreed to be in the video. That means something.”
“Maybe,” I said, biting the corner of my lip as I tried to imagine Harper and her father baking that cupcake. Would she really be over our argument just because Gabe pulled her aside? I guess he could be pretty convincing when he wanted to be.
Gabe parked the car in the school lot and jogged around to open my door.
“So chivalrous,” I remarked, stretching up to my toes to plant a kiss on his waiting lips. It was funny how a week ago the idea of kissing him was akin to being chosen to walk on the moon, and now I was doing it every chance I got.
“Just be sincere,” he said, when it was time to part ways, him for his class and me for mine. Be sincere, I thought, easier said than done. If I had been sincere in the first place none of this would have happened. I should have just told them the truth, yeah, it felt good hanging out with kids that the three of us had spent our whole high school careers envying. But that didn’t mean I didn’t w
ant to be around them anymore.
By lunch I had worked myself up into a total frenzy trying to decide how to beg forgiveness and squeeze in a little Gabe gushing at the same time. My plan of attack? Plunk down next to them under our lunch tree and force them to either interact with me or shun me. Shunning was possible, but if it happened I would at least be close enough to the parking lot to go cry in Gabe’s car till school got out.
I puffed out my chest, took a deep breath and charted my course for the tree. As expected Harper and Reagan were sitting cross legged, splitting a veggie tray while fully engulfed in a conversation. A conversation that stopped immediately when I took my seat directly across from them.
“Hey guys,” I started.
Reagan smiled, small at first and then progressively wider.
“Took you long enough,” said Harper, grabbing a piece of broccoli from the tray and tossing it at my face. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding and relaxed.
“I wanted to apologize earlier,” I said. “I just wasn’t sure how, or what to say.”
Reagan looked up at me. “Maybe that’s because you're not the only one who needs to apologize.”
“Agreed,” said Harper, scrunching up her nose like a disgruntled rabbit, “reluctantly, but agreed.”
“I mean...you guys can go first if you want.” I said with a grin.
Harper glared at me across their lunch. “Sure. Happy to. I am sorry I almost pummeled your new boyfriend’s brother with my stiletto.”
There was an exaggerated pause before Reagan realized that was as much of an apology as we were going to get from Harper.
“And I’m sorry I got mad at you guys for standing up for me,” she offered. “I wanted to fit in at that party and when it became obvious that we didn’t belong there I guess I just got mad at you guys instead of dealing with my feelings of rejection.”
I sighed, poor Reagan, it wasn’t that people rejected her, they just didn’t seem to see her. Maybe I could change that. It was my turn to apologize and suddenly I knew exactly what I wanted to say.
“I’m sorry that I made you guys feel like I thought being with anyone else was cooler than being with you guys. I truly don’t feel that way.”
Harper and Reagan nodded, and though I knew that would have been enough for them, I kept going, because it wasn’t enough for me. “But I also need you to know that I don’t want to have to choose. I’m not saying I want to spend every weekend at some wild party, but I want to be able to post a dumb picture with Becca Landry without you guys worrying that it means I think she’s better than you.”
“We get it,” said Reagan.
“And in a perfect world, you’re in that picture too,” I finished, feeling darn good about my effort to apologize without pretending there weren’t going to be more nights like Gabe’s party ahead of us.
Harper snorted, “Let’s not go that far. I’m still not convinced we should be endorsing your initiation into the Khaki Collective. Baking that cupcake for your artificial Jake Ryan ending used up quite a bit of my tolerance.”
Reagan’s eyes went wide with the reminder. “Hey! You never told us, did she write you back? Do you get to tell Molly Ringwald that Gabe did a whole tribute to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in your honor?”
I laughed and shook my head. “Nope. I am afraid my letter is sitting untouched somewhere, and to think I used the my Mom is dead card and still didn’t get a reply.”
“Unacceptable,” said Harper.
“I think you two should try,” I said pointing from Reagan to Harper. “You have better luck than the two of us combined, and well,” I said looking at Harper with a concerned expression.
“What?” she asked, throwing her hands up.
“You’re terrifying, and sometimes people respond well to that kind of pressure.”
I was pretty sure Harper was going to launch the remainder of their shared lunch at my head, but Reagan interrupted her with one of those fake “ahem” coughs intended to not-so-subtly get your attention.
Gabe, Landon, Becca and Parker, (who were now officially Becca and Parker) crossed the lawn toward our tree. Gabe reached for my hand to pull me up off the ground and much to my surprise Landon extended a hand toward both Reagan and Harper. Of course Harper looked at it like it was a dead fish before standing on her own accord, but the effort could not be ignored.
