by Jen Wilde
And yet we keep dancing around each other, avoiding any conversation about what’s happening between us. Probably because neither of us has any idea what we’re doing. I sure don’t. All I know for sure is that I don’t want it to end. God, I wish we were still in Hawaii. No rules applied there. I could walk up to him and ask him to kiss me, and he would do it. And it would be totally cool.
But we’re not in Hawaii anymore. The vacation is over, and so is all the fun we had. I quietly curse myself for coming up with the bright idea of putting a geographical perimeter around our kisses.
We sit at the kitchen island and eat while we take turns guessing what Ryan is doing.
“Working on his memoirs,” Alfie says, taking a bite of his burger.
“Working on his guns,” I say, flexing my arm muscles and pretending to kiss them.
Alfie laughs, but then he gasps. “What if he’s seeing another band?”
“Oh my god!” I say. “I bet it’s a prettier band, too. A band with a harp and a double bass and a saxophone.”
“You think he’s cheating on us with an orchestra?” he asks, trying to hold back his laughter.
I nod, smirking. “A big one, too. I bet he’s with the whole strings section right now.”
His eyes widen. “No, Emmy! Not the strings section.” He drops his burger and covers his eyes with his hands, pretending to cry. “Anything but the strings section!”
“Face it, Alfie,” I say, sighing. “We’ve lost him to the Los Angeles Philharmonic. He’s probably making sweet, sweet music with them right now.”
Alfie drapes himself across Chloe’s marble counter, howling with laughter and fake tears. I have a half-eaten fry in my mouth but can’t swallow it because I’m laughing so hard. I throw him a napkin, and he dabs at his eyes.
“How dare he,” he says. “Asshole.”
“Stop,” I say, clutching my stomach. “Stop making me laugh. I can’t breathe.”
He holds his palms up innocently, but the expression on his face is anything but innocent. I wipe my eyes again, and when I look up at him he’s got two French fries tucked in front of his gums, hanging out of his mouth like walrus teeth. I crack up again.
“You’re such a loser,” I say. He throws a fry at me, but I dodge it.
He takes a sip of his Coke, letting me finally catch my breath.
“You know,” Alfie says, looking deep in thought. “I’ve hardly heard from Ry at all since we got back to LA. Have you?”
I think back. “Not really.”
His forehead wrinkles in concern. “You think he’s okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He had the time of his life in Hawaii. I’ve never seen him so happy.”
“I thought he’d be itching to get back to work,” he says. “We haven’t had a jam session since before the Pride show.”
“Oh!” I jump off the bar stool and run over to my guitar. “That’s what my song’s about. You ready to hear it?”
He wipes the salt off his hands. “Go for it.”
I settle the guitar strap on my shoulder and take in a deep breath. “Remember,” I say. “I just finished this, and it needs to be workshopped, like a lot. It’s called ‘ILY,’ as in I love you.”
He nods, and I start playing. I close my eyes as the lyrics pour out of me, filling the house with my voice.
Cover me in love, cover me in ink …
… cover me in kisses till we’re so in sync …
… I love who I love who I love who I love …
… I am who I am who I am who I am …
I can’t wait to finish this track and sing it in front of a crowd. I know that whenever I sing it I’ll think of the night I came out and be filled with pride.
When it’s over, I open my eyes and look at Alfie for his reaction. A slow smile spreads across his face, and he claps. “I love it,” he says. “And I think all those people who were at that concert are going to lose their shit when they hear it.”
I’m beaming. “I hope so.” I put my guitar back on the stand.
“They will, for sure,” Alfie says. “It’s like a love song to our fans.” He walks around the island and gives me a bear hug. His oversized hoodie is soft on my cheek, and I breathe in his cologne.
“God, you smell good,” I blurt out. I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed.
“Thanks,” he says into my neck, giving me goosebumps. “So do you.”
Our hug lingers. My heart thumps harder. My mouth goes dry. I don’t want to let him go.
“I have a song, too,” he says, releasing me. “Interested?”
“Sure,” I say. He picks up his guitar and goes into the living area to sit on the couch. I follow and sit on the coffee table across from him.
He plucks a few strings and clears his throat. “I’ve been working on it since Hawaii. It’s called ‘Where There’s Smoke.’ It’s about…” He trails off, looking me in the eyes. “You know what? I think I’ll just let it speak for itself.”
He starts playing, and I lean forward, ready to listen.
Skin burned …
… from your touch.
… little taste …
… new addiction …
Where there’s smoke …
.… . there’s fire.
Skin hot like a chili pepper …
… eyes like truth or dare …
What fools we were …
… to think that we …
… could leave it there …
… by the sea.
The last note fades into silence. When Alfie opens his eyes, they’re full of heat. I feel my pulse in my fingers, my tongue, my lips. No one’s ever written a song about me before. The lyrics were so drenched with desire that I can practically see the hunger on his face. There’s a tightness in my chest, like my own hunger is devouring my heart, eating me up from the inside.
His song was a question for me, and I know the perfect way to answer it. I reach out and grab his guitar, using it to pull him closer, and then I crush my mouth to his. He kisses me back right away, like he’s been waiting for this ever since we stepped foot off that yacht.
