One More Time

by Kat Pace

  I turn to close the door and almost bang my face into Brooks’s chest. The bane of my existence just appeared in the doorway.

  “Brooks! About time!” Nate claps him on the back.

  “Hey,” Brooks grins. I avoid his eyes.

  “Brooks, nice of you to join us,” Meg says.

  “Is it?” I mumble under my breath.

  “Come on. Let’s all play nice,” Trix sings.

  “Brooks, take a seat in the circle. You guys ready?” Travis asks before placing a beer can in the center of the card ring.

  Brooks moves past me and I can smell his scent rolling off his skin. I also smell the booze. He must be hammered already. Brooks leans in the windowsill behind the desk, between Nate and Meg and directly across from me.

  “Let’s start,” Alex says, clapping his hands together.

  For about five minutes it’s just a group of old high school friends enjoying a friendly game of Kings. Just like flip cup. Six is for chicks –Trix, Meg, and I drink. Ace is a waterfall and thanks to Alex we all drain our skippies. Fuck Alex. This is where it turns. The beer and liquor mixture finds a happy home in us –settles in quickly and contently. The buzz is real. Stakes are high.

  “I got eight,” Brooks says, holding up his card. “Em, you’re my date.”

  “No chance,” I spit, eyes locked on his.

  “No saying no, Emmy. That’s the game!” Alex calls out.

  “Oh come on, no communication required. Just drink when he drinks,” Trix says.

  “Just drink when I drink,” Brooks repeats, raising his glass to mine. The smugness.

  I don’t answer. I just bring my cup up in front of me in a fake toast fashion and drink. Brooks smirks at me across the desk.

  “KING!” Nate shouts. “First rule is… No first names allowed.”

  “You always pick that rule,” Meg laughs. “My turn!”

  Meg picks seven. Aim to heaven. Well, you know all the rules.

  I pull a five and flip it over. “Guys.”

  “Drink up.” Brooks cheers me again.

  Fuck. I was not trying to get this drunk this fast.

  “Five is for guysss,” Trix says to Brooks.

  “But Emmy’s my date,” Brooks answers. He drains his own cup.

  “First name!” Travis calls out Brooks. “Drink!”

  “Six!” Trix flips her card.

  “I think six should be for dicks,” I groan. Brooks’s eyes narrow on mine.

  “What happened to playing nice?” Trix asks.

  “Yea right,” Meg laughs. Her and Nate are making out now.

  Travis pulls a two and makes Alex drink. Nate pulls another two and makes Alex drink again.

  “Would you look at that, Queen of Hearts.” Brooks throws down his own card.

  “Questions!” Alex shouts.

  “You’re the queen of how many hearts, Em?” Brooks asks, looking straight at me over the edge of his cup.

  “First names!” Trix squeals. She flips her red hair over her shoulder and reaches to punch Brooks.

  “Trix, why is Brooks here?” I ask.

  “Stop saying names! Drink!” Meg yells.

  “Why does it matter?” She asks, turning to Travis.

  “Who even invited you?” Travis is looking at Brooks, whose grin disappears. His eyes narrow again.

  “How many hearts, Em? How many guys?” Brooks looks stone cold.

  “Seriously?” I hardly whisper. My cup is blocking my lips. Thank god because I know they’re quivering. He’s putting me on the spot right now in front of everyone.

  “Pull another card,” I say.

  “I don’t think so,” Brooks says.

  “Oh fuck off!” I scream across the room.

  Everyone is quiet, just watching us. My buzz is crossing the line. The emotions I’ve been bottling are starting to seep through. There’s a crack in my glass.

  “Nothing wrong with a little honestly. Unless you’re embarrassed,” Brooks says, shrugging.

  “Only of being with you,” I smile.

  Alex claps and Travis laughs. Trix and Meg are still just watching me carefully.

  “Can’t help you were so easy, Ems,” Brooks says. “Some things do never change.”

  WTF.

  “Brooks,” Travis almost growls.

  “Ok. Ok. Someone pull another card,” Trix chimes in.

  “What? Don’t want everyone to know you’re a slut?” Brooks says, standing up and leaning over the desk.

  “You are such a DICK!” I shout, throwing what’s left of my drink at him. The brownish pink liquid projects across the room and lands in his lap. Some on his face.

  “Nice aim!” Alex laughs.

  “I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick,” I say quickly. Can’t cry here.

  “Em,” Trix whispers.

  “It’s OK. I’ll be right back,” I whisper to just her. She looks at me suspiciously but nods.

  I turn my back to the group and walk out of the den. I find myself facing a roomful of wasted and/or high twenty-something’s. Glory days. I can’t remember where the downstairs bathroom is. The beat in the floor isn’t helping. The drunken stumbling isn’t helping.

  “Em! HI!” A girl shouts, hugging me.

  “Um, hi?” I lift one arm to pretend to hug her back. Never seen her before in my life. Never will again.

