One More Time

by Kat Pace

  “Em,” Brooks says when I stop next to him. His forehead is still creased, but he seems to have calmed down in the last ten minutes. He looks almost disapproving.

  “What? Don’t like my top?” I ask, smirking. I roll my arms down my torso like I’m showing myself off as some cheap prize on a game show. I mean, if the price is right…

  “Top? It’s a napkin.” Brooks says, rolling his eyes.

  “Ok, like my napkin?” I roll my eyes back.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Lauren says, looping her arm through mine. “Your napkin is hot.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I take her hand a little too much like some girl I just met in a bar bathroom. You know, like we’re best friends all the sudden. We’ve shared a lip-gloss.

  We get out of the car at the entrance to Miami Beach’s downtown district. Palm trees line both sides of the road. There are shops and restaurants with people sitting out front, drinking wine. The music gets louder as we get closer. The nightclub is next level. Not NYE drunken–unicorn–rave next level, but in a league of its own.

  We enter the nightclub. The door spits us out onto a platform above the dance floor.

  Groups are huddled in corners of the club, each one doing a different style dance. Mambo and salsa and cha-cha-cha. All of them. People are moving in ways I’ve never seen before. I look down at my napkin. I overdressed. Brooks shifts us over to a small high-top next to the bar. It’s against the railing overlooking the dance floor. Lauren flips through the cocktail menu in the center of the table.

  “These look delish. Oh my god,” she says.

  “They do. I want them all,” I agree. “Let’s get one of each?”

  “Let’s not get carried away, ladies,” Brody says, snatching the menu from our hands.

  “Hey!” I fake punch him on the shoulder. “Since when do you police our drink count?”

  “Yea!” Lauren laughs.

  “Someone needs to make sure we all get back alive and I have a feeling that I drew that straw tonight,” Brody says. My eyes follow his to Brooks, who currently has his back to us and is ordering the first round of drinks at the bar.

  Approximately three tequila shots and all the mint mojitos later…

  Sweating bodies all writhing and heaving together, glistening with sweat. I’m reminded of the weird rave party at the nightclub in Vail. I’m reminded of being a unicorn. Brooks eyes glitter in the light when he laughs. It’s stupid beautiful. His hands on my hips bring me life. I’m almost certain someone wrote a song about it.

  I want nothing more in this moment than to jump him. To start my night with him –the night we know is coming. It’s a lust driven fire between us and it never seems to burn out.

  He feels so good against me. His sweat dripping onto my chest as he leans his head against my shoulder. The back of my neck is sticky and hot. When he lifts my hair from my neck a cool breeze gives me goose bumps.

  He gives me goose bumps.

  We dance to Señorita. Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello sure know how to drop a duet. Brody and Lauren dance beside us, losing themselves to the beat of the music. I watch them now. And the pang of jealousy I felt at dinner has completely vanished. I don’t envy their clearly defined relationship and structured behavior toward each other. As I look at Brooks, at the hungriness in his eyes, I realize I don’t care about titles.

  I don’t need a label or a ring or any type of promise from him. He’s given me himself. His love. His words come back to me –the words he spoke on Valentine’s Day, sitting on my bed after devouring shitty food truck tacos.

  His motherfuckin’ LOVE. Fuck you Emmy, if that’s not enough.

  I lick my lips and taste our sweat. A mixture of his and mine. I want to reach up and kiss him or pull his head down to mine and just lose myself in his lips.

  But the way he’s looking at me –head hung low and eyes heavy with a euphoric stupor –it’s too much. I can’t do much more than look at him, take him in.

  We dance for hours. The four of us completely consumed by the music and the rhythm. We do group dances and circle dances and before long we are tossed in the center of a dance-off ring. Then we’re on the concrete platform, dancing right next to the music. Then we take more tequila shots. And I realize Brooks kinda tastes like one. They remind me of the summer –of the Sandbar –of the first night we hooked up.

  Only when the crowd thins out and the music starts to wind down do we turn our backs on the floor. When we exit the warehouse, the sky is still a hazy indigo but patches of orange have appeared on the horizon.

  I stumble over my heels on the way back to Star Resort. I finally kick them off and hold them when Brooks threatens to throw me over his shoulder before I break an ankle.

  “Thats wasss amazing! What a fucking party!” I exclaim, still slightly buzzed as I slip out of my heels in the lobby. The air condition feels like ice against my skin.

  “The launch party was a success. I’m sure my father will be pleased.” Brooks says, bitterness on point.

  “I don’t mean the launch,” I say giggling, stumbling into him. “I mean the club DUH!”

  He stands in the doorway watching me, smiling at my drunkenness. I feel overconfident thanks to my many drink friends. I take a step toward him.

  God I wanna jump him.

  Brody and Lauren wandered off somewhere. We ride the elevator alone. We enjoy the silence. I still wanna jump him.

  “We need to talk.” He shifts next to me on the balcony.

  Here it is. I’m ready.

