Taking a sabbatical felt like one small thing I could do for him. I stopped writing and restricted myself to only posting pics of lingerie.
But since he’s no longer in the picture, perhaps I can bring the blog back for me.
“I do miss writing it,” I say, running my finger along the rim of the glass.
“Perform a resurrection, then. You don’t need to worry about what he has to say anymore.”
Rekindling the blog sounds like it’d be good for me, and potentially great for business. “True. And this is something I can do that Harriet’s can’t.”
“Let me know if I can help in any way.”
“I will. I promise you’ll be the first one I call on when the zipper from my bustier gets stuck on a tablecloth as I try on new items.”
An eyebrow lifts in question. “How did we get from the bustier to the table?”
I laugh, shrugging. “One of life’s many mysteries. Also, you’re a genius.”
I pop up from the stool, race around the counter, and throw my arms around him. He flinches for the barest of seconds, then wraps his arms around me, inhaling.
Let the record reflect that no one hugs better than this guy. His hugs are warm and comforting, maybe because he’s tall and broad, or maybe because he seems to put all of himself into the embrace.
When we separate, I sigh happily. “Have I told you how much I missed this when I was with him?”
“Missed what?” His voice is a little rough.
“You. Me. Hanging out like this. I wasn’t able to see you as much as I liked then.” I’m acknowledging aloud a truth we’re both aware of—we didn’t pal around as much when I was engaged.
“He didn’t like you hanging with me.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer it anyway.
“He never said as much, but whenever I was going to see you, he’d come up with something for us to do. In some ways, I can understand. It’s hard to accept that a man and woman can be such great friends. But you and I are, and I would be devastated if we weren’t, Tristan.” I haul him in for one more hug.
This man has been in my life since I started college, and we’ve seen each other through ups and downs over the years—the loss of his father then his mother, the loss of my grandma. We were meant to be friends, and we’ve only ever been friends.
That is, except for the night before winter break during our sophomore year of college, when he planted the most intense kiss I’d ever had on my lips. A kiss that made my toes curl, made my knees weak. One that haunted my late-night fantasies every single night over the holidays.
But then his father passed away during the break, and when he returned to school, he was understandably devastated. I’d sensed he needed my friendship more than a budding romance, and I offered that—my shoulder, my support. We reverted to the way we’d been before and never spoke of the kiss again.
Now, as we separate, the door swings open. Barrett takes his key from the lock, looks at Tristan, then at me, then back at his brother.
Barrett’s grin spreads wider than the Hudson River. “I see you took my advice.”
4
Tristan
I want to throttle him.
And to think I was simply hoping the little punk would follow his heart’s desire and go after the girl.
This is my thanks? No way do I want Peyton knowing she was the subject of a dare to ask her out.
But Peyton can’t resist the gumdrop. She perks up, her gaze sliding back and forth between Barrett and me. “Advice? What sort of advice?”
Time to improvise. I can’t give my brother a chance to serve up a single tantalizing detail, not about this morning and not about what he overheard years ago. What I’d said then had been true, but I’m not that guy anymore.
I refuse to be the guy pining for someone he can’t have. I am most definitely not the type of sad sack who harbors feelings for a woman for a decade.
“He said I should ask you to homecoming,” I blurt, falling on the conversational grenade. “That was his advice.” Good thing I read those school emails. Good thing I signed up to be a chaperone. “His school has a homecoming dance in a couple of weeks. I offered to chaperone, ergo . . .”
Peyton’s eyes glitter with excitement. No surprise. She’s outgoing and friendly, vibrant and popular, and has always loved events. “Homecoming! Gah! Next thing I know you’re going to tell me they’re playing badminton there, too, and we all have to wear fancy costumes.”
Barrett chuckles. “Sorry, Pey. We won’t have your favorite sport at the dance. But it’s still going to be hella fun when you come. Isn’t it, Tris?” My little brother targets me with a satisfied smirk.
“It’s going to be rad,” I say, piling it on.
“Absolutely,” Peyton chimes in. “And seriously, Barrett—that’s so sweet that you told Tristan to invite me.”
My brother pastes on a devilishly delightful grin. “I am definitely a sweetheart.”
Sweetheart, my ass. “If by sweetheart, you mean he said it’d embarrass him if I went alone, then yes, you can call him a sweetheart for saying I’d bring you to stave off the embarrassment of me.”
There. Cover-up achieved.
“Whatever the reason, I’m happy to go.” She turns her attention to me, wagging a finger. “And you’re in big trouble for failing to mention this sooner. You know I love dances.”
It’s like she’s stabbing me in the heart.
Of course I know she loves dances. The night I kissed her was at a dance party in December. A retro eighties shindig where she rocked out to The Human League and A-ha. Nearly every time a new tune began, she’d shout, “I love this song!” Except every now and then, she’d whisper it. Right in my ear. Making my skin sizzle. Making me nearly lose my mind with longing.
When her favorite Cyndi Lauper song began, her voice turned softer, almost crooning as she’d said, “I always wanted to kiss to ‘Time After Time.’”
She’d had a few drinks. Same for me. With liquid courage, I’d said, “So do it.”
