Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1)

by Jennifer Millikin

  Watching the timed twirling and foot stomping, I say “I don’t know how to do...whatever that is.”

  “Me neither. But we can make our own dance.” Isaac pulls my hand, spinning me in to him. I grunt as I catch myself on his chest.

  My hands move to his shoulders. The scent coming off his neck is dizzying. He smells sweet but also spicy, clean but a bit like a forest. He paints a design on the small of my back with his fingertips, making me shiver despite the heat of the bodies around us.

  The longer we dance, the harder it is to remember where we are, and suddenly I wonder if we look like that couple I watched when I arrived tonight.

  I lean in even closer, cupping Isaac’s cheek, and whisper, “I’m ready to leave.”

  Isaac’s fingers trail over the back of my neck, across my shoulder, and down to my hand. His face is next to my ear. I listen for his words, but none come. He presses a cheek to my hair, and I barely make out a soft groan.

  Isaac pulls back, my hand still in his, and leads me through the crowded bar. Outside, a line of cabs wait. He walks up to the first one, holds open the door, and climbs in after me. He gives the driver directions, then asks me for my phone.

  “Why?” I ask, taking it from my purse.

  “I told Britt I would tell her where I’m taking you. And give her my address.” He takes my phone.

  “Why not from your phone?” I ask as he opens my texts. Britt’s name is my most recent conversation.

  “I didn’t bring my phone with me tonight. I didn’t want to be reached.” His voice is strained, and I’d bet a million dollars it has to do with why he was there.

  He types out a message and hands it back to me. The phone slips from my sweaty palms twice before I get it back in my purse. I’m not sure how to say what I’m thinking, so I blurt out, “Do we need ground rules?” I feel like an idiot for not knowing how these things go.

  Isaac looks confused. It relieves me. If he’d known just what I was asking, it would’ve unnerved me.

  I groan and push my hair out of my eyes. “Are we exchanging last names? Because it just occurred to me we never made it to that minor detail.”

  He shifts so his body faces me. “Do you want to?”

  “No…” I say slowly, but I’m still thinking. Knowing his last name might make him more real. Maybe the less I know, the better. “No,” I repeat, my voice confident.

  “OK, then.” He smiles and takes my hand. “Aubrey with no last name, do you like ice cream?”

  I lift a finger and shake my head. “Oh no no no. I’m not getting all Fifty Shades of Grey with you. Even if you are my second-best friend.”

  Isaac’s laughter fills the back seat. “I’m not talking about that. I meant the question literally.”

  “Oh.” I giggle. “Sorry.”

  He pushes a strand of hair out of my face, his fingers running the length of my ear as he tucks it away.

  My breath slams up my throat, thick and hot. All he did was touch your ear. Calm down. A change of subject is needed. Now.

  “You didn’t say what brought you into the bar tonight,” I say. “Is there a certain female that caused you to seek refuge in a bottle?”

  Isaac looks down, lightly punching the empty space on the seat between us. “In a sense, yes.” He winces, like he’s remembering the hurt.

  “Do you want to tell me the ugly truth?” My voice is soft.

  He shakes his head. “It’s not my ugly truth to tell.”

  He falls quiet, and so do I. Questions pop into my mind.

  You’re job is to help people? How so?

  Do you have a roommate?

  How old are you?

  I ask none of these questions, because I’m not supposed to know the answers. That’s the point of tonight.

  His hand creeps across the seat and grabs mine, fingers intertwining. He has strong, long fingers. Big, thick, tan hands that look capable. Since when are hands this interesting? Somehow Isaac’s are.

  “I’m leaving the country in a few days.” He says it so suddenly that I jump a tiny bit. “It’s a long trip. I can extend it and stay longer if I…” He trails off, surveying me. “Sorry. More than you need to be told. I just wanted you to know I’m leaving, before this goes any further.”

  “I’m OK with that,” I say. It’s a good thing, actually. Cut-and-dry is what I need.