I rest a hand on the guitar and lean over him, kissing him harder. He sinks into the couch, tilting his chin up and taking my face in his hands. My hand slips off the guitar, dragging down the strings.
“Wait,” he says. He kisses me once more, then lifts the strap from around his neck and puts the guitar on the coffee table behind me, freeing up the space between us. Then he takes my hands and pulls me onto the couch. I notice something on his mouth and suppress my laughter. He raises an eyebrow.
“What?” he asks, touching his face.
“I got glitter on you.” I dab some of it off his mouth with my thumb and show him.
He smiles, the glitter sparkling along his bottom lip. “How does it look?” He bats his eyelashes and pouts.
My eyes narrow. “Hot. As usual.”
“Maybe it can be my new thing.” He flicks his hair back theatrically.
I punch him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, jerk. Glitter is my thing.”
He frowns and rubs his shoulder. “All right, chill,” he says as he pokes me in the stomach. “If you don’t want me to wear your secondhand glitter, stop kissing me.”
I smirk. “Says the kid who literally wrote a song about how much he wants to kiss me again.”
He sees my smirk and raises me a smug grin. “Please, that song could be about anyone.”
Determined to win this game of flirty banter, I stand up from the couch and start walking away. “Fair enough,” I say. “I’ll just go sprinkle my glitter somewhere else, then.”
He groans and catches hold of my wrist as I walk by, then looks up
at me with pleading eyes. “Stay.”
My heart melts. I lean over him, kissing him upside down. Glitter falls from my hair into his like a tiny, sparkly avalanche. He rolls over and kneels on the couch so we’re at eye level, then wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me in until we’re chest to chest.
“Okay, so maybe that song was about you,” he says, giving me that same look from the first night we kissed on the yacht.
“Me? I had no idea,” I say sarcastically.
He sighs. “It’s true. It’s you who’s hot as a chili pepper.”
“Eyes like truth or dare?” I ask.
He smiles. “You like that line, huh? That’s one of my faves, too.”
“I love it,” I say. “And I love the chorus, too.”
He starts singing. “What fools we were / To think that we / Could leave it there / By the sea.”
I shake my head slowly. “What fools we were.”
He nudges my nose with his, and my lips tingle with expectation.
“So,” he says quietly, his voice low. “Looks like this is happening. Again.”
I nod. “Looks like.” I drape my arms over his shoulders. His hands feel so good on my waist.
He gives me a half smile. “Making out never hurt anyone, right? What’s a little fun between friends?”
“Right,” I say. “There’s no shame in it. We’re both single. It’s nothing serious.”
He brushes his mouth over mine. “Right. Just a little fun.”
“Just a little,” I whisper.
And then he kisses me, and I start to wonder if I might be falling for him.
Just a little.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next day, I wake up in bed alone.
“Alfie?” I whisper, not wanting Chloe to hear. No answer. I sit up and stretch. “Hey, Alfie?” I say a little louder. Still nothing. He must have gone home. I don’t know how to feel about that. I run my fingers over the glitter scattered over my sheets, wondering if I even have a right to be upset that he left. We’re not a couple. We didn’t even have sex. We just played music and made out. A lot. I didn’t ask him to stay, but when I fell asleep with him spooning me, I hoped he would.
Random pieces of paper are scattered around the room. Some are crumpled up into balls and others are highlighted and scrawled on with notes. We workshopped “ILY” all night. It still needs some more fine-tuning, but what we have so far is a pretty cool punk-rock anthem of gratitude for all the Brightsiders in the world. A few more late nights like this and it’ll be perfect, but right now it has good bones, and for that I’m proud.
The time on my phone says 1:45, and considering we didn’t go to sleep until sunrise, I’m not surprised.
A knock on the front door interrupts my thoughts, and I race downstairs and open it with a smile, hoping to see Alfie.
“Hey,” Chloe says, smiling. “Forgot my key.”
“And where have you been all night?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
They walk past me, avoiding all eye contact. “I may have … accidentally … kinda sorta…” They pause to clear their throat. “Slept with Paris last night.”
My jaw drops. Chloe tries to make a run for it to the stairs, and I chase after them.
“Oh no way,” I call. “You can’t just spring that on me and run away!”
They start to laugh and sit on a lower step, letting their hair fall over their eyes. “Don’t judge me.”
I sit next to them and drape an arm over their shoulders. “I would never. But you gotta give me something here.”
“I made a mistake,” they say, their head falling back over my arm. “She’s supposed to be in New York! But she was at Bar 161 last night, and the second I saw her I knew I was in trouble.” They let out a long sigh. “It was wild, though. Like, hot as fuck. But it cannot happen again.”
Paris is Chloe’s kryptonite. I don’t blame them for going all weak in the knees around her; Paris is a Victoria’s Secret model who is fluent in four languages and speaks with a British accent. I mean, come on. But all she and Chloe did when they were together was fight and have sex. I lost count of all the times I received distraught texts from Chloe, telling me about the latest argument they’d had with Paris. Eventually, it became too much and Chloe ended it, but it broke their heart.
