Last First Kiss: A Second Chance Standalone Romance

by Jane Anthony

Pearl Jam’s “Black” comes on the radio, spilling over buckets and spades, drywall accoutrements that now fill the dusty cab where she should have sat. I touch the knob and turn it up, letting the warbling timbre of Eddie Vedder transport me back to the moment I first saw her.

  Creek Falls Middle School was a war zone of clichés. Jocks, party girls, nerds, and outcasts rushed past the faded green lockers and inspirational posters hanging on the painted cinder block walls.

  Every so often, you’d hear the angry yell of an insult filtering through the narrow halls, but I kept to myself. In a town this size, everyone around you knows your business. My family name was synonymous with trash. Generations of Dylans terrorized these halls. I was determined to break the stigma even though trouble seemed to follow wherever I went. Keeping a low profile was the key to survival.

  But, amidst the throng of passing kids, I saw her. Strawberry hair twined in two small ponytails at her temples, the rest falling in light waves flowing over her flannel shirt. The slender body of the Pearl Jam stick figure slid between the rows of untethered buttons leading up to a splash of red that hid beneath the blue and black checkerboard pattern.

  She cowered against the wall, lost and petite like a little bird missing its mother. I pushed through the crowd to get to her. “Hey. You new?”

  For a split second, her green eyes widened before her expression fell into a sweet smile. “Yeah. Do you know where honors English is?”

  I felt her voice swimming in my stomach. It lifted the hairs on my neck and sent my adolescent hormones into a tailspin. I was tongue-tied. She was even more beautiful up close. Her skin was the perfect shade of ivory pink with almond-shaped eyes the color of jade surrounded by dark orange lashes

  “They don’t let me anywhere near that wing.”

  When she giggled, it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. It started in my ears and traveled to my heart in the form of flutters that confused me at the time. How can a heart flutter? It seemed so ridiculous, but here I was, floating on the sound, my heart flapping like butterfly wings as I plucked the crinkled schedule from her hand.

  “Oh, damn. I hear Bravaco’s a real ballbuster.”

  “Oh, God, really?”

  “You’ll be all right,” I assured her with a dismissive wave. “I think it’s down this way.” I turned toward the classroom, and she fell in step, weaving between other students rustling to get where they needed to be. The bell screamed overhead as we reached her classroom.

  “Thanks!” she said with another smile that blew me off my feet. I was late for class, but it didn’t matter because all I did for the next forty minutes was berate myself for not having gotten her name.

  When the bell rang again, I ran through the corridors to the honors wing. I was late to every class that day, making sure I walked the new girl to the door of hers.

  Seeing her at the diner was akin to that very first day. The flutters came from nowhere, affecting my chest like a heart attack. She’s different now. Her body curves in all the right places, and her long, unkempt hair is now styled in a sleek, updated bob. But her eyes don’t lie. They still roil and burn, sucking me into their emerald depths without my permission.

  The song fades out as I pull in front of my childhood home. The place has seen better days. An old, colonial-style house with a rickety porch and thick wooden columns turned gray from the sun. The faded paint peels from the shaker siding, making a home for spider webs. This house could have been spectacular if given the right kind of attention, but Dave the dipshit didn’t care about any of that. He took no pride in anything he owned and just let everything fall to shit around us as he drowned himself in a bottle of Wild Turkey.

  I hate that Erika shares his genetics. Nausea stews in my gut every time I see the lazy smirk quirking her identical lips. She’s better off without him. We all are.

  The stairs greet me upon entry, unfinished and worn beyond repair, but the low hum of the television emanating from the large living room on the left steals my attention. Blue light flickers in the darkened room, adding a ghostly glow to the aged woman passed out on the couch.

  My mom was beautiful once.

  Like my sister, her blond hair shone in the sun, her jovial gaze always twinkling with mischief. She loved life and lived it to the fullest. But everything changed when we lost my dad. The light dimmed in her eyes. It was as if someone flipped a switch, and it just never came on again.

