He Kissed Me First (Kiss & Make Up Book 2)

by Sara H Ney

  Me: I’m not sure that’s such a good idea...

  Matthew: Why not? You’re home, I’m home. It’s Friday night.

  Me: True...

  Then I add: I’m comfy and don’t want to get dressed...

  Matthew: What are you wearing?

  Me, glancing down at my pajamas: old yoga pants, a giant sweatshirt, fuzzy socks... mud mask

  Matthew: Wow. You sure know how to turn a guy off.

  Me: ((Shrug)) Honesty is the best policy???

  Matthew: Er, not always. A mud mask? Seriously?

  Me: How do you think I get my skin to look so dewy? Mother Nature? ((SNORT))

  Matthew: I cannot believe you just snorted via text.

  Me: Well, it wouldn’t be the first time...

  Matthew: YOU DON’T SAY!!!?

  Me: Wow. I’m sensing some sarcasm...

  Matthew: Well that’s good, because I was laying it on pretty thick

  Me: I shrug and snort IRL, so why not in a text message? Just keeping it real.

  Matthew: ...I will never understand females...

  Me: ((Crickets))

  Matthew: STOP DOING THAT!

  Me: ((Shrug)) Stop doing what?

  Matthew: Putting shit in parentheses like we’re having an actual conversation!!!

  Me: Hmmmmm ((scratches chin)). Why do you think this bothers you so much?

  Matthew: What are you, a psych major?

  Me: First of all, I’m working on my masters. Quit confusing me for an undergrad - I already HAVE a degree in Economics smart ass.

  Matthew: Sorry. I get confused because you live with my KID sister...

  Me: I guess that’s understandable...

  Me: But... she hardly ACTS like a kid... IF you catch my drift ((wink wink)).

  Matthew: You did NOT just do that

  Me: I’m not sure what you’re getting at?????

  Matthew: “If you catch my drift” - then WINK

  Me: LOL.

  Matthew: That’s something a dude would say. Are you sure you don’t have any brothers?

  Me: Hold on - let me check ((looks behind living room couch)) Nope. No brothers.

  Matthew: And you call ME a smart ass?

  I’m so tempted to respond with ‘at least it’s a nice, firm one,’ but I don’t. Instead, I giggle to myself and type: So. Switching gears: Halloween is coming up...

  Matthew: Ahh, yes. Every skanks favorite holiday. Not sure what the plans are. I’m getting kind of old to be out on State Street, you know...?

  Me: Yeah, me too. Not into it, never really was. Second year we’re going to my friend’s house party - much much classier than State Street...

  Matthew: Who’s ‘we’?

  Me: Some of my sorority sisters - another alum owns the house. Beautiful, on Lake Michigan. She’s married with a baby, but they’ve been doing this bash every year...

  Me: Molly, Weston, Jenna, Abby - and whoever else Wes invites. Some people go in disguise, like a masquerade.

  Matthew: So, what were you last year? (Please say Naughty Referee)

  Me: Um - can you seriously picture me as a Naughty anything?

  Matthew: Why are you even asking such an absurd question? Of course I can - it’s my job as a guy to picture you naked.

  Me: Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty conservative, so...

  Matthew: Ok. So what were you? (Please don’t say Harry Potter)

  Me: LOL. No. God no. I was Laura Croft, Tomb Raider.

  Matthew: Um, that sounds sexier than a Naughty Referee... I’m going to close my eyes and picture that for a second.

  Me: STOP IT! LOL. Here’s a pic

  I scroll through the Gallery of images on my cell phone, find a photo of myself from last year’s Halloween party, and attach it. My costume was pretty simple really - tight black tank top, hair in a long side braid. Tight brown safari shorts with gun holster garter belts... I look ready to kick someone’s ass, Angelina Jolie style.

  Matthew: Ummmmm. Holy shit. That. Is. Hot.

  Me: Yup. Hot. That’s me ((rolling my eyes)). You like the gun holsters, huh?

  Matthew: They pretty much do it for me, yes.

  Uncomfortable with the sexual undertones, I change the subject.

  Me: So what were you last year?