  He nods, scraping his free hand across his chin. “I hope you don’t mind that my place is mostly packed up. All my stuff is going into storage.”

  “I’m OK with that, too.”

  The cab comes to a stop in front of a row of brightly lit storefronts. Isaac drops my hand and removes his wallet, swiping his credit card through the machine on the back of the drivers seat. He steps out and I open my door. I’m halfway out when Isaac rounds the back end of the cab. Making a face, he hustles to grab the open door.

  “You should of let me get your door,” he chides.

  “That’s what people do when they’re on dates.” I step onto the sidewalk. “We’re not on a date.”

  “True. If we were on a date, I would’ve picked you up at your house, not at a bar.” He steps closer to me.

  “Oh yeah?” My eyebrows raise. “What else would you have done differently?”

  “Probably brought you flowers.”

  His hand extends across the short distance between our chests. I take his pretend flowers. “I don’t understand why guys give girls flowers. They are literally dying plants wrapped in tissue paper.”

  Isaac laughs and takes another step, closing most of the space between us, and his arm cradles my lower back. “So you’re saying you’re a romantic?”

  A disbelieving sound bubbles up from the back of my throat. “Hardly.”

  He pulls me in closer until we’re pressed up against each other. My hands fall on his upper arms, and my furious heartbeats pound a loud rhythm in my chest.

  “If I kissed you now, in front of all these people, would you think it was romantic?” He’s so close I can almost feel his words hit my lips.

  Confused, I lean my head back and look to the rain slickened street, where I see nothing but the red and yellow lights of cars driving past. I look the other direction and see what he's talking about.

  Behind us, there’s a packed ice cream shop, tables full, and here we are standing in front of the long window. My eyes sweep over all the interested gazes, and my cheeks catch fire.

  “Romantic?” Isaac asks when I look back at him.

  “Yes,” I breathe the word.

  His mouth is on mine before I finish my breath. He pushes me back, past the window, and up against the brick wall that separates the ice cream place from its neighbor.

  His hands are in my hair, running down my neck, tracing my collarbone. My fingers skim the muscles in his upper back, cling to his shoulders. I’m feeling things, good things, but my nerves are back, pushing into the rational part of my brain, trying to make a stronghold before I’m swept away by hormones. Is this a bad idea? Am I going to get hurt? I’m still kissing him, but I’m hesitant, and I wonder if he can sense it.

  Isaac puts one hand on the back of my head, protecting it from the wall. Sensation takes over, and I feel his desire. It’s hot like a flame, thirsty like a parched throat.

  I ache for him in a way I never expected and never wanted.

  “I’m not in the mood for ice cream anymore,” I whisper, then pull his lower lip into my mouth and suck on it. He moans into my mouth and pulls back to look at me before diving back in. His kisses are hot and wet and his hand keeps sliding up my stomach and then back down to my waist, like he’s reminding himself where we are. I’m glad he still has some sense because I have almost none right now.

  Isaac pulls away, a new smile on his face. This one is lustful, a half curl of one side of his mouth.

  My breath is long and loud, dragging, and it clears my mind a tiny bit. “Is this a bad idea?”

  Isaac stares at me. With his back to the streetlamp, I can’t
see into his eyes. I wish I could, but his eyes are so dark it probably doesn’t matter. I just want to look into them, to see if he’s doubting this like I am.

  He takes my hands and squeezes them. “I could use some comfort tonight, and I think you could too. Let’s make a deal. One hour. We’ll give one hour to each other. When one hour is up, you can tell me if you want me to come to your door sometime with something other than flowers. How does that sound?”

  “Have you forgotten you’re leaving the country on a long trip?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t have to extend my travel, and by the time I get back you’ll be over the guy who broke your heart.”

  I purse my lips and look at him. Knowing he’s leaving makes this decision as safe for my heart as possible. Our ending has already been decided. It’s one hour, for one night, and then it’s over.

  My hand wraps around his neck, pulling him in. When my lips are at his ear, I whisper, “I hope your place is close.”

