by Ginger Scott
Our eyes lock as our laughter fades, and I can’t help but hold on to her gaze when it stops completely. I’m suddenly aware of how we appear to the dozens of eyes on us. We look like two young people doing a shit job at pretending not to like each other. We look exactly like what we are.
“Who wants to paint faces?” Hannah’s mom interrupts our truth stare by shoving a paint set and two brushes into view.
“I’m not a very good artist,” I say as Hannah takes the supplies from her mom.
“Then you can be in charge of taking the tickets and helping people pick out their designs.” Mrs. Judge shoves a binder into my chest and I hug it as she walks away, already on to the next task she needs to get handled for the day.
“Your mom seems stressed,” I say, flipping through the pages of the folder she gave me. There are butterflies and flowers and superhero designs all sketched out in colored pencil.
“She’s always stressed out,” Hannah jokes.
I follow her down the series of canopies to a booth right next to the park Hannah and I ran off to whenever we played hide-and-seek with Tommy. She catches me staring at the swings and waves a hand to get my attention.
“Tommy hated it when we did that,” she says, drawing from the same memory.
“He totally did. Served him right, though. He cheated. Fucker always looked while he was counting.”
Hannah sets out the paint supplies and fills a few water cups at the nearby drinking fountain. By the time she gets back, I’ve already taken six tickets and formed a line for her to start painting. I’m flipping through the book with her first customer as she calls him over to take the seat in front of her.
“That one,” the kid says, pointing to the page that shows a football player throwing a ball. The drawing seems kind of intricate.
“You got it,” Hannah says, swirling her brush in the water before dipping it into one of the colors.
“You sure you can do all the things in here?” I ask, flipping through the remaining designs that only seem to get fancier.
“I mean, I drew them in there, so not sure there’s much of a difference,” she says.
I flash my eyes to her then back to the book a few times and she laughs.
“What?” she says.
“I didn’t know you were an artist.” I mean, I knew Hannah could draw decently, well enough to make posters for school and stuff like that, but the images in this book are pretty spectacular. At least, compared to the stick people I can manage.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Dustin Bridges.” She gives me a sideways glance, her lips puckered slightly as a sinister smile plays at them. I don’t argue with her, and I don’t look away. Instead, I wait for her to return her focus to the wiggly boy sitting across from her. Then I watch her work.
Two hours fly by, at least for me. I’m not sure Hannah would agree. She ran out of black and white paint about twenty minutes ago, and she just finished an elaborate fairy design on a kindergartner’s entire face. I notice that all of her water cups are muddied, and since nobody is stepping up with tickets to join her line, I make an executive decision and shut down our booth.
“I think the artist is done for the day. How about you?” I fold up the spare chair and dump the water cups into the grass.
“I agree,” Hannah says, flexing her tired fingers out then shaking her hands. “I think I have carpal tunnel.”
I tuck the binder under my arm and motion for her to give me one of her hands as she stands from her seat. I rub the meat of her palm with my thumbs, squeezing her fingers one at a time, and her eyes flutter shut.
“Dear God, I think you might put me to sleep if you keep this up,” she says.
I take advantage of the moment, looking at her soft lashes as they brush the tops of her cheeks above the satisfied smile that stretches into them. As if under a spell, I lean down and gently press my lips to hers. The second our mouths touch, her hand tenses and she takes a quick step back.
“I thought this was too complicated,” she says, her tone even, soft.
“It is. Incredibly so.” I shrug and look over my shoulder, making note of the people still milling about. We might be out of view of her mom, but everyone at this thing knows the two of us on some level. That’s the thing about a town like this, only two degrees of separation exist between anyone.
“What about our friendship?” she asks. There’s a smugness to her tone, and I look back to her and quickly sink into the pools of blue staring back at me. I swim in her gaze, drown in it. I dive in and come out reborn.