  I can hear Alex’s voice over the roar of the crowd and the drums in the music. He’s laughing. I pray I’m not the joke. I twist the knob on the first door I see and find myself stumbling into the laundry room. The fresh scent of detergent engulfs me.

  I pull the door shut behind me. The pseudo semi-silence is nice. It offers a short reprieve to my splitting migraine. I lean against the dryer and throw my head back. I feel the tears surfacing. Who cries over a guy? I haven’t cried over a guy since …Brooks. The door creaks open and the music gets louder.

  “Occupied,” I shout between my hands.

  “I see that.”

  Brooks.

  He watches me from the door before stepping toward me. The door closes behind him and the room is quiet again. I feel trapped. I hate that I don’t hate it.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Brooks says. He tucks his hands in his jeans and rocks on his toes.

  “So you just followed me in here?” I roll my eyes.

  “Not exactly.” Brooks shakes his head.

  “Seems like it to me.”

  “Ems,” Brooks whispers.

  “Don’t.” I throw my arms out to stop him from coming any closer to me.

  “I’m sorry –back there–”

  “I don’t care,” I cut across him, head still pounding, taste of my skippy on my lips. “You’re so hot and cold and I can’t keep up anymore! I don’t want to!”

  “You do,” Brooks says. I can’t tell if he’s being a sarcastic ass or actually sincere.

  “Why do you enjoy it? Making me look like a fool whenever you get the chance?” I ask, crossing my arms in front of me. I lean on a pile of folded towels.

  “Not whenever I get the chance,” Brooks grins. “Sometimes I let it slide.”

  “Stop doing that. This is what I mean. Stop making everything a joke! This is all stupid. The whole summer!” I shout, pushing him back away from me again.

  I think of his question from the other day: Do you regret it? I want to change my answer. Fuck, I wanna change my answer.

  “What can I do?” He asks. He puts his cup down on top of the washer and now his empty hand is so close to me. Closer. It’s on my bare shoulder now, sliding up my neck.

  “You can leave me alone,” I offer.

  “I won’t stop trying,” Brooks says.

  “Please do.”

  I push past him, sure to knock my shoulder into him as I do. I fling the door open and rejoin the crowd. I can feel the cup of skippy starting to settle in. Whatever the secret ingredient is is working.

  Oh fuck. I can’t wait to leave the hig
h school drama bullshit behind. I just want to get back to my Seattle routine. Early wake-up. Sessions at Go Zen. Corner coffee bar with Zoë. My loft. Repeat.

  In two days this entire place will be a memory again. And I’ll go back to seeing these people only on the social media scape.

  I’ll only see Brooks on the social media scape.

  Labor Day Carnival

  “Emmy, hun,” my mom says.

  “Hey.” I look up. She’s standing in my doorway, holding a box full of bags of flour. “That for tonight?”

  “Will be when it’s pie. Wanted to see if you’d help?” She asks, balancing the flour on her hip.

  “Sure.” I stand from my bed. “How many pies are you actually making?”

  “I signed up for five. All different flavors. You know me. I need the whole spectrum.” Mom rolls her eyes at herself.

  “Let me take these before you keel over,” I laugh.

  “Always thinking I’m too old.” She laughs, but hands me the box anyway.

  I carry it into the kitchen and drop it on the counter. There are cartons and cartons of blueberries and strawberries, apples, and jumbo bags of sugar.

  “What do you want to start with?” I ask.

  “Hmm, wash the fruits and separate them into bowls. I can start on the crust,” she says, nodding.

  “Got it.”

  I open all the cartons and divvy up the berries into bowls. I peel and slice apples and de-pit like 1000 fresh cherries before my fingers start to feel funny on my hands. By the time I am done the entire kitchen smells like piecrust.

  “It’s been so great having you home, Emmy,” my mom says, scooping apples.

  “I know,” I agree. “It’s been nice.”

  “Maybe,” she pauses. I steal a glance and she’s focusing on the brown sugar and butter in the second bowl.

  “Maybe what?” I egg her on.

  “Maybe you can come back more often? Now that things are… OK?”

  Things? OK? What does she know? I mean, OK she has eyes but this is not our thing. We keep to the quiet code.

  “I, yeah–” I stop.

  “Oh, come on, Emmeline. I am your mother. You can’t expect me to not know things.” She says, still mixing the apple pie filling.

  “I don’t,” I say, lame. My throat is starting to go dry.

  “Look, I don’t need details. All I’m saying is I think it’s OK. Maybe even good for you. You’ve been so happy these past few weeks. It’s nice to see you home and happy at the same time.” She puts the bowl of filling down and waves her hand as to dismiss the conversation.

  “OK.”

  I’m thankful for this. Not sure I’m ready to discuss Brooks and me with my mother. I’m not even ready to discuss Brooks and me with Brooks and me.

  Seriously, our situation is messier than this countertop right now.

