Rash and Rationality

by Ellen Mint

  “Eldon Dashwood?” Brandy repeated his brother’s name as if they had to have another that lived in the attic and killed every full moon. “Your brother…committed underage drinking?”

  Marty laughed so hard at the shock in her voice. “Don’t let him fool you with his uptight act. He could get into deep shit when he wanted. Just usually made sure I was around to siphon off some of the blame. And it always worked, now that I think about it.”

  “What happened? With the beer. Did you get away with it?” She sat on the edge of her seat, enraptured with his tale of teenage malfeasance.

  “Of course not. My parents caught us before we even finished the first one. Ooh, it was the apocalypse after that. Real wrath of God, rain of fire. I was grounded for… Come to think of it, I think I’m still grounded.”

  “Then,” Brandy said, reaching over and yanking his beer away, “I’ll have to confiscate this from you. Law breaker.”

  “Please, no. I’m just a misguided youth who was led astray by cruel hooligans. Take pity upon this lost soul, kind lady,” Marty cried in pure telenovela drama fashion. He even clasped his hands together and prayed to her.

  She gave him another laugh, one of hundreds of the night, and handed the beer back. “I had my first beer after prom. We all snuck out to a field and sat in the back of Kevin’s truck.” Her voice tapered at the end and she stared off into the distance.

  There was that ghost again, always butting in whenever Brandy dared to let herself have a bit of fun. Marty didn’t say anything, but he cursed the dead a little for wrecking the living’s life. “No way was I touching alcohol for prom. My mom actually got a real breathalyzer from some cop and she threatened to test me every hour. If anything came up, I wouldn’t be seen for a year.”

  “She did not.” Sweet, naive Brandy defended the woman who ruled her children like a lioness—proud, brave and liable to crush their skulls in her jaws if they ever acted out.

  “I didn’t mind. I was far too busy to care about breaking the rules, what with the magical night I had planned.”

  She licked her lips, Marty watching with more interest than usual. “Knowing you, there must have been a lot.”

  “Corsage, serious tux with tails and a top hat. A lobster dinner at a real restaurant, because it just wasn’t prom without lobster.”

  “Was there a limo?”

  “Took me two summers to save up enough,” Marty said, remembering the massive thorns that had burrowed into his flesh from all the yard work. “And I got her friends to swap the songs on her phone so it’d only play the one I wrote to ask her out. As well as a little poem I wrote comparing her beauty to a summer’s day. May have cribbed from the Bard for that, but I was young and a delinquent.”

  “Wow,” she said shaking her head and staring at her hands. “You must have really cared for that girl.”

  “I…” He had liked her enough, liked her even more when she’d said yes. But it hadn’t grown to anything like he’d hoped. “I wanted to make prom special.”

  He felt a great disturbance in the universe and turned to find Brandy’s face telling him to rethink what he’d said.

  “Oh God, no. Not like that kind of special. If you think my mom would kill me over a beer, I can’t even imagine what she’d do if I’d been a teenage father. Seriously, I don’t think a punishment has been invented yet that would fit.”

  She patted her knee as if trying to stomp out more confounding awkwardness. They didn’t talk about sex, but they didn’t not joke about it either. There was always some risqué innuendo between them. How is this anything new?

  “Can I ask you something?” Her voice was soft and tempered, as if she was prepared to pull back if he said no.

  “If it’s about my first time, I’d describe it as awkward, messy and narrated by David Attenborough.”

  “It’s not that. I don’t…” There went her lip again, all wet and glistening. “You put in so much work. Far more work than any other man I’ve known, and I’m always amazed at it. With girls. With dating.”

  “Maybe I love romance,” Marty announced to the world. “Maybe my heart beats for love and all I crave is to have it returned in kind.”

  “Yeah, but you can still be loved without having to go all out and rent yourself a uni— A limo.”

  He heard the unspoken unicorn in her sentence, Eldon’s damn ear worm burrowing deeper into his psyche. But Marty shook it off. Brandy had no idea what seed his brother was sowing—she didn’t mean anything by this.

