Wings Over Poppies (Over #2)

by J. A. Derouen

  “Okay, well … what would you say if I came back next Sunday? Would you draw me again? Maybe next time you could pick a more … glorious body part.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively and effectively breaks through my nervous fog.

  “Yeah, I’d like that. Is it okay if I keep the shirt until next week?” I ask as I’m walking away. Truth be told, I’m a little bit worried that time has slipped away from me and I’ll have an irate mother on my hands.

  “No problem. I have a spare in my bag.”

  I hardly hear his response since I’m already out onto the fairway, making my escape. I can’t help myself. I steal a look back at him, secretly hoping he makes good on his promise to meet me next week. My heart skips a beat when I realize he’s watching me, too.

  “Where in the world have you been, Alexandra? And look at you! You are not a little girl anymore. This type of behavior is not cute!” My mother is already fully dressed in her church attire, only serving to bring extra attention to my state of disarray.

  “I’m not trying to be cute, Momma. It’s not a big deal. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.” I try to keep my voice calm to placate her, but my temper is quickly bubbling to the surface. When it comes to my mother and me, it’s safe to say our fuse for one another is not just short, but almost nonexistent. It’s hard to believe two more different people have ever walked this earth.

  “I’ll decide what’s a big deal, Alexandra!”

  “Why do you have to keep repeating my name? Is it for emphasis or condescension?” I stare her down, refusing to give an inch. It’s always this way between us. No bend. No stretch.

  “Don’t you dare speak to me that way, young lady! We are meeting Tripp and his parents at the church hall for coffee before the sermon, and here you are, looking like a mess!”

  “And here we go with the Tripp discussion. He is not my boyfriend, and he never will be, no matter how many times you try to push us together!”

  “Enough!” My father’s booming voice serves to straighten my spine and lower my gaze as he strides into the foyer with purpose. “Get upstairs and get dressed, Alex. I don’t want to hear another word.”

  “Yes, sir.” I turn and take the stairs two at a time. My father is the peripheral parent, preferring to let my mother handle the day-to-day hassles of child rearing. His love is unquestionable, but his respect is earned, and it’s clear I’ve disappointed him.

  Emmett is leaning against his bedroom doorframe as I pass down the hall. He, of course, is ready for church in his expertly pressed suit and tie. Only a year separates us, and although I’m older, Emmett has always been the more mature sibling. Or maybe he’s just the more compliant one.

  “You are going to send that woman to an early grave, Alex.” He shakes his head and chuckles.

  “Whatever, Emmett. We can’t all be ‘yes men,’” I taunt as I make air quotes and roll my eyes, walking past his bedroom. He’s on my heels, and I choose to ignore his presence as I set about choosing a suitable church outfit. None of that vintage nonsense, Alexandra. Vintage is just code for secondhand, and the Lord deserves better than old hand-me-downs. I don’t imagine God cares what we wear to worship Him, but what do I know?

  “That’s where you have it all wrong, big sister. Sure, I’m the ‘yes man’ all day long in front of their faces. But when their backs are turned, or when it really counts, I’m the ‘do whatever the hell I want’ man. Everyone’s happy. You have to lose some battles to win the war. It’s a concept you have yet to embrace. And you know I’m right,” he sing-songs as I slam the door in his face. I roll my eyes at the sound of his laughter filtering through the closed door.

  As I ready myself for Sunday services, I don’t waste one minute thinking about mothers, battles, wars, and what not.

  My mind stays permanently fixed on West. The unspoken strength of his broad shoulders. The dark waves of his tousled hair. The intoxicating smell of sweat and his laundry detergent in the shirt I confiscated. The boy who made ripples in my Sunday morning ritual.

  Little do I know, those ripples will grow and swell over time into a tidal wave that will forever change me.

  “Warm Whispers” by Missy Higgins

  “STOP LAUGHING, WEST! There’s nothing funny about this. Emmett is making me caddy his Saturday morning games in exchange for a ride to school. Eighteen holes! I’ve got to get my car back.” My voice sounds as desperate as my situation. I can’t believe my dad took away my driving privileges.