I briefly drop her hand and move to the front of our booth, unlatching the flap meant to block out the sun, giving us privacy. I turn back to stare at this girl I’ve known all my life. Paint speckles dot her arms, a little of it in her hair too. I nod a few times, smiling, and give in. Really, I never had a choice. It was probably always going to play out like this—now, a year from now, someday.
“I think maybe our friendship is the reason this is happening,” I say, reaching forward and taking the white and blue strips of hair between my fingers. I pinch the dried paint and slide it from her hair before dropping the strands and pressing my thumb lightly to her chin. She looks up at me and I can tell she agrees. Hannah has always enjoyed being right. She’s always been the first to say “I told you so.” She was right about us. And though she didn’t say it with words, she said it loud and clear. She said it with her mouth on mine, with her body pressed against me, with the trust she willingly gave me out on that road last night, and in her bedroom when we were all alone.
“This is going to be messy,” I say, closing the space between our lips an inch at a time.
“It already is,” she responds.
I breathe out a laugh and nod again. My eyes dive to her mouth, hands slide along her jaw and into her hair just as she grips a fistful of my T-shirt, the same handful of cotton she gathered up last night. We’re cursed to replay this scene over and over again it seems. If she weren’t so delicious, I’d be able to stop. But she is. She’s sweet like honey, and my body grows hungrier and more dependent on her every time we touch. We probably only have minutes before someone peeks inside or her mom comes to check on the booth.
Minutes.
I thrive in a world of seconds. Milliseconds. When I think about it that way, Hannah and I have all the time in the world. Long enough for me to memorize every sound she makes when I suck in her top lip, bite at the tender skin of her neck, and trace each curve of her back, following the arch all the way down to the inside of her jeans.
This secret, it won’t last forever. Tommy will find out. And he will fucking kill me. But my God, will I die happy.
9
Having a secret like ours is a tantalizing burden. I get why Dustin was afraid. What we’re doing—what we’ve done? It redraws lines. We will never go back to just being the three of us. “The kids,” as my parents used to say. As much as Tommy thinks of Dustin as such, he’s not like a brother to us. At least, not to me. He’s like a fire, a dare that has tempted me since the day I let him cry in my arms when we were kids and his dad showed up to further ruin his life.
Dustin and I will never go back to merely being friends. We simply can’t. More than the fact I don’t want to, I don’t think I could stand having him in our house without the knowledge that we could slip away somewhere or outwait the rest of the house at night to be together. As it is, this simple act of watching a movie with Tommy and my dad on a Sunday afternoon is torture.
My brother sits between us, which is nothing new. But somehow now it feels purposeful, as if he knows he has to chaperone. Dustin must feel it too because he’s extra cautious reaching in the popcorn bowl propped on Tommy’s knees, careful never to dive in for a handful when my hand is there so our fingers never touch. Our chemistry is too rich. I’m convinced any interaction in front of my brother would be sniffed out in an instant.
Tommy picked the movie, one of those heist films with an ensemble c
ast of actors he says I should know but I don’t. My brother is way more into movies than I am. Even now, I’m sure this movie is good, but it’s not as good as the thoughts running through my head about the guy sitting to my brother’s left.
My brother leans forward, rests the half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and hits the pause button on the remote before standing.
“I have to piss,” he says, and my dad tosses a throw pillow at him from the other sofa.
“Language. Your sister is still a lady,” Dad chastises. My mom’s been on Tommy’s ass about his words lately, which is the only reason my dad is reinforcing it. I don’t care how my brother talks in front of me.
“Sure she is,” Tommy chides, picking the pillow up from the floor and stuffing it into my face.
I laugh it off but there was an edge to the way he spoke. Or at least, I think there was. Maybe it’s my heightened paranoia. The second my brother leaves the room, my dad stands and stretches his arms above his head with a big yawn.
“I’m brewing coffee. Anyone want in on it?” My dad points a finger to me first then to Dustin.