  Matthew: Something dumb. A group of us went as army men. You know, the plastic toy kind we played with as kids. Huge pain in the ass cause we had these stupid boards strapped

  Matthew: on our feet to make us look like toys. It was my friend Scott’s girlfriend’s dumb idea. Which was better than his dumb idea to go as the gang from Scooby Do.

  Me: Army men doesn’t sound that lame... a pain in the ass maybe, but not lame.

  Matthew: If you say so...

  Matthew: So. This classy party isn’t a masquerade or anything, is it? That means you’re in a disguise right?

  Me: Like, do we have to wear a mask? No. I mean - you can if you WANT to. LOL. It’s not like you can’t figure out who anyone is. Unless you’re a complete moron, of course...

  Matthew: Sounds fun.

  Me: Yup. Should be interesting...

  Matthew: Sounds like a good place for a little... You know. Canoodling.

  Me: DON’T YOU DARE

  Matthew: No worries, Cecelia.

  Matthew: You’re coming to Sunday dinner this week, right?

  Me: Um.... Not willingly.

  Matthew: You’ve really got to stop letting Molly manipulate you.

  Me: POT TO KETTLE

  Matthew: Actually, family dinner sounds like a good place too, right after you pass me the mash potatoes...

  Me: You wouldn’t...

  Matthew: Who knows - maybe you’ll want a second helping.

  Me: I hate you.

  Chapter Twenty

  Matthew

  “Cherish the time spent with your family at dinner as a reminder of why you moved far, far away from them...” - Cecelia Carter

  I fix the collar on my polo shirt in my parent’s powder room, unbuttoning the top button before giving myself yet another once over.

  Too much chest hair, or not enough?

  Hmm. I can’t decide.

  I mean - it’s dinner at my folk’s place. If I have my pecs hanging out, Mom and Dad are seriously going to wonder what my problem is, and probably call me out in front of everyone at the table. On the other hand... I kind of want to drive Cecelia a little bit crazy. After all, I have seen her covertly checking me out a few times and know she’s totally into my body.

  Even though she won’t admit it.

  I fiddle with the button a few more times, and decide to leave it. A little skin never hurt anyone.

  I wash my hands one more time (eyeing myself in the oval mirror the entire time), dry them on the navy blue towel hanging next to the sink, and smooth a few stray hairs on my head.

  Shit. I can’t stop primping.

  “Matthew honey, I thought you were going to come set the table,” my mom’s voice carries from the kitchen.

  “Just taking a leak, Ma,” I call back with a smug grin on my face.

  Which immediately gets wiped off when she suddenly appears, framed in the doorway two seconds later, arms crossed and wooden spoon clutched in one hand.

  She looks pissed.

  Amused, I grin before ducking out around her. “Sorry.”

  My mom follows me back in to the kitchen, sighing. “Can you lose the Smart-Alek routine for five whole minutes? And don’t forget to set an extra plate for Molly’s roommate,” she reminds me, picking up a glass picture of water and handing it to me. “Take this into the dining room, please.”

  But she’s not done lecturing me yet, her voice following me into the formal dining room as I place the water on the table and start taking place settings out of the side board. “Speaking of Molly’s roommate - can you be nice tonight and leave the poor girl alone...”

  I roll my eyes at the ceiling and mutter to myself, “Poor girl? Hardly.”

  My mom cont
inues “...she is a guest in this house, and Molly’s roommate - not one of those icky girls that hangs out at the rink. I expect you to be a gentleman.”

  Icky girls? Well shit, that’s a new one...

  “Hey, do you know if Weston is coming?”

  “I don’t think so? Maybe, but I doubt it. Molly said something about a press conference tonight?”

  I remember those days as a college athlete: working my ass off every damn day of the week for the Wisconsin Badgers: not only did I play have several games per week during hockey season, the team practiced for hours each day in between, often doing press conferences and junkets just like the pro’s - without the benefit of pay (unless you counted full ride academic scholarships).

  In fact, more than a few of my teammates had agents - those were the players trying to get drafted before graduation.

  However, Weston (like myself at his age) has no intention of going pro until he’s done with graduation. His degree is his priority, and despite our differences (i.e. his banging my little sister) I respect him for that. Mindlessly, I set the table as my mom flits in and out of the dining room and kitchen, placing dishes on the long mahogany table.