  “Yeah, I don’t see that happening, sweetheart. Four wrecks in two years? You’re practically a menace to society,” West replies jokingly … at least he better be joking.

  “Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds much worse than it really is. Yes, all four of the wrecks were my fault, but I’ve never been in a wreck with another moving object. It’s just been poles, parked cars, and such. I’m a stellar driver once I actually get on the road.”

  “You’re inability to dodge stationary objects isn’t exactly a great argument, Alex. You may want to keep that little gem under your cap.” He grins, looking a little too smug for my taste.

  “Well, I don’t know why they insisted on getting me that ginormous SUV to drive around anyway. I mean, it’s an accident waiting to happen. Who can park those things?” I raise my eyebrows for reassurance, but only get a shrug in return. “The size of the stupid thing freaks me out and makes me wreck. If they would have just gotten me the Corolla I asked for, none of this would be happening.”

  “Again, four wrecks in two years is not exactly a great reason to buy you a less safe car. In my opinion, they should buy your crash-test-dummy ass a tank, not a tin can.”

  “Ass kisser,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Hey now, retract those claws. I’m only looking out for your best interests … and the best interest of drivers everywhere. It’s not my fault that your dad has a point.”

  And with that ill-advised comment, my irritation with my dad has effectively transferred to West. His admiration and respect for my dad equals one thing for me—a one-way ticket to Friend City as far as he’s concerned.

  “Ugh, could you try not to blink so much, please?” I shake my head in exasperation and try my best to remain focused on the task at hand. That’s next to impossible given our proximity. I feel his short breaths on my cheek and the smell of his clean, soapy scent is intoxicating. Yep, this project is going to suck in a major way.

  “You’re not exactly helping matters, okay? The more you tell me not to blink, the more I wanna blink. I don’t understand why you want to draw my eyeball anyway. That’s fucking creepy.”

  “I told you—it’s for a school assignment. It was popular in England in the late 1700s and early 1800s to wear a small painting of your lover’s eye as a necklace. King George IV wore an ivory pendant of his mistress’s eye, and the fashion took off from there. It symbolized the watchful eye of their lovers while they were apart from one another. It’s actually really difficult to capture, so quit your crying, ya big baby.”

  Since I’m mere inches from his face, studying those dark orbs, I notice instantly when his eyes switch from irritation to flirty playfulness.

  “Why, Alex! Are you insinuating that I’m your … manstress?” he whispers dramatically, pretending to be offended.

  “Manstress? You are so ridiculous!” I playfully hit him with my sketchpad and try, rather unsuccessfully, to appear unflustered.

  We both know the truth, and it makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable. Because I’d love nothing more than for him to reach over, grab me behind the neck, and kiss me senseless. I will it to happen. But that ship has sailed, even though I can’t accept it. It seems the idea of me as anything more than a friend is a fleeting thought West quickly has become bored with.

  We’ve been meeting at our tree every Sunday for a couple of months now, and I swear he almost kissed me a few times. There’s no possible way I imagined it. Our lips so close, our breath intermingling, our gazes locked onto each other, and
then … nothing. Nada. A soft chuckle with a head turn. A playful hair pull or side tickle like a tease to a little sister. But no kiss.

  And then the near misses vanish as well. It’s blatantly obvious they disappeared about the time West realized I was his boss’s daughter. He’s never said as much, but I’m not an idiot. I’m so thankful that he still shows up every Sunday, because I’ve grown to crave his company. I should be grateful for that and leave well enough alone, but that’s just not my nature.

  “Tripp may have something to say about that, don’t you think?” I’m taunting him, and I know I shouldn’t. This isn’t me—I’m not that girl. But dammit, I just want him to see me. Not the boss’s daughter. Not the kid sister he’s been trying to make me out to be.

  “Frankly, I don’t give a shit what Tripp McNeal thinks. That guy’s a douchebag, Alex. You deserve better than that.” I don’t miss the disdain dripping from his every word.