  Dropping his half-empty beer onto the coffee table, Marty tried to chew on her thoughts. “Can I, though?” slipped from his lips. He heard a soft gasp, as if Brandy was about to launch into a long list of his becoming traits. Any other day, any other mood, he’d have let her. But the combination of exhaustion and alcohol tweaked his tongue enough that he let the deepest buried truths free.

  “I’m not an idiot. I figured out real quick that most girls, when drawing up their Prince Charming, don’t want a short brown boy with wild hair and giant feet. Didn’t help either that there was Eldon, already six feet tall when he was only fifteen. Skinny as shit, but then he had to go and pick up a sport too.”

  He scratched at his nose, certain that the sniffle was just a bit of an allergy and nothing more. “Eldon gets to be the whitest damn Latino, and I’m trying to not get called a drug dealer while cruising around on the playground in my Big Wheel.” And what does he do with all his perfect gifts from God? Locks himself in his room with books for friends. If it weren’t for Elena all but dragging him out on a date, it was doubtful Eldon would even glance at a woman.

  “So you’re romantic to…to beat your brother?” Brandy asked.

  “Nah. I had Eldon beat when I was the most adorable baby ever born. It just…it’s nice, ya know, romancing someone. Watching her eyes light up, her mouth quiver, her breath gasp as she realizes all my hard work. As I sweep her off her feet and she knows she can trust that I’ll always be her prince.”

  It was how he’d survived college, the Don Juan of the dorms. Always dropping off long-stemmed roses to girls who’d had a bad time. Leaving little notes of encouragement before tests. Waiting for her to see him for what he was. But everyone’s relationships had seemed to be in a confounding state of flux. There’d been more than a few fights with jealous boyfriends who’d wanted to rearrange his nose for him. Most he’d talked himself out of, but it had cooled his ‘romance fishing’ technique.

  “Is it so wrong to want to be loved?” he sighed to himself and hoisted the beer back into his hand. While he drenched his sorrows, Brandy watched.

  “Janeth, I…I hope she knows what she’s got with you.”

  Odd. He’d been more than happy to take every opportunity to name-drop his girlfriend, but in the oasis of Brandy’s apartment, he didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to think about her. But he put on a smile. “I’m sure she does.”

  Brandy’s face shifted, but not to anything he could understand. Her emotions faded in and out so fast he couldn’t keep track. What nearly sent Marty reeling was the guilt in her eyes.

  Because she’d lost her one true love.

  She has to sit here on her couch listening to you blather on about how amazing romance is with a broken heart. Probably forever.

  “I’m so—” Marty began.

  Brandy finished with, “…sorry.”

  They both laughed at the synchronicity, leaning their foreheads closer together. He felt the heat of her body nearly against his and watched her eyes soften to a heartfelt smile. Raising his hand in the air, Marty could almost feel it being tugged to her cheek. To hold her safe in his hand and take those struggling lips in a….

  “That wall isn’t going to paint itself,” he declared, leaping to his feet. Whoa! Said minty green wall spun around him, but he got a good grip on his head. The sudden rise in vertigo required his full attention, and not the idea that he’d nearly… Nah, he didn’t. He’d just been going to wipe more sauce off her face. Wi
th his lips.

  Fuck.

  Brandy, unaware of what he’d nearly done, rose. She placed her quarter-finished beer on the table. “I supposed I’d better help.”

  “Have no faith in me?”

  “If it’s all the same, I don’t think you want to stay the night.”

  A hot flush crawled across his body. Thank God for his natural deep tan to help mitigate it. Still, he couldn’t escape the pinching in his chest as he watched Brandy—his good friend—smile at him. Laugh with him.

  Marty shook his head, trying to clear away whatever fog kept creeping back in. “I dunno, I’m great at slumber parties. Know the best scary stories and can braid better than any ten-year-old.”

  Chuckling, Brandy slapped a hand around his shoulder and twisted him to the wall. “I’ll be sure to hide your bra in the freezer then.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  She’d feared her tongue would slip the second Marty came over, and unload everything about Janeth on him. For a brief second, Brandy had almost dismissed his request to paint the wall with the excuse that she’d already done it. But, thank God, she was a terrible liar, to the point of not even bothering.