  He’s going to try again. I’m going to accept this time. Whatever a relationship with Brooks will look like, it will be better than not having anything at all.

  “Probably a good idea.” I nod.

  “I have something I want to tell you,” Brooks begins. I can’t help but get excited. Butterflies are a thing. Will he refuse to touch me –to continue whatever this is unless I commit to him? Is he suddenly so old-fashioned?

  I can’t wait for the look on his face when I tell him I want him too.

  All of him.

  “So do I.” I say, moving into him again. I’m so close I can smell him “You first.”

  “I met someone,” he blurts out.

  I don’t move or open my mouth or make any sign that would indicate intelligent life. He looks at me as he runs his fingers through his outgrown hair. He did it when we were dancing –grinding –ebbing together like an amalgamation of two weirdly fluid bodies. But it’s different. This time he is nervous.

  “What?” I say, straight-faced.

  “I met some–”

  “I heard you,” I blurt out, holing up a hand to silence him. Did I hear him? “You met someone?”

  He doesn’t answer, just shifts back and forth on his heels.

  “How?” What a dumb question. Come on, Emmy. What the fuck.

  “It doesn’t matter how, Em.” He sighs, running his fingers through his long hair.

  “Yes, it does.” I stress. Like somehow having the details will make this easier to grasp.

  “She works for Edge… in marketing. We just sort of crossed paths.” He begins a story that sounds rehearsed. I’m sure it is –sure he’s spent days mapping it out. No wonder he hasn’t touched me since I’ve gotten here. “It became something more. I don’t know.”

  “I mean HOW? Like it’s been a fucking month!” I’m almost screaming now. I can’t keep the panic from my voice. It latches on to every single weak, pathetic syllable.

  “I know, Em.” Brooks whispers.

  “A fucking month ago you were sitting in Seattle and –and,” I start to choke back tears. “You were telling me you LOVED ME!” OK I’m yelling now. I don’t care if Brody and Lauren can hear through our conjoined room.

  In fact, I hope they can.

  “Yea, I DID! I did love you.” Brooks is starting to shout back, getting defensive. “And you all but threw me out!”

  “I DID NOT! You left yourself!” I can feel tears swel
ling up from the suppressed depths of my soul.

  OMFG. This is happening, actually happening.

  AGAIN.

  “Were you with her then? When you came to see me?” The disgust is clear in my voice. I think I might vomit if I hear his answer.

  “Em,” he whispers, hardly audible.

  “Were you?” I spit. The room is spinning and I’m fanning myself with my hands.

  “I had met her by then if that’s what you mean,” he says, sighing again and trying to touch my hand. “But nothing had happened yet. I wanted to see you.”

  Suddenly I’m reliving that fateful night. How he showed up drunk to my apartment, slurring and emotional and clearly struggling with himself. I can picture myself in his T-shirt, the way he avoided looking me in the eye afterwards, the way I scooched over to the edge of the bed when he walked to the door.

  The way I didn’t stop him.

  And the strangest fact hits me: We haven’t had sex this year.

  It seems like such a random thought, a ridiculous thing to think at a time like this. But it’s all I can focus on. The last time we slept together was on the moonlit balcony at Château Rosé. I remember trying to freeze-frame it in my mind –a mental snapshot I wanted to be able to take back home with me. And now it’ll be our last time. It will always be our last time.

  I’m 18 again and here we are. I still hate myself more than I hate him. Some things never change.

  You knew, Emmy.

  “I never wanted to hurt you, Ems.” Brooks’s voice is close to me now and I see that he’s trying to reach for my hand. I yank it away.

  “That’s fucking rich. Comforting,” I say in a fake cheery voice. “You know Brooks, I seem to remember we’ve had this exact conversation before.”

  “Here we go. This is your problem Emmy. You can’t let anything go. EVER!” He yells at me, groaning. Fingers running through hair.

  “Well, why let it go when it’s just going to happen again?” I curse again under my breath. “Seems like I fucking knew! I was the only one thinking clearly!”

  And the joke is still on me.

  Maybe it’s the look on his face and that he’s almost close to tears too. Maybe it’s the impending sense of DOOM. But my mind is drudging up memories –images of barns and diamond rings and taco wrappers and bonfires and Brooks’s shoulders as he’s walking away from me.

  Everything I didn’t think I wanted is now gone. It’s replaced with images of Brooks and some fake blonde girl with huge tits and a useless degree in marketing. I hear her screeching laugh through the phone call that Brooks made to me at 2 AM. In my mind it’s the same girl from 10 years ago. The girl I found out about after we mutually departed.

  “I wanted you, Em. Fuck, I wanted you –I wanted US! You just don’t want to be happy,” Brooks says quietly. “Or you won’t let yourself be happy.”

  I stare at the walls. The room somehow feels smaller now, like it’s shrinking or I’m growing too big for the cage. The décor I found soothing earlier is now irritating. The abstract ocean waves swirling, swirling, swirling. My stomach swirls with them.