“Em,” they say, “if you ever see me and Paris in the same room, you gotta get me the hell out of there. No matter how much I want to hook up with her again. Okay?”
I nod. “I got you.”
“Uggghhhhh,” Chloe moans. “Maybe we need a new rule: Just. Say. No.”
We both start laughing, and I’m relieved to see they’re not letting this upset them too much.
“Hey,” I say, pulling them in closer, “if it helps, I’m pretty sure I’ve broken all of our other rules at least once already.”
They laugh some more. “That does help. I guess we can’t expect to have it down instantly. As Paris would say, It’s a journey, you know?” Chloe does their impression of Paris, raising their voice an octave or two. “Live, laugh, love!”
We laugh so hard that tears run down our cheeks. Chloe leans forward, slapping a hand on their thigh, but then stops suddenly when they look at me.
“What?” I ask, swiping my fingers under my nose. “Do I have something on my face?”
Chloe narrows their eyes and grins. “Not on your face, no.” They point to my neck. “Is that a hickey?”
I slap my hands over my throat. “What? No.”
They squeal, trying to pry my hands away. “It fucking is! Don’t lie, Emmy. I know what a hickey looks like.”
“Shut up.” I run over to the mirror in the hallway and inspect the damage. Chloe’s right; there’s a splotchy purple mark just under my jawline.
Chloe stands behind me, smirking at me in the mirror and folding their arms. “Tell me everything.”
Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. “Um,” I mumble.
They hug me from behind, giggling. “Whose handiwork is that?”
My cheeks burn red. “No one.”
They groan impatiently. “Oh lord, please don’t tell me it was Jessie. I swear to God, Em.”
“No!” I say. “It wasn’t her, don’t worry.” But hearing her name jolts me a little. It hasn’t even been two weeks since we broke up, but she’s hardly entered my mind since. Huh. Maybe I wasn’t as in love with her as I thought.
Chloe starts typing on their phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
They grin. “Texting Kass. She’s gonna love this.”
I make a move for their phone, but they dodge out of the way, holding it up over their head. Damn them and their long legs.
“Stop it!” I whine. “Staaahhhhhhp!” I fight them for it, wrestling them to the floor while we laugh and scream and swear.
Just then, Alfie walks through the front door with two Starbucks coffees in his hands. He stops like a deer in headlights when he sees us rolling around on the floor.
“What’s … happening?” he asks.
“Sent!” Chloe sings, waving their phone in my face. They see Alfie and give him a lazy wave. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“Umm,” he says, his gaze darting between me and Chloe.
“I asked Alfie to come over,” I say as we climb to our feet, “so we could workshop some new songs.”
Chloe nods, fixing their hair in the mirror. “Cool.”
Alfie acts casual, carrying the coffees past us and into the kitchen. We follow and sit at the island.
“Check out Em’s hickey,” Chloe teases, pulling my hair out of the way so he can see it.
He smirks. “Impressive.”
“She won’t tell me who gave it to her, though,” they say, then elbow me in the side. “Very suspect.”
Alfie nods. “Very.” We give each other knowing looks.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say, taking a sip.
He holds his cup up like he’s giving a toast. “That really is one i
mpressive hickey. That mystery biter must be pretty talented.”
I give him the finger.
“Fiiiiine,” Chloe says. “If you’re not gonna share, I’m going to take a shower. I’ll text the gang later and tell them to come here before we go to the party.”
“Cool,” I say.
Alfie furrows his brow after Chloe disappears upstairs. “Party?”
“The Halloween party,” I say. “It’s tonight, remember?”
He slaps his forehead with his hand. “Shit! I was supposed to pick up my costume yesterday. I gotta go.”
He collects his keys and his coffee and says good-bye. On his way out of the kitchen, he leans in and gives me a passionate, unexpected kiss that takes my breath away. I stare after him wide-eyed as he walks down the hall. He looks at me over his shoulder, giving me a cute wink before heading out the door.
I run upstairs for a shower, and as the hot water runs down my skin, I can’t get Alfie off my mind. I feel like my world has turned on its axis, and now I can’t get my balance. Last night, I could have sworn I was falling in love. But now, in the light of day, I’m not so sure. My heart is yo-yoing inside me, the string getting twisted around my ribs, tying my insides in knots. I can’t be in love with him. Loving him like that makes everything suddenly so complicated, and what we’re doing is just meant to be fun.
Maybe I’m overthinking this. Maybe my relationship with Jessie ended so badly that I’m desperate to fall in love, because that means I’ve moved on. And if I’ve moved on then Jessie can’t hurt me anymore.
I rest my head on the cool tiles of the shower wall, frustrated with myself. My mind is spinning in circles, searching for something stable to hold on to. I just want not to hurt anymore, and Alfie has never hurt me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I may have gone a tad overboard with the hairspray. But every hair on my black wig is in place, perfectly quiffed, so it’s worth a little suffocation. I pop the collar on my jacket and run my contouring brush over my jawline one more time. I’ve spent over an hour trying to create the perfect Travolta chin dimple.