  This was…nice.

  Marty took command of the remote, flipping through potential background movies until he switched to one of the few music stations. Motown piped through her little apartment, causing her hips to sway as she worked the roller up and down the wall. Marty stood beside her, attempting to put his tiny brush to work and only covering a tenth of what she could.

  “I’m going to beat you,” Brandy declared.

  “Only because you stole that,” he complained, pausing in his artistic swipes at a flat wall. With paintbrush perched on his hip, he pointed at the roller that was constantly splattering paint back at her. Fat drops landed in her hair, but Marty somehow avoided all the spray. Maybe he was just that lucky.

  Brandy dipped the roller through the paint tray. “I can’t steal what I bought. Not my fault you brought a tiny tool for a big job.”

  “Ouch,” Marty scoffed. “I’ll have you know it’s not the size of the tool but the consistency and rhythm of the strokes that matters.” He cracked a smile at her and heat burned across her face. Had to be her damn apartment and the shitty air conditioning.

  So much exercise in a tight space with two bodies…it was no wonder she felt flushed. Struggling to reach the ceiling, Brandy pushed harder against the wall. A large swipe of gross yellow lingered above their heads. “Damn it!” she gasped, straining on her toes and making no progress.

  Her blackmailed man paused in his delicate strokes to watch her. The flush returned again, causing her to break out in fully flustered sweats. Uncertain what to do, Brandy kept trying to reach what she couldn’t get.

  “Here,” Marty said. “Trade?” He passed her the small brush and took the roller for himself. Starting where she’d already greened up the wall, Marty began to inch the paint higher. A slick roll scattered over the yellow, but the line was light and left a two-inch gap above their heads.

  He gritted his teeth and took a step closer, straining his hand far above his head. Out of ideas, Brandy stepped back and watched Marty. It was obvious he couldn’t get any farther past what she’d done, but he didn’t seem to want to give up.

  She’d never thought of him as short. Okay, compared to the average guy, he was smaller. But it didn’t matter, not to be her friend. Not to be her…not to work in the shop. He never seemed to have that little-Napoleon complex, like a chihuahua trying to bite a Great Dane’s ankles. To think it bothered him to the point he felt like he had to prove himself with a cheating…

  And there you go, thinking it’s your job to fix his relationship.

  What? You’ll slot into the place where Janeth was kicked out of? Like you’re ready for that.

  Too much pizza and alcohol sloshed about inside her, unsettling her stomach. Brandy reached to touch it, when she caught the paint-soaked brush in her hands. That would have been quite the mess—

  “Ah!” Marty cried, and his straining tiptoes collapsed. He splattered right onto the wall that was coated in wet paint.

  “Oh no.” Brandy dashed to his side, but it was too late. A great smear of mint green covered the entire front of his black T-shirt. Marty held up his hands, showing one stained palm too. The other clung to the roller and he stared in shock at the mess he’d made.

  A strange smile rose on his lips and he took a step closer. “Brandy, come here.”

  “What?”

  “Give me a big hug!” he said, flailing both hands.

  She took a step back and knocked right into the damn stool she’d moved so they could reach the ceiling in the first place. Movement in her peripheral vision caused her to turn back to find Marty advancing.

  “Don’t you dare,” she warned, shaking the brush at him.

  He snickered at the empty threat. “Come on. It’s tradition.”

  “No, it’s not,” she shouted, laughter escaping. Marty lunged for her, but Brandy was quicker and ducked under his arms. He spun around but kept lumbering toward her like a reanimated corpse.

  “Of course it is. The Fourth of July hug.”

  “Stop!” She full-on giggled, running for her kitchen. Marty was quick on her heels, his entire torso glistening from the wet paint.

  What was she doing in here? The stove and counters trapped her in place, pinning her between escape and Marty. He winked and—in his smoldering voice—said, “Don’t you want to be wrapped up in these arms?”

  Yes.

  And she hated herself for it.