  Cool wind blows through the open windows. When I walk past the billowing curtains and push down the sash, the tip of my boot makes contact with an empty vodka bottle lying on the floor. A hollow clunk echoes through the space. I sigh, picking it up and setting it on the wooden end table next to the couch.

  The reflection of the TV shines on the stained-glass window above as I reach for a blanket and throw it over the empty shell that holds the wounded soul of my mother.

  Love broke her.

  It destroyed her.

  It’s an evil entity that ruins and burns and ends. Sadly, she was not immune.

  “Sleep it off, Ma,” I whisper while tucking her in. She mutters a few incoherent phrases and calls me Dave. My skin crawls like the clutter of spiders clinging to the shaker tiles out front.

  Shaking it off, I switch off the television and tiptoe through the unused dining room and broken-down kitchen, turning off lights until I reach the top of the basement steps. My makeshift bedroom. I chose it for privacy. It has its own entrance, so I can come and go, plus it doubles as a studio space for my work.

  The stairs creak under my weight. The room isn’t glamorous. Not much more than a bed and a dresser. Sporadic art supplies and books litter the open shelves that line the walls, and an easel in the corner wears so many layers of paint I don’t even know what it is anymore. I look at it with disdain.

  I haven’t painted anything with substance since I returned. As I walk over to it, I hope to see something good hidden within, but all I see is a hideous excuse for art. A shitty landscape that belongs on a holiday card. I aspire to the likes of Edward Hopper or René Magritte, but in reality, I’m a fucking basement-dwelling Bob Ross.

  A frustrated grumble bounces against the concrete walls. I sweep the painting off the easel and chuck it in the pile of crap art that’s accumulated in the corner before plopping down on my bed.

  Ugly thoughts rear their heads, but I push them out before they grow insidious.

  “Art school wouldn’t have helped,” I audibly tell myself. “They can teach theory, but they can’t teach talent.”

  But the lies tingle my twisted lips. Art school was my dream, but I was too much of a mess to finish high school. Here in Creek Falls, my reputation precedes me. They hate me but fear me because they know the level of acid that runs in my veins. But out there? I didn’t have my name to back me up, and when someone fucked with me, they walked away bleeding.

  I was thrown out of school and never looked back.

  Yet as I lie here pondering the existence of my wasted life, I find my thoughts drifting back to Wren. The minuscule flame I’ve carried within shot dizzying sparks the second I saw her standing in that diner. And when she came around and pressed against me, I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to hold her tighter and redo that lame-ass kiss I dropped on her out of nowhere. I wanted to claim her mouth the way I should have the first time. Like her memory, the feeling came on so strong I had to get out of there as fast as possible.

  Not a day has passed that I don’t recall the way the setting sun glittered on her tearstained cheeks. It tore my heart to shreds both then and now. She begged me to stay, and I almost did, but I knew I’d never have a chance unless I left. I needed to go, to prove my worth, and make something of my life to be worthy of her.

  But instead, I’m exactly what everybody assumed I’d be. Just another white-trash Dylan, a disgrace in this tiny suburban town. I threw away the only good thing in my life, and five years later, I have nothing to show for it but cracked knuckles and a pile of shitty canvases. I
walked away nothing, and I returned just the same.

  CHAPTER 3

  Wren

  “CAN I get you guys anything else?”

  The man at the table tears his gaze away from the woman sitting across from him as I approach. “No, just the check.”

  With a curt nod, I tear the bill from my pad and place it on the table, taking their empty plates with me when I leave. The place was insane earlier. Customers filled the breezeway and leaked onto the patio. Weekends are always like this. For a few solid hours, I’m too busy to think, then all at once, people stop coming. The calm before the dinner storm.

  I back into the kitchen and drop the soiled dishes in the sink as Allison comes in to relieve me of my shift. “Hey girl,” she calls, sauntering in while tying an apron around her waist. “You look exhausted.”

  “You have no idea. I cannot wait to get home, sink into a hot tub with my book, and not have to talk to anyone for the rest of the day.”

  “Anti-social much?”