“Yeah?”
I’d nodded, buoyed by desire and tequila. “Yeah.”
She’d inched closer, I’d slid a hand around her waist, and we’d kissed like it was the entire purpose of the dance, of the night, of the entire year.
I’d never wanted to kiss someone so badly. Not before, and not since.
She’d melted against me, sighing and murmuring in my arms.
Now, in the restaurant with Barrett, I shove the memory away, clear my throat, and lean a hip against the bar, presenting my most casual front. “Actually, I forgot how much you like dances. And homecoming nearly slipped my mind, so thanks for reminding me to ask her, Barrett.”
“You’re so welcome.” As he strides to the bar, the look on my brother’s face is priceless. It says You are full of shit, and I love it.
Meanwhile, Peyton’s expression zooms into further delight. “I loved homecoming when I was in high school.”
As Barrett plops himself onto a stool, he turns to her. “I bet you were homecoming princess. Did you have a tiara and everything?”
“I was not homecoming princess. I was the arty girl playing around with fashion design. I was the girl who made her own dresses. Including my homecoming dress.”
“No way,” Barrett says, his eyes lighting up.
She straightens her shoulders. “And the yearbook committee named me ‘Most Likely to Costume Period Dramas in Hollywood.’” Her expression is pure deadpan. “It was not a compliment.”
“What kind of dress did you make for homecoming?” he asks.
She runs her hands over her plaid skirt, as if recalling. “It was a Marie Antoinette style, if you must know.”
I stifle a laugh.
“What? I liked frilly things.”
“And you still do,” I point out.
“It was baroque with poufed sleeves and lace. So much lace. The skirt was so big I could have hidden a small family under it.”
Barrett
raises a hand. “Peyton, any chance you can still wear that to the dance?”
“Will you be needing to stow away small families under my dress?” she asks.
Barrett laughs, and it’s such an honest sound that it surprises me. So much of our conversations straddle the line between brothers who love each other and a parent figure who has to look out for a kid. With Peyton, he lets down his I-love-you-I-hate-you armor. “Sounds awesome,” he says.
I point at her. “She’s going to wear a costume, and you’re worried I’ll embarrass you?”
He hums, tapping his chin. “Sounds about right. Besides, Peyton’s cool. Unlike some people I know.” He cough-laughs, then smiles at Peyton, lingering, and a warning light flickers.
Does my little brother have a crush on Peyton?
Is that why he hasn’t asked out Rachel? Because he’s harboring a crush on an older, unattainable woman?
I groan privately. That would be foolish, but it’s entirely possible.
Peyton is . . . well, she’s Peyton.
If I were seventeen, she’d be precisely who I’d long for.
She’s generous, gorgeous, and one of the kindest people ever.
Her big heart was obvious before, and especially after, we kissed. The next day, school let out for winter break, and I went home to Colorado and helped with my sick dad. I’d planned on asking Peyton out when I returned to school, but the day before I left to go back, my father took his last breath. I didn’t go back to school right away, and once I did, I wasn’t in a good frame of mind to ask out the most beautiful woman I’d ever met.
Besides, we came from different worlds. She was high class and prep school, with a mother who ran an art gallery and a father who shaped young minds as a professor. My dad had been a construction worker, my mother a bank teller. I was the scholarship kid, and there were plenty of guys in our dorm who had no problem dropping subtle hints that Upper East Side Peyton would only want someone from her fancy neighborhood, not the guy on financial aid who worked in the school cafeteria.
Soon enough, she met Gage from Greenwich, Connecticut, and she dated him that spring. When he graduated, he went to work at a bank in London and told her he’d look her up again when he returned to New York.
A few years later, he did. They rekindled and the rest is history.
Now he’s out of the picture again, but it doesn’t matter because we’re friends—great friends—and you don’t throw that away on a Hail Mary shot at romance.
Plus, Barrett is my priority. I’m busy finishing the task my parents started—raising him to be a good man.
I return to the topic. “So, the first rule of homecoming is Peyton wears a dress big enough for stowaways and I don’t embarrass you. Anything else?”
Barrett drums his fingers on the bar. “That about covers it.”
“Count me in. In case I haven’t made that clear already.” Peyton pushes back from the stool, grabs her purse, and checks the time on her phone. “I need to go meet Amy and Lola, but the night is young.” She flashes me that killer smile then points her fingers at me like a gunslinger—pow pow pow. “And thanks to you, I will be blogging tonight. The Lingerie Devotee is back.”
I mime an epic explosion of awesome with my hands. “Boom. The resurrection is upon us.”
Barrett even chimes in with an imitation of a heavenly choir of angels. At least, I think that’s what his long, sustained Ahhhhhhh is supposed to mean.
With a flourish, she waves goodbye, heading out into the New York night. I watch her till the door clangs shut.
“Do you think she knows?” His voice is soft, the question earnest.
“Knows what?”
Barrett’s eyes lock with mine. “That it was all a cover-up? That you wanted to ask her on a date for real?”
But that’s where he’s wrong.
Once upon a time, I did.