  “Here.” Yanking a towel off the stove, she wiped at Marty’s hand. That seemed to slow the charging beast. His minty-green belly showed, but it stopped the attack. Instead, he stood silent as she wet the towel and kept cleaning him off.

  “So you don’t…” Brandy glanced away from his nearly spotless palm up into his face. A breath rolled between his barely parted lips and his Adam’s apple dropped.

  Shaking off the rise in her body, she said, “So you don’t make a mess of my place.”

  “Too late for my shirt,” Marty said with an accepting sigh. “Well, don’t want to be a poor guest.” And, before she could get another towel to sponge off the paint, he gripped the neck of his shirt and yanked it off.

  Holy crap. Shame tried to direct her to look anywhere but at the half-naked man attempting to rinse off the paint. But she couldn’t escape the pull. Instead of the nearly full spread of man fur of her dream, he only had a light smattering that was a softer brown than his head hair. It dashed halfway across his rounded pecs, then pointed straight down his flat stomach. Even with a giant pizza sitting in there, she could make out a hint of a four-pack flush to his half-moon belly button. And it was sexier than anything she could have dreamed.

  “You, uh…” Marty swallowed hard, his voice tenuous as he stared at her. “Find anything?”

  Shit. He caught me. “That scar on your…um.” She pointed to his side, because even acknowledging that he had a set of lats twisted her tongue into knots.

  “Oh, that.” He laughed, drawing a thumb down the stark white line amongst a sea of brown. “You wouldn’t believe how I got it.”

  “Eldon’s doing?”

  “No, this was all me. I…” Marty paused in caressing his old memory and turned to her. The friend, the confidant, the widowed coworker staring at his half-naked body. “I’ll tell you about it some other time. For now, there is a wall to subdue!”

  Brandy smiled, all laughs as he jumped to the paint and this time used the stool to climb up near the ceiling. So he’s shirtless. It was an accident.

  “Are you coming to help, or do you intend to sit in a chair watching me work up a sweat while you sip wine?”

  A nice deck chair, Marty in low-slung jeans holding a rake. No, by the pool and he’d just emerged from the water. Droplets shimmering on his skin and he wore a tiny pair of…

  “As if. You need me to keep you from messing it all u
p,” Brandy said, getting a laugh from him. Shaking off her foolish fantasy, she moved to join him. But before she left the kitchen, she shut off the water on his soaking shirt.

  Rather than dive back into painting, Marty stood above a pint can, glaring down as if it’d wronged him. Brandy paused from lifting her backup brush to watch him point at the smaller can, then to the half-used gallon. “What’s this baby for? So the mama doesn’t get lonely?”

  Brandy laughed and, with her screwdriver, cracked open the can. Brown the hue and vibrancy of melted milk chocolate rested inside. “It’s for the accents,” she said, pointing to the various edges where the walls connected. “Something I saw online, to give the room an old-world feel.”

  “And you didn’t trust me to do it?” Marty gasped as if she’d wounded him.

  She dipped the brush into the brown paint, barely soaking it into the bristles before she rose. Marty watched, his dignity on the line. Twisting the brush in her hand, Brandy stepped closer. Her hand glanced against his, about to pass over the brush, when she said, “No.”

  “Traitor!” Marty cried in faux indignity. He reached for the brush, but she wasn’t having it. Laughing, Brandy tried to leap back from his range, only for Marty to swipe against the bristles.

  Drops of brown splattered off the brush onto her body. She froze, her arms locking in place as cold paint clung to her face, chest and arms. Oh, and her tank top. Of course.

  She expected Marty to break into laughter, but he wore a slightly concerned look. “Let me help,” he said, and excised a white handkerchief from his jeans.

  The only thing that surprised her about Marty carrying an old-fashioned kerchief around was the fact that she hadn’t seen it before. He swiped at her upper arm, smearing the brown paint in a line to connect her freckles. “Damn it,” Marty cursed, trying again.

  “Here, you have to dab it.” She tried to reach for it to do it herself, but Marty clung to his white linen.

  “Please, let me.” He blotted now, pulling more paint free, and Brandy tried to stand perfectly still. It wasn’t easy as Marty moved from her arms across her chest.