  I lift a brow over my tired eye. Allison’s full lips twist into a dimpled grin as she pulls her light brown hair off her shoulders and secures it into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. She has that I-woke-up-like-this look down to a science. She’s beautiful in her anarchy. A sweep of blush and swath of lipstick, a quick stroke of mascara, and voilà—perfection in a uniform. Meanwhile, I literally rolled out of bed and threw on my crumpled black dress straight out of the dryer before coming.

  “You look too friggin’ pretty to waitress. You should work in the front where everyone can see you.”

  “Please.” She snorts, tucking a rogue tendril behind her ear. “No one’s looking at my face. All those assholes out there are just worried the fat girl’s gonna eat their shitty burger before it hits the table.”

  “Self-deprecating much?” I spit, shooting her own attitude back at her.

  “Touché.”

  “Okay . . . I’m outtie,” I say at the end of a sigh, stepping toward the time clock.

  “Um . . . you might wanna throw on a little gloss before you go out there.”

  I turn on my heel and eye my friend with a wary glare. “Why?”

  “Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-for-My-Paintbrush is at the counter waiting for you.” Her face lights up with a shit-eating grin.

  “First of all, Right Said Fred? Ew. Second, what’s he doing out there?” I stalk to the kitchen door and push it open a crack. Sure enough, Jesse’s sitting at the counter.

  Allison shrugs. “Maybe he’s looking for a little more platonic-hug action.”

  I can’t help but laugh even though the situation is less than funny. Part of the reason for my exhaustion is because I stayed up way too late rehashing our conversation in my head. I agonized over every little detail, playing out the ways it all could have gone differently.

  I could have told him to kiss my ass.

  I could’ve called him a liar and threw him out of the diner.

  Hell, I could have pretended I had no recollection of who he even was.

  After five years, he thinks he can just saunter in, and I’m supposed to fall at his feet? Nuh-uh. No way. I’m not that girl anymore.

  But there was a time when I would have followed him anywhere. I was so pitiful. I sat by the phone like a loser waiting for him to call, missing him like crazy while he was doing God knows what and probably not thinking of me at all.

  Wasted love. That’s what it was.

  These thoughts plagued me well into the night. They seeped into my brain the way smoke gets on your clothes. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the image of his knee-buckling smile to go away. He was always cute, but goddammit, when did he get so fucking sexy?

  And of course, I look like what’s left of yesterday’s special.

  “You have any makeup in your bag?” My voice cracks with a nervous edge that annoys the crap out of me.

  Allison moves without hesitation. She snatches her purse from the cubby and digs out the few essentials I need to appear almost human. I don’t know why I’m bothering with this. I have a boyfriend. I shouldn’t give a rat’s ass what Jesse thinks.

  He had his chance, and he blew it.

  But still.

  No one wants to run into their ex when they look this shitty. It’s human nature. We all want to imagine the guys who did us dirty feeling a little more “look what I missed out on” and a little less “dang, I dodged that bullet.”

  At least, that’s what I tell myself as I saunter through the doors trying not to trip over my excitement to see him. “Jess,” I say, bracing my hand on the edge of the counter. Damn, he looks good. His light hair is tousled in a perfect mess of bedhead that leaks down his chiseled jaw in the form of closely trimmed stubble.

  I swallow hard, forcing my glare to stay on his face and not fall to his chest, but I want to look. Okay, maybe I want to do a little more than look. My body isn’t nearly as angry as my brain is. Speaking of bodies . . . small-print flannel hugs sinewy muscle and follows the lines of his torso down his slim waist, stopping just short of thick, denim-clad thighs.

  “Hey,” he greets, and my insides feel as though they’re about to take flight. I’m supposed to be mad at him, not falling into a puddle of goo at his boot-laden feet. “I’m sorry to drop in while you’re at work, but I thought maybe when your shift’s over, we can go somewhere and catch up?”

  “Didn’t we do that last night?”

  “C’mon, Bird. Let me take you for a cup of coffee or something.”

  Lifting an inquisitive brow, I glance down at the steaming mug sitting on the counter in front of him before looking back up.