Maybe I even planned to try again a few years ago. Perhaps I’d even prepped to walk up to her door with a bouquet of flowers, to swallow down all the nerves in the world, and to ask her to dinner at last. But before I could, Gage returned from London and captured her heart again.
I was oh-for-two, and every baseball fan knows you don’t swing on that kind of count.
“That was the past, man,” I tell him. “Let it go. I have.”
Barrett nods decisively. “That’s why you didn’t ask her out tonight? Because you let it go?”
“I asked her to the homecoming dance. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“No. I thought you were going to ask her for real. I legit thought you had asked her out. That’s why I said ‘You took my advice’ when I saw you hugging her. But instead, you made up the whole lame excuse about asking her to be a co-chaperone. You’re always telling me to go for it with Rachel, but then with Peyton, you make it seem like it’s this thing you have to do, like with homecoming. Why?”
“Because.” I draw a deep breath, searching for words. “Because whatever happened in the past, whatever I said to Mom once upon a time, is the past. Peyton and I had a moment, and the moment is over. We are great friends, and she doesn’t need to know we were talking about her this morning, okay? That’s why I said what I did about homecoming. I don’t want her thinking she was the subject of a dare.” I drag a hand through my hair, my jaw ticking. “Know what I mean?”
He’s quiet for a beat, mulling this over. “Fair enough. I get you.” He shoots me a crooked grin. “I mean, I get you by maybe, like, ten percent.”
I reach across the bar and tousle his hair. “I’ll take ten percent. Anyway, you hungry?”
He pats his stomach. “Always. We were working on sets all night. I’m starving. And since you’re the best brother in the world, I was hoping you’d be willing to make me some chicken kebabs.”
I smile, because cooking is easy. Whipping up a meal is a walk in the park compared to sorting out the twists and turns my heart undergoes when I think about missed chances with Peyton.
As I cook, he tells me about his day. This is my favorite part of the night—when Barrett relaxes and lets me into his world, a world I never expected to know so intimately.
After we eat, I lock up and we head home.
* * *
Around midnight, I brush my teeth and plug in my phone.
It’s dying, down to only 5 percent, but a message blinks at me.
Peyton: Thanks for the nudge! I saw Amy and Lola, and when I returned home I wrote my first post. Here it is.
When I read the blog, I like it more than I should.
5
Peyton
Amy is buzzing.
She’s practically bouncing off the coffee shop walls when I spot her at a table at Doctor Insomnia’s after leaving Tristan’s.
She launches herself at me as soon as I’m through the door, and our friend Lola, who’s joining us, shoots me an apologetic look. “I tried to put a leash on her, but some animals can’t be controlled.”
“Peyton!” Amy clasps her hands on my shoulders. “I. Have. To. Tell. You. Something.”
“You don’t say,” I say dryly. “Let me guess—you want us to try goat yoga with you? Because you don’t need to command an audience with me to get me to say yes to that. I’m there.”
Amy’s green eyes dance with delight. “Goat yoga! Yes. Sign us up now. Like right now. But this is better.”
Lola clears her throat, narrowing her pretty brown eyes. “But is it better than the Cirque du Soleil class we took a few months ago?”
“Ah, memories.” I shudder, as if they were of anything other than the torture Amy exacted on us. I take a seat on the couch, and they follow. “Remember how we all hung upside down in huge swaths of fabric and looked as gorgeous and talented as aerial artists?”
Amy’s brow knits with confusion. “Wait. You didn’t like the cirque class?”
I shoot her a you can’t be serious look. “We were terrible. We were like a pack of octopuses on Xanax, climbing curtains.”
“But
the point was to be terrible. It was cathartic to move like Ursula. We were getting Gage out of your system, and it worked,” she says, bopping her shoulders. “He’s gone. He’s so far out of your system he’s practically living on Neptune.”
“Amy,” I chide. “Don’t you know? He resides on Uranus.”
She cringes. “Eww. That word is wrong. In my revision of the dictionary, I will abolish Uranus.”
Lola cuts in, fanning her forehead. “Please stop saying Uranus. It makes me want to pucker my lips, and I suddenly feel moist, so moist all over.”
Amy and I crack up, pointing at Lola.
“You win, girl,” I say. “Best use of the worst words ever.”
Amy mimes removing her tiara. “The crown goes to the esteemed Lola DuMont tonight.” She turns to me, handing me a latte she must have ordered for me, then taking a drink of her own. “And I might have another crown for you if you say yes to something.”
“Tell me more,” I say, rubbing my palms. “What have the two publishing Bobbsey Twins cooked up?”
With her dark hair, carved cheekbones, and chocolate eyes, Lola looks nothing like Amy’s cutie-pie next door, but I like to call them twins when they’re cooking up schemes. “Are you two starting a new line of lingerie guides and you want me to craft them?” I flutter my fingers against my chest like a delighted starlet, all gracious and surprised. “Because the answer is yes, yes, and more yes.”
Amy’s eyebrows rise. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.” She grabs her phone and dictates a voice memo: “Consider lingerie guides. How the hell is a bra supposed to fit? How do you know what style of undies to buy? And do you have to wash each one by hand and hang them on the balcony to dry?”
Sex And Other Shiny Objects Page 4