  I notice there are indeed mash potatoes, and smirk.

  **Cecelia**

  “Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself in to?” Molly asks as she steers her Jeep into the turnaround at her parent’s house, putting the Jeep in park and turning to face me. “Because my brother is going to act like a twelve year old having you in the house.”

  Matthew’s Tahoe is parked under the basketball hoop, and the sight of it makes me shiver.

  “I’m sure.”

  Wide mischievous smile, Molly reaches for the door handle. “Alrighty. Then let’s do this.”

  ***

  She’s right. Matthew is acting like a twelve year old.

  Seated next to Molly, and across from Matthew, the small Wakefield clan is gathered around the large oval table - steaming plates passed all around.

  “Cecelia, I noticed you haven’t tried my mom’s mashed potatoes.” Matthew’s statement comes from across the table where he’s seated. I look up and suppress an eye roll as he blankly stares at me.

  Oh, okay. I get what he’s doing...

  “Matthew! Don’t be rude. Cece, you do not have to take any potatoes. Please excuse my son.” Mrs. Wakefield’s face is bright red.

  “Yes, Cece - please excuse my brother. He’s never had the best manners.” Molly rolls her eyes before reaching for the water pitcher, and refilling her glass. “Mom, remember when he used to beg to eat under the table when we’d go out to dinner? What was he, nine?”

  Mr. Wakefield chuckles, buttering a dinner roll. “I remember. He kept sliding down in his seat, thinking we wouldn’t notice he was inching farther under the table. Little bugger.”

  “He was nine?” I ask incredulously, fork suspended over the ham on my plate.

  From Matthew, “Please stop.”

  “Yeah. And he wasn’t a ‘little bugger’ - he was like Baby Huey. Nine years old and at least five foot five. I was six, and even I knew better than to eat under the table.” Molly looks at her brother with a raised brow. “I mean - what were you doing under there, anyways?”

  Before he can respond, their mom cuts in. “He wanted to play Transformers.” Mrs. Wakefield grins at me as she forks a piece of ham. “He was obsessed with those tiny little dolls.”

  “They were not dolls,” Matthew says, clenching his pearly white teeth and hissing through them. “They were action figures.”

  “See? Obsessed.” Molly laughs into her glass, blowing up a few bubbles as she takes a sip of water. “You probably still have them, don’t you?”

  “Shut up, Molly.”

  She laughs again and slaps her hand down on the table, causing the silverware to rattle. “Ha! I knew it. Hey, what was that one doll you slept with? Optimus Slime?”

  Matthew is quiet for a few brooding seconds, debating his options as his sister goads him. I can practically see the steam rising from his ears.

  His nostrils flare. “Prime. His name is Optimus Prime.”

  “Right...” Molly shrugs, non-committed. “Remember that time you tried throwing your Warpath doll over the house, but it landed on the roof instead?”

  “It’s not a doll. It’s an action figure.”

  “Whatever.” Molly dismisses him with a wave of her hand, then scratches her chin as if deep in thought. “Come to think of it, wasn’t the Warpath character a vain, loud mouth, showoff? Hmm. Kind of sounds like someone else I know.”

  I look at her, surprised. “How on earth do you remember that?”

  “Because. Oh my gawd, he never shut up about it.”

  “Alright kids, that’s enough,” Mr. Wakefield interjects, clearing his throat and setting down his fork. “Surely we can discuss something that our guest might enjoy.”

  He shoots a pointed look at both his children, glancing at me briefly with a wink, his eyes crinkling at the corner and looking just like his son. I notice that, like Molly and Weston, Mr. Wakefield also has a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and friendly green eyes.

  “Maybe I’ll take some of those mashed potatoes now,” I joke uncomfortably, reaching for the large, steaming bowl of mashers.

  “Brown-noser,” Molly whispers next to me, jabbing me with her elbow and almost causing me to lose a heaping spoonful of spuds I’m scooping onto my plate.

  “Knock it off,” I hiss, elbowing her back.

  Mrs. Wakefield interrupts our bantering. “So, Cece, Molly says you’re almost done with your Masters. When do you graduate?”