“Burger Barn?” asked Gabe.
“For sure,” I replied, scooping one arm around Reagan’s waist and motioning for Harper to follow.
The lines between the us and the thems became a blur as our group walked down toward the parking lot.
Gabe
“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be meeting each other’s parents?” Sloane joked with her hand in mine. Of course, I’d already met her dad, but she had to lighten the mood as we walked through the cemetery hand-in-hand.
As we approached my mom’s site, I looked down at my girlfriend and smiled. “If it makes a difference, I’ve been talking you up to her for weeks.”
I watched her blush as she clung onto my arm and leaned up for a kiss. “Even though your favorite song is still Moves like Jagger,” I mumbled against her lips. She immediately started swatting for me, and I ducked away from her playful left hook.
“I’m telling on you,” she laughed.
We stopped in front of my mom’s headstone and stared for a moment before giving each other a warm smile. As we sat down, I pulled her close.
“Why do you like that song so much?” I asked.
She leaned against my shoulder. “My mom and I used to jam out to it in the car all the time. She loved that song. Said Mick Jagger was sexier than he got credit for.”
I laughed against her hair. I bet I would have really liked her mom. I hope she would have liked me.
“Nobody’s perfect.”
I felt her laugh against my chest. It’s only been one week since we officially started dating, but it seemed so much longer already. It almost felt like we’d been together since that day in line for our photo IDs. This whole time I’d been avoiding confrontation, pleasing everyone else no matter what it cost me, and it almost cost me this.
Having someone to share the things I love with.
Having someone to talk about my mom with without it being too heavy or sad.
Having someone to makeout with on Friday nights while we pretend to watch movies.
And I remember coming back to Grover and hating the fact that I wasn’t in Europe anymore. But now, I’d never been happier.
After a few more minutes of talking to Mom, we headed over to Sloane’s mom. Her headstone was still so new looking, and it made me hug her a little tighter, knowing three years was not a long time. You never got over losing your mom, but three years might as well have been yesterday.
We sat there for a while, and it was nice, not having to go to the cemetery alone. Just as we were about to get up and leave, I noticed a familiar gray sweatshirt on the other side of the graveyard.
“Is that Landon?” Sloane asked as she spotted him too. He was sitting on the ground, right in front of Mom’s site. We watched as he placed something down on her headstone. It looked like flowers.
I didn’t know Landon came to the cemetery. I’d never seen flowers here before.
“Do you want to go talk to him?” She looked up at me with an uneasy expression.
“No,” I answered. “He needs to be alone...with her.”
Taking one last glance at my brother, I walked away with Sloane on my arm. Part of me did want to go back and see my brother, just to see his face, to see if he was in pain, but I knew better. He’d laugh it off, avoid any emotion, and I’d just ruin his visit.
But I was still glad to see him.
I’d always waited for my brother to surprise me, so it was about time.
The series continues…
An outsider with an image to protect.
Harper loves to cause trouble—especially since her dad
is the Chief of Police.
Which makes dating a leather-jacket-wearing, motorcycle-riding Dallas Winston wannabe so much fun!
There’s no harm in stirring up a little trouble, right?
Wrong. After one little slip-up, Harper’s dad assigns her community service with the preppy scum turned police intern—Landon Maxwell. Now, her bad-boy boyfriend has a wicked revenge plan that might actually get her dad’s attention, but Landon won’t let her out of his sight. Not when he suspects she’s up to no good, and especially not when he realizes keeping Harper in line feels a lot like falling for her.
Dumping Dallas Winston is the second book in a series of romantic comedies centering around everybody’s favorite ‘80s movies.
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Dear Molly,
I would be remiss if I didn’t start by saying that writing you is straight up stupid. You didn’t write Sloane back, and that girl is one screening of Sixteen Candles away from tattooing Molly Forever on her butt. If she hasn’t earned your correspondence, I’m sure that I haven’t.
Here is the thing—I don’t care if you don’t write back to me. I just need someone to talk to. Have you ever been totally and completely the wrong person for a role? The script says, saucy latina, and you’re, well, you’re you? That’s how I feel, in life.
My father is a cop. My mother is a cop’s wife, and my older sister is on a full scholarship to Yale. The Yale. I am basically Molly Ringwald cast as J-Lo’s younger sister. It doesn’t matter how many times I practice the accent. Someone else should be in that role. And possibly the casting director should be fired.