  Now that I’ve elicited a reaction from him, I don’t feel the way I thought I would. Instead of feeling victorious, I feel guilty and small. I may be a fighter at heart, but I usually make it a point to fight fair.

  Despite what West believes, Tripp’s really not a bad guy, but I’ve never considered him someone I would date. That fact bothers my parents to no end, seeing as his parents are some of their country club cronies. Tripp would like there to be more between us, but after several failed attempts, he’s resigned himself to the “just friends” distinction. In fact, after my continual rebuffs, he’s become quite the … well, quite the manstress. His bedding habits cause unending frustration for my best friend, Holly, who’s had a crush on him for years.

  “Oh, relax. Tripp’s only seen me naked one time and—”

  “Whoa!” West interrupts with both hands thrown up. “Stop right there! In the name of all that is holy, stop talking. What are you trying to do? Ruin my image of you?”

  “Okay, don’t get your man panties in a twist, all right? You’re getting all worked up for nothing. All I was gonna say is he hasn’t seen me naked since we were five years old. We’re childhood friends, so shit happens sometimes.” I shrug nonchalantly.

  West rests back on his hands and breathes a gigantic sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God!”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? You do know that I just turned eighteen years old, right? Hello? Full-fledged adult right here.” I point both fingers to my chest for emphasis. “I can swing naked from the rafters if I choose to do so. And what the hell are you talking about, your ‘image’ of me?”

  He studies me silently, presumably deciding if he’s going to entertain my question. He leans forward and grins.

  “You’re my poppy girl.” He shrugs and gives no further explanation, as if that one ridiculous sentence should speak for itself.

  “Your poppy girl?”

  What in the hell is he talking about?

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What does that even mean?” I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated.

  He grabs my hands and pulls me close. Too close … not nearly close enough. “When I think of you—and yes, Alex, I think of you often—I imagine you in a beautiful white sundress, your hair loose and blowing in the wind. Your smile lights up your entire face. The sun’s rays dance on your shoulders. You’re running barefoot through a gigantic field of poppies, and I can hear your laugh travel downhill with the wind … utter perfection.”

  I cock my head to the side and squint at him. “So you think I’m Julie Andrews from The Sound of Music? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “What? No! That’s not what I mean, Alex. Listen to me.” He draws in a deep breath and starts again. “You are everything that is pure and perfect to me in this world. You are my sassy, sweet, intelligent, beautiful, stubborn poppy girl. That asshole Tripp doesn’t have the right to breathe the same air as you. The same goes for the rest of those country club assholes. None of them deserve you, sweet Alex.”

  Unshed tears burn the back of my eyes, threatening to spill over, but I resist. I muster up the courage to ask the one question that lays heavy on my mind. The only question that matters.

  “Do you, West? Do you deserve me?”

  “Not even close.” His answer is swift and without hesitation. I look down as the first tear escapes and trickles unchecked down my cheek. He squeezes my hands, and I look up into those gorgeous eyes that plague my every thought.

  And there it is. The truth—his truth, not mine.

  “Beautiful Disaster” by Jon McLaughlin

  “LOOK, NO OFFENSE, Alex, but this may not be the best idea you’ve ever had. Just sayin’.” Holly shrugs her shoulders apologetically, but I remain undeterred.

  “Holly, it’s gonna be fine. I need West to see me outside of the country club so he can finally understand that I’m just like everyone else. He acts like I’m a freaking princess. I’m his “Poppy Girl”—sweet, perfect little Alex. What a crock of shit.” I shake my head furiously as I ransack my closet looking for the perfect outfit for tonight. I’m looking for that dress that says, “Stop being a blind idiot and see what’s right in front of your face, you dumbass!” Yes, I believe they do make a dress that says just that, and I’m going to find it.

  “Does he even know you’re gonna be there tonight? Didn’t he stand you up at the tree last Sunday?” She stands clear across the room from me, the slightest bit of trepidation in her eyes. She hears the edge in my tone, and knows me well enough to see I’m nearing the cliff.