“Actually, I’ve got to run to my house soon and check on my mom. She wasn’t doing so good when I left this morning.” Dustin plops his hands on his knees and tenses his shoulders as my dad offers a sympathetic nod and smile. Last night was one of the rare nights he spent at his own home, and only because his mom seemed genuinely sick. I can tell he’s worried, but we haven’t been alone enough to ask many questions.
“Let me know if I can do anything for you, Dustin. We’re always here. You know that, right?” my dad offers.
The two of them share a silent stare that softens both of their eyes. Dustin looks away first, probably before he feels too much from my dad’s genuine love for him. He nods as he stands.
“I do. Yeah, thanks,” he says.
“I can come with you.” I stand about half a second after he does, a move that would probably jack up my brother’s suspicion but to my dad seems utterly normal.
“You don’t have to,” Dustin says, but his eyes connect with mine and relay the exact opposite.
“I’ll let your brother know it’s an extended pause. Maybe he’ll spend the time wisely and clean out the garage like I asked him to a week ago,” my dad mutters on his way to the kitchen.
“You sure?” Dustin mouths. As much as he wants to spend time with me, he doesn’t like exposing me to his house. As much as he’s over being embarrassed by his family, he’s never quite gotten past being ashamed.
I nod and glance over his shoulder then behind me to make sure our coast is clear. I turn back to him and lean into his chest, pressing my palm over his heart while I rise up on the tips of my toes to dust his lips with a soft kiss.
“Positive,” I whisper.
He leans down to let his forehead rest on mine, our noses touching as his eyes shut and he exhales.
“If I mess this up, promise me you’ll kick my ass,” he says.
I chuckle as I step away before we’re caught then cross my heart with my finger and wink.
“I promise.”
“You’re a little too enthused about kicking my ass,” he jokes as he fishes out the keys from his pocket and heads to our door. We’ve almost escaped to the front porch before my brother pulls the door wide open behind us.
“Where you guys goin’?” Tommy’s eyes shift from Dustin to me.
He knows.
“I have to check on my mom. Hannah was gonna come, be a witness or whatever,” Dustin says with a shrug. He plays it off so naturally, I’m impressed. I wonder if he’s calculating every word he says in front of my brother as much as I am.
“Oh, hang on. I’ll come too,” Tommy says, dashing back inside to grab his shoes.
Dustin lets out a full breath in my brother’s absence as his gaze falls to mine.
“Sorry,” he says.
I shrug.
“It’s fine. Just means I can’t hold your hand in the car and call you my boyfriend is all,” I say, lifting a shoulder. His eyes flare a little at the boyfriend part.
My brother busts through the door before we have a chance to delve further into that topic. Probably for the best. What we are is a lengthier conversation, one shrouded in pinky promises and covert intimacy. Even if we can’t publicly declare it, I still want to know exactly where we stand—where I stand, with him. I know exactly what Dustin is to me.
When it’s three of us, we never ride together in Dustin’s car. It has nothing to do with my brother wanting to keep me safe. In this case, it’s a matter of logistics. Three people of average size fitting in a Supra is, well, fucking impossible. As limber as I am, I don’t want to fold my knees up to my neck just to drive a few miles to the north. We all pile into my brother’s car, and I slip into the back seat, letting Dustin have the passenger side. It all seems so normal, as if we’re making a run to the convenience store for snacks, only I’m acutely aware of the remaining scent of Dustin’s cologne, and the way the back of his hair curls at the base of his neck because it’s in need of a cut I secretly don’t want him to get.
My brother pulls out of our driveway and I turn my attention to the stream of photos on my social media apps on my phone, lurking on the ones people took at the Straights Friday night. Someone caught a shot of Dustin and me sitting in his car. We’re wordless, staring at one another. This is just before my brother tore Dustin a new asshole. This moment was true bliss. I capture a screenshot of it.
