by Kat Pace
“And this one?” I playfully pinch his skin.
“Just a butterfly,” Brooks shrugs. He looks away, and I get the feeling it’s not just a butterfly.
“Right.”
“How about you? Any tats?” Brooks asks.
“One,” I smirk.
“Yea?” Brooks’s eyes light up. He looks down at my body. “Let me guess where… tramp stamp?”
“Please, you should know I have more class than that.” I laugh.
“Where is it? What is it?” Brooks asks.
“Well, you can’t see it. You’ll have to use your imagination.” I tease.
“Trust me, you don’t want me to do that.”
“I mean, fair.” I laugh. I pull my hair tightly up to reveal the top of my neck right below my hairline.
“WYWH?” Brooks reads. “What’s that? Someone’s initials?”
“Please,” I scoff. “Like I’d ever be that stupid. It’s an acronym.”
“For?” Brooks asks. I shiver when his thumb traces over the skin on my neck.
Kill me.
“That I will leave to your imagination,” I quip.
Brooks runs to his car parked a block away to grab me a sweatshirt. The misty air low key biting at our faces in the middle of the night. He comes back and tosses it at my feet. It’s an old gray hoodie, the armholes slightly torn. As I slip it over my head, I’m almost sure I’ve worn it before.
It’s an unspoken understanding that neither of us are the same people. But we’re also the same. We’re us. Only time has changed us. Morphed us. Maybe we are both who we always wanted to be. Had we remained together, we would have lost those people.
Minutes pass.
Hours.
Lifetimes.
We’ve covered more ground inside the span of a bonfire’s lifetime than I’m positive most people cover in actual lifetimes. Everything.
Can’t say if we remember much. Our heads weren’t really there.
Our souls were speaking.
On uncharted planes of existence.
I couldn’t tell you how many people were still on the beach when we walked back past the smoldering pile of embers. A very light pink was breaking on the horizon by the time we reached the pier. We walked the short block to his truck when he turned to face me.
“Can I walk you back?” He asks, so close, leaning into me. If I take one step in, my chest will be pressed against his. I’ll be so close to him.
Loaded Q. I know what he’s really asking. My core burns at his words. He is not 18 anymore. I know what I want to say. I am not 18 anymore. But I can’t. We can’t.
“It’s three blocks.” I say, taking a step back. “I think I can find my way.”
“It’s been a few years,” he shrugs. “Want to make sure you don’t get lost.”
“Chivalry lives.” I tug off his hoodie. My 18-year-old self would have kept this. Slept in it. Cried in it when he left.
He rolls his eyes, but smiles. I smile.
I turn and leave him holding his own hoodie. He can sleep in it tonight. Hopefully it smells like me.
OK, so let’s get something straight now. I’m very much against being the helpless maiden chilling in the tall tower, awaiting rescue from the big bad dragon by a fancy prince. I’m also anti love affairs with emotionally abusive vampires. I do not believe in needing someone else. Not because I’m too cynical (definitely am) or because I’m afraid to get hurt again (oh, hey Brooks). I don’t believe another human being should hold a power over you that rivals the power you have over yourself. Too often that’s the case. Unhealthy. Sickening. Shit.
Fuck if I ain’t about to eat my own words.
Why?
The ENTIRE three-block walk back to the quaint little street of Broadway, I am dead inside. Not like zombie dead. Not my life sucks dead. No, dead like this is heaven dead. The kind of dead that makes me feel alive. I have all the answers now. So as I pass by the rainbow row of multi-colored homes lining this beach-town street, I wonder why did I leave?
Why did I give in to Brooks so easily? Surely, our break-up wasn’t that bad. It was exaggerated. Played it up in my mind as a reason to move on from this dull small town. I needed to leave it. I didn’t need to leave Brooks too.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I do this thing. Bear with me and get over it.
I like to pick a song with lyrics that I’m feeling like emotions. Like at a specific memory or time a song sort of plays as the soundtrack to the montage in my mind. We all have it. I know we do. I have that moment a lot.
I’m having that moment now.
Yellowcard’s Ocean Avenue. The fucking epitome of summer love songs and for some reason it’s just blaring in my mind’s radio.
So begins the mixtape.
The Sandbar
10:07 PM
“Speaking of bitching about people…” Meg says, her eyes catching Trix’s.
“Yes?” I ask, sensing a question.
We’re stopped in the middle of the pavement out front of the bar, under a streetlamp. They both look at me, waiting.
“Well… What happened to bitching about Brooks?” Meg asks, smirking. “You were all hot and heavy on complaining two days ago.”
“And we saw you two last night!” Trix squeals. “We all left and you two had wandered away. Tell us everything!”