  The vibration of his groan grinds against my cheek. He surges forward, pulling me along behind him. Our pace is quick until he stops abruptly and looks back at me. This time the streetlight illuminates his face, and I can clearly see into his eyes. They look hungry.

  “I don’t know if one hour with you will be enough for me, Aubrey.” He turns back around and keeps going.

  I follow his quick footsteps, fully in the knowledge that one hour is all I have to offer him.

  This isn’t about love.

  I have none to give.

  This isn’t about my heart.

  It’s not whole enough to break.

  This is about one hour of forgetting, one hour of letting my body rule while my mind shuts off. I’m going to spend one hour with this man.

  And then I’m never going to see him again.

  I was certain of the outcome before I arrived, but I came here anyway. Hand poised to knock, I blow out my last deep breath. Three quick taps on the door and my hand falls back down to my side.

  Hope isn’t what I should be feeling right now, especially when it defies logic, but it’s there anyway. Winding it’s way into my veins, creeping into my heart.

  When I’ve stared at the closed door for long enough, I turn to leave.

  Isaac can’t answer a door to an apartment he isn’t in.

  I had to check. I need to be able to say I tried.

  I’m three steps away from the question I already knew the answer to when a door behind me opens.

  My stride halts and I freeze. My heart leaps into my throat. He didn’t leave.

  “Excuse me? Did you knock on my door?”

  It’s a man’s voice, but it’s not the voice of the man I’m foolishly looking for.

  Turning around, I nod and take a step closer.

  The guy in the doorway is average size and his red hair is pulled into a man-bun. He’s so opposite of the home’s previous tenant that it’s comical.

  “I was looking for the person who used to live here.” My voice is steady but inside I’m quaking. For the shortest second I thought maybe Isaac stayed.

  He holds up his palms and shrugs helplessly. “I moved in a few days ago. I’m not sure who lived here before. Or where they went.”

  I nod. “That’s OK.” Turning to leave, I say “Have a nice day.”

  “Good luck,” he calls out. “I hope you find the person.”

  I throw back a smile and a thank you as I walk away.

  Why am I this disappointed when I knew the ending?

  My hope is gone, and that’s a good thing, I guess. Better than having it hang around and haunt me.

  Isaac really left.

  For us there will be no first date. No showing up at my front door with something other than flowers.

  The confirmation is a deliverance. I don’t need to keep torturing myself with thoughts about what might have been.

  I can stop dwelling on that night and focus on the future.

  And my first step in that direction starts with a conversation I don’t want to have.

  Some people think self-reflection is a good thing, and I suppose it can be. But after a while, for someone as good and practiced at self-reflection as I am, it's more like a prison.

  Right now, I'm in prison.

  What if I hadn't gone out that night?

  What if I'd told Britt no?

  What if I told Isaac to take a hike instead of letting him hike up my skirt?

  I wouldn't be where I am now, that's for sure.

  I’ve thought of that night enough times that at this point, I’m sick of it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make the one picture I took at the bar capture more than it did. My forehead and Isaac’s dark hair dominate the lower left corner, and the scene behind us is a blur of bodies and bottles. Nothing I can do will make any of this different.

  My dad's truck engine can be heard down the block, long before it reaches our driveway. I sit on the living room couch and listen as it comes closer to our house. It sounds more like a slow march toward the guillotine.

  He pulls into his spot and kills the engine. By now he's seen my car and is wondering what I'm doing here. It’s Thursday, not Sunday. If I come over during the week, I tell him first, but this time, I couldn't spare any extra words. As it is, I’m not sure I'll have enough words to get through what’s in front of me.

  My shoulders jump when his truck door slams. I count backward in my head, picturing his walk up the path to the front door. 10...9...8...7...6...5...4...

  "Aubrey, what are you doing? Everything all right?" My dad stands in the doorway. It’s an average size entry, and his large body fills a majority of the space.