“Hey, so . . . about Friday night,” my brother begins. His forehead is wrinkled. I sit up tall to catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, instantly panicked that he’s bringing up Friday.
“Forget about it,” Dustin says, leaning forward and turning up the music. I smirk to myself. He’s not going to give my brother a chance to rehash me being involved in the race, their ensuing fight about it, or my brother getting shitfaced and leaving us with his messy-ass self to get home.
Tommy continues on for the next mile, seeming to drop it as Dustin asked, but when we get to a stoplight he turns the music down and rests his hand over the stereo controls, almost as if guarding them from Dustin turning the music back up.
“Just . . . let me say this,” he grits out, frustrated and maybe a little embarrassed. My brother likes to talk with his hands when he’s uncomfortable, and right now, he’s pretty much all hands.
Dustin sighs.
“Fine.”
My brother’s jaw works, a trait he exhibits when he’s trying to spit out something he doesn’t want to say. He’s going to apologize; I can feel it. It won’t be obvious, like an “I’m sorry.” Tommy Judge doesn’t put words out there that might be used against him in the future. But he’ll be frank enough.
“I was a dick,” my brother says.
Yeah, that’s spot on.
“Like I said, forget—” Dustin begins, getting cut off by one of my brother’s gesticulations.
“I got piss-ass drunk because I knew you would resent it. To hurt you, really, because I don’t like my sister being put at risk. That wasn’t cool. And thank you for cleaning up my vomit,” my brother says, never making full eye contact with Dustin. His eyes shift over his shoulder to me and dim when he catches my smirk.
It’s sweet that he worries about me. But I was never in danger. I knew I wasn’t. Now’s not the time for me to say that to him, though. Now’s the time for his sorry-less apology to be accepted.
Dustin reaches over with a fist, holding it out for my brother to land his own on top of. He does with a breathy laugh of relief.
“We’re cool,” Dustin says, and my brother relaxes back in his seat. “I didn’t clean up your vomit, though.”
Tommy’s head slingshots to the side. He definitely vomited. A few times.
“Yeah, saved it for you. Not gonna tell you where, either,” Dustin deadpans. My brother deserves this.
“Shit,” Tommy mutters under his breath.
We all bust out laughing about it after
a few seconds, and for a moment, we’re those three kids we always were. Maybe this can work after all. Maybe, eventually, my brother will accept what my heart needs.
Any morsel of comfort is swept away the second we pull in front of Dustin’s family’s trailer. Flashing lights glare brightly, even under the harsh noon sun. The back of an ambulance is wide open, doors slung out on either side.
Dustin flings his door open and takes off in a sprint before we’re fully stopped, his voice breaking as he yells out, “Mom!” Tommy abruptly halts the car, choking us with our safety belts before we’re thrown back into our seats.
“This isn’t good,” my brother says.
I unbuckle and pull the handle of my door, but before I get out, my brother spins in his seat and holds up a palm.
“Just wait. Let him deal with this. It might be bad in there.” The crease in my brother’s forehead is deep. I meet his worried eyes with what I’m sure are terrified ones of my own.
“That’s exactly why I need to go in there, Tommy!” I shake my head and continue my way out the door. My brother gives in, following me as we take cautious steps around the side of the trailer to the oil-stained driveway. It’s littered with abandoned car parts and pans from work Dustin’s done here, and things Colt left behind. At least six cats huddle underneath the home, their eyes glowing from the daylight while they hide in the shadows. I wonder if Dustin’s mom has been feeding them.
“County, we’ve got a nine-oh-one N coming in, code three,” a voice says from just inside the door. Dustin and I remain at the bottom of the small set of porch steps, and I wrap my right hand around my throat out of fear for what’s happening inside.
“Can I go with you? Or do I need to drive myself? What do I do?” Dustin’s voice displays rare panic. It breaks me, and tears well in my eyes. Tommy’s mouth is a hard line, and his chest stopped moving. He’s holding his breath.