“Oh please. There’s nothing to tell. I went home.” I can’t help but smile.
“…Alone?” Meg raises her eyebrow.
“Of course alone, Meg!” I laugh.
“Em, c’mon. We know how you feel about him. It’s Brooks!” Trix giggles.
“Exactly,” I pause. “It’s Brooks.”
“So how do you feel about him?” Meg asks, taking off her cover up.
“I don’t even know.” I say truthfully.
They look at each other and roll their eyes.
“Well, we want updates.” Trix says, matter-of-factly.
“Well, you’ll be waiting for a while.” I spin on my heels and walk into the bar.
The door slams behind me.
“Look at all of you out there getting drunk.” The tall guy from the band is center stage. The crowd cheers. “Alright, alright. Y’all aren’t drunk enough. This is summer!”
More cheering. More people trying to talk over the microphone.
“I wanna see y’all hammered. Smashed. Let’s make some noise!” Crowd cheers. The guitar starts slow. His raspy voice fills the mic, “Please drink responsibly.”
It’s been 24 hours since the Talk. Since I basically gave in, well, decided to anyway. Trix, Meg and I had a girls’ day at the beach. Same pier. Same bikini and cover up. Spent the entire day thinking about him. Same Em.
I hang on the side of the floor. I’m sure as shit not drunk enough to meet the dance floor yet. Tequila shots three and four are slowly talking me into it. Meg and Nate are ordering shot round five. No amount of shots is ever enough. Or something.
Alex grabs the corner table and places several beer bottles down on the high-top. Travis takes one and hands another to Brooks. I refuse when Travis offers one to me.
“Emmy doesn’t drink beer.” Brooks mocks my earlier statement. Why do I care that he remembers? When did I become this person?
“Emmy prefers shots. Finally!” I snag number five from the small tray Meg brings to the table.
Trix, Meg and I, the basic bitch trio, shoot the shots in typical tequila fashion. The salt. The shot. The lime. It burns, but in a good way. This one will do the trick.
It seems the band guy got his wish. The floor is almost packed now. People line the open walls and spill over onto the deck. Trix and Trav follow Meg and Nate into the dancing pit. Looks more like a demo for running with the bulls. But props.
Alex disappears somewhere with two guys I recognized but whose names I forgot. Or could probably still remember if I cared. Definitely don’t. I blame number 5.
The first few strings of a pseudo EDM/Country c
rossover song play. The crowd flips. I flip silently inside because I fucking love the song too. I’m tempted. I’m feeling brave enough to embrace my inner matador. But I can’t bring myself to leave the corner high-top like some magnet is keeping me there.
Brooks leans against the table next to me. He positions his body to mirror mine. God what a body up close. I mean he was fucking hot from a distance too; I practically drooled over that killer volleyball spike. No shame. But this is another game. This is a one-on-one match.
I have a feeling I’m gonna be shit.
Somehow we are inches away now. His eyes kill me. His voice kills me. His face… Really just everything about him fucking kills me. This high-top still completely vacant apart from me, Brooks, our drinks, and the empty shot tray Meg left in the middle.
I walk to the other side of the table and sit in one of the stools. Brooks's eyes follow my every move, turning to line his body up with mine again. He puts me between him and the table; his arms pin the table on either side of me.
“So what have you been doing?” I scream into his ear. The music would drown out the conversation otherwise.
“I designed a lax line. You know for clothing and sticks and such. Started it at my college first and it sort of picked up.” Fucking lax bro. Social media did get that right.
“So you like playing with guys’ sticks?” I smirk.
“You know I’ve never heard that one before,” Brooks laughs. “Take long to come up with it?”
“No. It just sort of came to me.”
“I love it when things just sort of come.” He talks into my ear so closely his lips graze my skin. My heart seems to flip the fuck out.
“You’re the fucking worst,” I squeeze through a smile.
You can’t, I repeat this over and over. I can’t get invested. This I what I tell myself when I’m staring up into his ocean eyes. Three seconds in and I’m already breaking my own promise.
OK, you can fuck him but you can’t love him. My head might know that’s a bunch of bullshit, but right now a very specific body part DGAF about my head. Just about his.
“And what is it you do out west?” Brooks moves in closer still.
“Be all zen and shit, remember?” I bite the tiny red sword, sliding a cherry off with my teeth.
“Oh that’s right.” He laughs at me. “Are you zen as a hobby or full time?”
“I run a studio.”
“Run it? And you just left it for two weeks?” Brooks raises his eyebrow.
“A perk of being the owner.” I smirk.
“You said you ran it! You didn’t say you owned it.” He picks up another beer from the tray that magically materialized on our table.