  Somehow I find my voice. “I’ll be happy one day. It just won’t be with you.”

  Good one, Em.

  “Why did you even bring me down here?” I find myself asking before I can stop. I sound pathetic, I know. Almost like I’m pleading.

  “I thought we needed to talk… in person.” He says, his eyes blank.

  It’s like I’m seeing this look on his face for the first time. How stupid have I been all night to believe he was looking at me the same way he used to. Was I just seeing what I wanted to see? Now I see that he almost looks miserable –pained even.

  “How kind of you! Bring me down here to end things, to… to…” I trail off. I can’t say the words dump me.

  “I wanted to see you one more time,” he says, his head low. Get the fuck out. Like, GTMFO.

  Hearing those words –our words –used in this context, well they almost sound dirty. Tainted.

  “Well, you saw me,” I choke on my salty tears. “Happy?”

  Brooks drops his head in an almost defeated manner. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

  “No. It did.” I whisper.

  I cross the room to where he’s standing. For a second I think I might pause, breathe in his smell one last time, but somehow I manage to keep walking past him, to the door, and out of the room.

  The lobby. That’s how far I got before Brody came to find me. News Flash Star Resorts: You have thin walls. Still, I’m grateful for those paper-thin walls now. I didn’t have much of a plan after walking out on the argument with Brooks. I was relieved when Brody suggested I take his room. He was going to stay with Lauren on the floor below us.

  I took the elevator up with him, noting how nauseous the décor was making me. He gave me his room key and I crawled into bed without showering –my slinky dress-shirt-napkin still melted to my body –my hair still damp with sweat from dancing.

  It seems whack that an hour ago I was exiting the nightclub on a high. That we walked back to the hotel, our silhouettes moving like tiny black ants against the sunrise sky. An hour ago Brooks was threatening to throw me over his shoulder if I didn’t walk in a straight line.

  An hour ago I should have been sleeping with Brooks. Nestled close to him in our room, NOT leaving black mascara smudges against a pillow in Brody’s bed.

  Pull yourself together, bitch.

  The next morning I’m a mess. It’s expected, though. I don’t pretend to think more highly of myself. I wait until I’m certain there’s no movement from Brooks’s room before I open the door conjoining the two suites.

  I’m halfway to my open bag on the ironing board when I hear the shower turn on. The rushing of water floods through me and I might drown. I hear him moving in there. I hear the faucet turn. The glass door opens and then closes. It KILLS me thinking of him on the other side of the door. Naked. Hot. My demi-god.

  The last time we were in a shower together was months ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. I’m pissed at myself for not making sure we showered together every chance we had. I pull my white pants and a coral top from my bag and my wedges sitting right on top.

  I cross the room and go back into Brody’s. I shower and let the steam consume me. It’s easy to pretend I’m across the way showering with Brooks. We’re showering at the same time at least. I wonder if he’s thinking of me as I am of him. Of how good his hands feel on me, how our bodies fit together so perfectly it’s like they were molded together.

  Of course not. He’s thinking of her. My smarter self pushes through. Fuck, this is unhealthy. Suddenly the shower seems like a dirty and disgusting place to me –a place where happy thoughts go to die.

  I change and flip my hair into a bun. My face –well, my face is shit. My mascara has left a brown trail of tears running down both cheeks. Bags under my eyes don’t help. Bloodshot eyes don’t help. I use my finger to brush my teeth. Not risking going back for my toothbrush.

  I’m down to breakfast in 10 minutes. This is the goal. Get in and get out. I sit with Brody and Lauren. I find myself turning edgily in my seat. Brody glances at me every time I do, but he keeps shaking his head. Brooks is nowhere in sight.

  I realize in this moment how much Brody has changed. In some ways he is more mature than his older brother. I am grateful he doesn’t ask any questions. It seems like there’s the unspoken agreement that he’s on my side. That he blames Brooks in all this. I wonder if he feels protective of me too. In a different way, but a safer way. Maybe he’s just used to Brooks and I fighting –arguing –never getting along.

  Then without realizing it I am exploring Brody’s face and finding all the similarities he shares with Brooks. Their hair is the same color, but Brody’s doesn’t hang quite as long, quite as in his face. His eyes don’t have the same hungry fire, but they do have the same gray-blue skies.

  STOP.

  Eat your breakfast and leave.

&nbs
p; That’s what I’m here to do. Two coffees and half a fruit cup later that’s what I do. Get up to leave.

  I stoop to kiss Brody’s cheek and even hug Lauren as I leave. “Tell your father thanks,” I find myself saying as I hug Brody. Fury at Ken resurges through me. “Or don’t.”

  My eyes keep flickering toward the door. Then I realize: I’m going to leave without seeing him. I’m going to leave without seeing Brooks.

  When will I see him again?

  Maybe never.

  The flight home is trash. I’m three hours into it before I realize I’ve completely torn apart the in-flight magazine advertising vacation packages. Everything I see passes in waves of black and white, solid surges devoid of pigment. Drowning.