  The guilty gnawing is back. But I don’t know what I’m guilty for. Really I think 26-year-old Emmy feels guilty for the nine years my past-self suffered. Guilty that I’ve dodged the what’s next topic every time Brooks has tried to bring it up.

  What’s next?

  Summer is over. So next is autumn. And autumn is no season for flings.

  Five pies and a lot of filling mixture later, I leave the kitchen. I find my phone sitting on my dresser top. I see the usual messages from Trix and Meg. I scroll past Zoë’s and one from my cousin in Delaware. None from Brooks. You told him to leave you alone!

  I shake the feeling of disappointment and scroll back to the messages from Trix and Meg.

  Can’t wait 4 carnivale!! Ferris Wheel emoji.

  COME OUTSIDEEEE :)

  I lock my phone and put it back on my dresser. I scrub my hands in my sink to remove the last bits of flour from my arms and the fruit pulps from under my fingernails. I slip into my carefully curated carnival outfit, wand my hair, and apply my lip-gloss. If I didn’t know any better, I’d look 18 again.

  I’m still fucking pissed at Brooks. Our last conversation plays in my mind. The disrespect he showed –well I shouldn’t be surprised by it. Double standards are still alive and well.

  I guess I’m ready anyway. It’s the last day I’ll have to see him after all.

  * * *

  The carnival is on the fairgrounds. It’s inland, away from the ocean and while I’m upset it’s not in view, I don’t miss it right now. Right now, nostalgia is my view –well, nostalgia is clouding my view. The carnival takes up the entire field. There’s a large white tent that covers the food stands and prize vendors. Cheap games are set up in stalls along the far side. Giant stuffed animals hang above the kiddies’ heads. A few rides are erect in the center –complete with flashing bulbs and emitting old-timey carnival tunes.

  The end of summer hype is real.

  Everyone’s here today. My parents are here. I saw Brooks’s mom and Trix’s parents. I recognize some of the other kids too –if you can call them kids. They’re from my class, some of them I saw at the bonfire on my first night back. They smile at me as they pass but they don’t stop to talk. I recognize some of the younger kids too, kids below me a year or so in school. I wonder if any of them realize I haven’t been home in years.

  I stop behind Meg and Trix at the ticket booth entrance.

  “Hey ladies!” Alex shouts from behind us.

  Trav catcalls us.

  I turn around and see them walking across the field. Alex in swim trunks, no shock there. Travis in his skinny jeans and holding on of his occasional cig. Nate wearing his pseudo gym clothes like usual. And Brooks, walking up in his black jeans with a white T-shirt –the one I can see his tattooed shoulder through –the one that kills me. His hair is pulled back into a bun, the short parts flying around his neck. He tucks a piece behind his ear as he looks up at me. He grins.

  Goddamn. Why can’t we stand our ground? Why do we melt at near-perfect smiles and tight jeans and muscly tattooed arms? WHY?

  “Aw, you guys waited for us.” Travis says, sweeping Trix into a hug.

  “Not on purpose,” Meg smirks. Nate is at her side in a second and I’m suddenly uncomfortable.

  This is going to be another weird triple date + Alex scenario again. Only this time, Brooks and I are not on speaking terms. Well, at least for now. Not until he apologizes for being a hypocritical douche.

  “Ready?” Nate asks. We all nod and follow him through the gate and into the crowd.

  “I can’t believe we actually use to ride these rides,” Trix says.

  “Like, non-ironically. We actually enjoyed them,” I say, ridiculing our past selves

  “We were kids,” Meg says. She’s already gotten a hold of a cotton candy baton. Nate pulls a piece off and sticks it on the tip of his tongue.

  “And some of us still act like it,” Travis laughs.

  I roll my eyes and continue walking further into the fair. I feel Brooks fall into pace next to me and I have to look the opposite direction to stop myself from stealing a glance at him.

  “How long are you going to stay mad at me?” Brooks asks, pretending to pout.

  I ignore him and keep walking. I hear him laugh.

  “So long?”

  “How does nine years sound?” I flip my hair and try to walk faster. He keeps stride.

  “Sounds shit. Come on, Ems. I apologized, didn’t I?” He asks, reaching for my hand.

  “It was hardly authentic. And you only did it because I left. You missed the naked girl in your bed.” Stay strong, Emmy.

  “Not true,” he insists. His arm grabs mine and he stops us. “Look, it was a shit thing to say and I didn’t mean it like you think I did. I just, I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of it.”

  “The idea of it?” I ask.

  “Yea, you know. You and other people.” Brooks smirks.

  Omg.

  “That’s ridiculous!” I laugh.

  “Hence the apology.”

  I look at him sideways –at the lose pieces of hair he keeps tucking behind his ears –at the w
ay his T-shirt clings to his arms. I hate myself. All the time I just keep thinking he didn’t like the idea of it. How controlling. How incredibly hot.