  The concern in his gaze causes tears to well up in my eyes. Oh, Daddy.

  He rushes across the foyer, forehead creased. His keys smack the coffee table. The couch dips beneath me as he sits.

  "Aubs, what is it?" His voice is panicky. "Is it Grandma?"

  I shake my head. “No, no. She's OK. I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" My voice trails off as I search for the words. “It's just…" I cover my face with my hands, unable to look at him as I speak. I didn’t think we’d reach this point this quickly, but here we are. There’s nothing to do but say it. “I'm pregnant.”

  My head stays in my hands, and I keep my eyes squeezed shut as the seconds tick by. The silence continues, growing and growing until I dare to peek at him.

  He's ramrod straight on the couch, eyes wide, hands in a prayer position against his lips. His thumbs hook under his chin, and he's taking deep breaths, air filling his chest until it puffs out, then streams from his nose.

  “Say something.” My voice is tiny.

  His gaze falls to the floor between his feet. “I didn't even know you were active…in that way, I mean. I just assumed that you, I don't know, were just…” He gulps, his cheeks red.

  My face is so hot, I can feel the warmth in my ears. It doesn't matter that I'm twenty-one and an adult. His baby girl is pregnant, and he hasn't even heard the worst of it yet. I open my mouth to tell him the part that's going to make this bad dream a nightmare, but he starts talking first.

  “You didn't tell me you and Owen were back together.” There's an accusatory edge to his tone. It would be an understatement to say my dad simply dislikes Owen.

  I clear my throat and pick at one of my fingernails. “We're not.”

  His eyes lock onto mine, his expression a mixture of surprise and horror. “The baby isn't Owen's? Are you seeing someone new?”

  He's trying, I think, to control his emotions, but the devastation is there, visible in the planes of his face. Knowing I put it there hurts me to the core.

  “I’m not seeing anybody, Dad.” I take a deep breath and look at my poor, mangled thumb nail. “This baby is the product of one night.” One hour.

  My dad stands and strides to the kitchen. I stay where I am, waiting. Listening as the refrigerator door opens, closes. He comes back a minute later with a beer in his hand. Half of it is missing al
ready.

  He doesn't sit. He leans against the wall and tips his head back until it's propped up by the wall too.

  “One night, huh?”

  “It's the only time I've done that and—”

  He holds up a hand. “I don't want any details.”

  I make a face. “I wasn't planning on giving you any.”

  He pushes off the wall and sits by me again. “Who's the father? What did he have to say when you told him?”

  “Um, well, the thing is, we didn't really exchange a lot of information, so I don't know how to get a hold of him to tell him.” This is what I've been dreading telling him the most.

  His open palm catches his drooping head, and he holds it there, his elbow propped on his knee. “Aubrey, I failed you.”

  I blink. I’ve spent a lot of time imagining what he would say, and I failed you did not make the list. “What are you talking about?”

  “I should have talked to you more about sex. How to be safe.”

  We were safe. At least, we thought we were. And as far as Isaac goes, he still thinks the condom did its job. You had one job, Condom. One job.

  “Dad, I'm old enough to know. And we were safe. The safety failed.” I blush again. This conversation is not getting any easier.

  He sits back against the couch, but I stay upright. I haven't relaxed in two weeks, not since I realized my period was late.

  “How are you going to tell him? What's his last name?”

  “I don't know.”

  My dad sighs. “What's his number?”

  “I don't know.”

  He sighs louder. “Can you go back to the scene of the crime and find him there?” He winces as he says it.

  I do too when I realize what he's asking. “It happened at his apartment, Dad, not between pallets behind a grocery store.”

  He lifts his face to the ceiling and mouths Thank God.

  “Geez, Dad.” I rub my forehead. “I have his address, but it won't do any good. He was moving three days after we, um, spent time together.” How am I supposed to describe it? I can't use the words Britt did. Single serving, hit and run, one hit wonder. And then I made the mistake of telling her about our one-hour arrangement, and it became our hour of power.