“If I own it then of course I run it too. It’s only for two weeks.”
I dip my remaining cherry in the colada, take a long swig, and greet the brain freeze.
“Is it?” Brooks asks in my ear again.
“Is it what?”
“Only for two weeks?” He asks again.
“Yes. Like I told you just last night.” I all but roll my eyes at him.
”Are you sure about that?” Brooks is so close I can see the concave of his clavicle twitching under his breaths.
“Certain.” I nod.
Our eyes betray us both: Him his cool exterior and suave façade. Mine my determined resolve to not care.
We’ve established I care right? We’ve established the memory of my 18-year-old self is currently owning and outperforming my present 26-year-old self.
It’s outbidding me for the night and Brooks is the prize.
Another country crossover song starts. The dance floor is even more packed than before. I can’t even find where Trix and Travis went to hide. Wtf knows where Meg and Nate got to. I can still see Alex at the bar, leaning against the side and talking animatedly to some super hot blonde. It’s like there’s no one else in the entire bar. We aren’t paying attention to anyone and no one gives two shits about us. We came for the group but stayed to see each other. That much is clear.
I swish around the slosh that’s left in the bottom of my glass. I’ve reached the golden hour of my drinking fest. Time to make some safe but ultimately poor decisions.
I slip from the chair to stand again.
“You know, I lied last night.” I smirk in a guilty kind of way.
“Lied? About what?” Brooks’s interest is peaked.
“I had heard you were back.” I grip his shoulder as I speak into his ear. The salty smell of his hair is incredible, alcoholic.
“Who told you? It was Trix wasn’t it?” Brooks laughs.
“It may have been Trix. There may have been 17 text messages …and maybe some calls.” I roll my eyes.
“She would.” He laughs. “To be honest, I knew you’d be home too. I was hoping you’d come to the bonfire.”
“Yea? I know you like it when people sort of come.” I smile.
Literally who am I?
He reaches around me to place his bottle on the high-top. His bicep brushes my bare shoulder. Fuck he is warm. Probably because he’s so hot. Says the 18 year-old that’s evidently still trapped inside me.
Jay mf Brooks. Bringing my womanhood to life since 2010.
He hangs his head so low his face is only inches from mine. Honestly our eyes are having their own entire conversation.
I extend my palm and rest it on his chest.
“I like this you.”
That was definitely the 18 year-old. No respectable 26-year-old woman would say that. Ever.
He laughs at first, but repeats back to me.
“I like this you.”
“Oh, why don’t you two get a room?” Alex stands beside the table. He’s just returned with the blonde from the bar.
“I second that.” Trix giggles.
She and Travis have emerged from running with the bulls. Bruises to follow.
“Who needs a room?” Brooks flashes a grin.
He lifts me up effortlessly placing me on the booth at the high top. The drink splashes onto my neck and down my dress. Brooks takes it from my hands and places his own bottle on the table next to us. He reaches his arm and tucks the loose strands of hair behind my ear. Just at the nape of my neck he pulls lightly on my hair sending my back into a natural arch.
My body tightens. His bare arms are wrapped around me now and he uses them to lift my legs around his waist. I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I’m wearing a dress. I’m suddenly exalted by the fact that my jeans shorts are one less article of clothing between us. Lastly, I remember the fact that five of our closest friends are watching.
“I think they want a show,” Brooks mumbles into my neck. I feel him breathing in my hair.
“Gotta give the people what they want.” I laugh.
His hands are still on my waist, but they stiffen now. My legs respond in turn. He’s so close I can taste his scent on my lips. The salt. The sand. The sun. The embodiment of summer love. It’s intoxicating. His smile is fucking stupid unreal. His lips are so close now that I feel his breath on mine.
In a single swift motion he slides one hand up my spine and uses the other to sneak under my dress and graze the underside of my thigh. I can’t take much more waiting and he knows that. He’s always been good at reading me.
“Kiss me.” It sounds like an order. It is.
His lips find mine. He tastes just like I remember, better even. Like fine wine he’s aged with time.
Trix and Nate egg us on. Travis cat-calls and Meg utters something like “About time!”
This is not the boy who kissed me in the movie theater when we were 15. This is not the boy who made out with me on the tracks when we were 17. This isn’t even the boy who laid me after prom.
This is a fucking man.
And I want him. I need him.
He presses his whole body into mine. My legs squeeze harder around his waist as his hands tangle in my wavy hair. I wrap my arms around his muscled shoulders and slide them up into his messy h
air. I can feel him responding to my lust.
“Maybe we do need that room.” I breathe, pushing him back and coming up for air.
“Christ, Emmy. Who have you become?” Brooks says, burrowing into my neck.