  “I’m actually done this December.”

  “Business?”

  “Yes - I have a real interest in economics as well, which is what my Bachelors is in, so I’m actually looking for an analyst position.”

  “That’s fantastic. So you’re moving on then?”

  I nod. “Yup. As soon as I find a more professional position, I’ll start apartment hunting.” I made a frown face at Molly, who lays her head on my shoulder in a mock pout. I put my arm around her, patting her face with my hand. “I know someone who’s going to miss me.”

  Suddenly, Molly’s head shoots up and wide eyed, she looks across the table at her brother, who’s sitting directly across from me. “Umm... Dude. Did you just run your foot up my leg under the table?”

  For a brief moment, Matthew has the decency to look affronted - but then that guilt turns to disbelief. “What? Why the hell would I run my foot up your leg?” He hangs his head over his plate, shoveling the food in.

  Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield exchange glances.

  “No, you definitely were playing footsies with me under the table.” Molly quickly scoots her chair back a few inches and sticks her head under the table. “I knew it! Why the hell is your shoe off?”

  **Matthew**

  Instead of responding, I jam a giant hunk of ham into my mouth, chewing slowly. I also don’t blink or bat an eye as Molly stares me down from her side of the table. Which is really hard to do with a mouth full of food.

  Momentarily, I forget anyone else is at the table, and through narrowed eyes, shoot my hauntiest death glare at my loud mouth sister. If she’d shut her big, fat, loud mouth, no one would know I was trying to play footsies under the table with her friend in the first place.

  “Matthew, please leave your sister alone. You’re twenty-three years old for pities sake,” my mom lectures. From the slight curve of her lips, I know she is on to me, too.

  Molly crosses her arms and studies me. She’s quiet for a few minutes, but then, “Hey Mom. Did you know that Cece went out on a date with Neve last weekend? You should ask her how that turned out.”

  I could seriously take her out to the backyard and choke her.

  My mom sets down her napkin. “Oh really! I didn’t know that! How exciting! He’s such a handsome young man,” my mom gushes. It’s nauseating. “Where did he take
you?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from clenching my jaw: a dead giveaway to my family that I’m getting pissed. I try forking up a mouthful of mash potatoes and forcing them into my mouth, which still has meat in it, but swallowing is nearly impossible.

  “We went to this little French place called Le Petit... Le Petit... Oh, shoot. I can’t remember.”

  Un Petit Goût.

  It was Un Petit Goût, which means A Tiny Taste.

  Cecelia looks up at me questionably - as if waiting for me to jump in and fill in her blank - but I don’t. As if I can just jump in and supply the words for her; I can’t. Not out loud in front of my folks and incriminating myself... especially since my mom had already warned me against leaving Cecelia alone. So instead, I remain silent and shove yet another forkful of food in to my mouth.

  The potatoes taste dry, like I’m trying to swallow down sandpaper, so I take a chug of water, too. At the rate I’m going, I’ll have gorged myself into a coma by the end of dinner.

  “Well, it sounds lovely just the same,” my mom says. She leans in towards Cecelia, comparatively. “So, do you think he’ll ask you out again?”

  “Umm.... somehow, I doubt it.”

  Molly snorts.

  Cecelia catches my eye and we grin at each other - I know we’re both thinking the same thing: that I couldn’t stand how Molly was always snorting, and how unladylike I thought it was.

  We must have been grinning at each other stupidly, because a shoe kicks my shin and Molly is shooting me a knock-it-off look.

  Point taken.

  “Well, it’s his loss,” my mom continues. “Anyone would be a fool to let you get away.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cecelia

  “To be fair, if you didn’t want stale potato chips and orange juice, then you shouldn’t have said “Whatever” when I asked what you’d like for dinner.” - Matthew’s old college roommate, Smitty.

  I try not to squirm in my seat - really, I do - but it’s damn near impossible.

  Between constantly getting kicked under the table or elbowed every two seconds by Molly (which is sure to leave some nice bruising), I also have to avoid:

  1. The heated looks Matthew is sending me from across the table as he continues shoving food into his mouth just to avoid confrontations from his family (what a chicken shit).