  Holly and I have been best friends since early childhood. Our mothers have been best friends for years, and Holly and I were born five days apart. I swear we started scheming before we left the womb.

  What Holly and I lack in similarities, we more than make up for in solidarity and camaraderie. She embraces this privileged, sheltered life we both lead. She smiles and curtsies like the debutante she’s been bred to be, and I buck the system at every turn. I hug trees while she hugs Louis Vuitton bags. She’s been wearing Tulane garb since she could shout “Go Green Wave,” and I can’t keep off the NYU website. It’s not that Holly is a rule follower—her wants and needs have just miraculously lined up with her parents expectations. Me? Not so much. She keeps hoping it’s a phase I’ll grow out of … I’m hoping the same about her.

  I continue the clothes hunt and call out over my shoulder. “He didn’t stand me up. His sister, Lucy, was in the hospital. She had a really bad asthma attack and had to be admitted for observation,” I explain. West even called me to explain what happened and apologize. Of course, I told him there was absolutely nothing to be sorry for. It broke my heart to hear the worry and helplessness in his cracking voice as he told me about his sister.

  Lucy was born prematurely, and her lungs were severely underdeveloped. Because of this, West explained she needs breathing treatments and lots of different medications. She gets sick often, and when she does, a minor cold can turn into a hospital stay. Lucy’s health is a constant struggle.

  West adores Lucy, and he would do anything to make her as comfortable as possible. If he puts me on a pedestal, then he places Lucy in a glass box. He constantly worries that she’s doing too much and overexerting herself. I can’t say that I blame him. I don’t know what’s worse—watching someone you love fight for air, or being the one who’s drowning. West would gladly trade lungs with her if he could. That’s just who he is, how deep he loves.

  “Ooh, wear that skirt. I’m so glad I brought it for you to borrow. It looks so much better on you, ya bitch. Hell, I think I want to hump you. West won’t stand a chance.”

  I must admit—the skirt looks smoking hot. Deep, slate gray, tight, mid-thigh … perfect. And when I say tight, I mean to say that my spleen is on full display. Lucky for me, my spleen is pretty cute. I pair this with a vintage, black crochet sweater that hangs lazily off my shoulder. A tiny black camisole is keeping my unmentionables hidden. I think my black Mary-Jane pumps, silver locket, and an arm of bangles will round out this co
me hither ensemble nicely.

  “I hope you’re right. He’s never seen me dressed like this, so maybe he’ll look at me in a different light. If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen me dressed this way. Is it too much?” I tug nervously at the skirt and try to pull the sweater onto my shoulder for more coverage.

  “Stop fidgeting. You look freaking amazing.”

  Holly walks across the room and pulls my hands away, placing them at my sides. She’s quiet for a moment and then looks at me with a mixture of sympathy and concern.

  “He doesn’t know you’re going tonight, does he?”

  My gaze quickly shifts to the floor, and I keep silent. Jason and Will, a couple of guys from the CRCC golf team mentioned they were having a party while I was helping out in the pro shop. It was almost too easy to get an invite. The students of CRCC are celebrating the end of midterms and “everybody” is going to be there. From what the guys told me, “everybody” means all the members of the golf team, including West.

  “Okay, it’s time to be straight with me, Alex. What the hell is it about this guy? Is he hot? Lickable? Absolutely. But you’ve got four or five hot, lickable guys from Riverside Prep salivating to take you out. Four or five guys who wouldn’t push you away. Four or five guys who your parents would approve of.” I roll my eyes at that statement. As if that would be a plus in my book.

  “And I’m just gonna address the pink elephant in the room—”

  “There’s no pink elephant, Holly.” I narrow my eyes in warning. She needs to catch my hint, and quick.

  “Sorry babe, but there is definitely a pink elephant. You can hate me for saying it, but here it is. There are four or five guys dying to be with you who don’t have to fish the bottom of golf course ponds to make ends meet.”