  “Okay, point taken.” He licks his lips, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. “How about a milkshake? Cookies and cream? Extra cookies, right?”

  He remembered my drink order. My heart flurries in my chest, but no sooner did the butterflies come do they fly away, leaving annoyance in their wake. Heat rolls up my neck and settles in my cheeks. This isn’t fair. None of it. Seeing him yesterday was a nice trip down memory lane, but it doesn’t change the fact that he left me here to rot while he went off and started a brand-new life without me. I cried myself to sleep far too many nights to forgive and forget just like that.

  “What is this, Jess? You come back here after five years and try to pick back up where we left off? Or is this some sort of closure? You don’t need to make it up to me. I’m fine. In case you haven’t noticed, my life went on without you.”

  His expression falls. He runs his ringed thumb across his jaw, taking in my soliloquy before responding. “It’s neither of those things. We don’t have to be best friends. I just want to know you again.”

  Now he’s quoting my favorite movie. That fucker. This isn’t fair. He knows everything about me, and he’s using it against me to make me break. “Sorry, bro. Too little too late.” I cock my head in my best, tough-bitch impersonation; meanwhile, I’m dying inside.

  “Look, you have every right to be mad at me. But if you’d just hear me out—”

  I slice the air between us with my palm, cutting him short. “I don’t want your apologies, Jesse. I want you to get out of my diner.” I point at the exit, but the waver in my voice is hard to hide. As is the gentle tremble in my outstretched finger. I hate that he still gets to me after all this time. He hurt me. I refuse to let him do it again.

  Jesse’s gaze searches my face, but I slam my emotions off, keeping my expression hard. “You don’t really want me to go.” The hollow sound rattling his voice is enough to break my defenses down. Jesse always knew how to get under my skin, but right now, I have anger on my side. I may be the size of a large child, but you don’t want to push around this crazy redhead.

  The sound of the mixer whirs to my left. “You want a milkshake? Fine . . .” I turn on my heel, ducking behind the counter where Linda’s taking way longer than she should to mix up a chocolate shake. I swipe the tall metal shaker from the machine and stomp back to the end of the bar where Jesse waits with a what-the-
fuck look twisting his stupid, gorgeous face. “Drink up!” I spit, hurling the frozen concoction directly at his chest. It splatters on the tiny checks, exploding frosty goodness onto the counter and the floor.

  “What the fuck!” His eyes widen with shock. “You’re insane!”

  A round of lackluster applause and a few hoots scatter from the dining room. I stand stock-still, my gaze dancing over the puddle of melted chocolate dripping onto his boots. With his thumbs and forefingers, he gently opens the buttons on his shirt and peels the filthy fabric off his body, using it as a rag to wipe off his jeans.

  “No, Jess.” A sense of calm washes over my words. “I was insane, but I’m finally thinking clearly. Have a nice life.”

  Twisting around, I turn my back to him the way he did to me and walk away from Jesse Dylan forever.

  “GUESS WHO’S BA-ACK?” Allison singsongs as she passes me in the aisle.

  “You’re kidding!” I stand on my tiptoes, craning my neck to see over the cashier’s desk. Sure enough, Jesse sits on a barstool at the counter.

  Allison carefully sets down the plates she’d been holding and circles back to where I’m basically hiding behind the wall between the smoking and nonsmoking sections. “How many days in a row has it been?” Mirth twinkles in her dark gaze as she bats her eyelashes dramatically.

  “I dunno.” I shrug. “Not like I’m keeping count.”

  I am totally keeping count.

  It’s been ten consecutive days, including the two days I had off. Is he a glutton for punishment or what? I covered the man in milkshake, for Christ’s sake. Mortification set in the second my feet hit the ground outside and hasn’t subsided since. This is classic me. My temper flairs like a volcano, charring everyone in its path. It’s not until later when the lava has cooled that the regret settles in. I can be a serious bitch sometimes.

  “Looks like someone refuses to take no for an answer.”

  “Tell him I’m not interested,” I whisper, shooing her away.

  She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Crying over spilled milkshake, are we? You do your own dirty work, cupcake.”