by Hazel Kelly
"I suppose you could do worse."
Pfff. And have done.
"Fancy some cheese?" he asked.
I laughed and looked him up and down.
He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Picked up a cheeseboard on my lunch break."
My face puckered like a lemon. "What? Who even talks like that?”
He pushed off the couch and wandered back over to the fridge. "I'm European like that now."
"Fancy some cheese?" I repeated, sounding out each word like he'd been speaking another language. "It's almost three a.m."
"Hence my haste," he said, pulling a paper bag out of the fridge. "I usually prefer my cheese course right after dinner, but—"
"Cheese course?! Who are you right now?"
His eyes flicked up at me disapprovingly before he continued unwrapping the individual blocks of cheese. "Would you relax? It's only a bit of cheese."
As he strolled back towards the sofa, my heart fluttered at the thought that he might sit by my feet again. When he did, my insides smiled, and I watched him use the short cheese knife to slice into a fresh pack of table crackers.
"It feels like you're judging me for my three a.m. cheese feed, even though I didn't judge you for eating dessert for dinner," he said, not looking my way as he loaded a few crackers with what looked to be a soft camembert.
"I'm not judging you," I said. "I just didn't think your next trick was going to be a cheeseboard up your sleeve."
He handed me a loaded cracker. "You're welcome."
I took it, every hair on my neck conscious of how close his fingers came to mine. "Thanks," I said, leaning back against the arm of the couch again.
"Do you still have to wear that little paper hat pinned to your head when you're at work?" he asked, disappearing a whole cracker into his mouth.
"Yeah. Why?"
"No reason," he said, failing to hide the sly smile that spread across his face.
My expression soured. "I'm glad you think that's funny."
"You going to eat that?" he asked, glancing at the cracker I was holding.
I nodded.
“What's stopping you?"
I looked down at the cracker and then back up at him. "I'm going to have crazy dreams if I eat cheese right now."
"How do you know this isn't already the crazy dream?"
"Fair point," I said, biting the cracker in half.
He smiled and carried on prepping crackers atop the artisan cheese board he bought “on his lunch break," proving that he was an actual adult and that I was kidding myself to think we were on the same page with anything.
"What's that one?" I asked, pointing at a creamy-looking blue cheese.
"Cambozola," he said, slicing into it. "I guarantee it’s worth all the wacky dreams it might give you."
"So that happens to you, too?" I asked, taking the cracker he offered me. "Crazy dreams if you eat cheese late at night?"
He shook his head. "I'm not much of a dreamer."
"What does that mean?"
He shrugged. "Means I can't remember the last time I dreamt."
"Mmmm." The moan came out louder than I expected, but I'd never had such a yummy cheese in my life, and when my eyes opened again, James was wearing an expression of surprise. "What?" I asked, covering my mouth as I chewed.
"Do you and the cambozola want to be alone?"
"Shut up," I said, kicking him gently with one of my feet, my chest tightening when I met the solid wall of his thigh muscle.
He ate a few more crackers without looking my way, and I could tell he was doing it just to torture me.
"Are you going to give me another one or what?"
"I thought you were worried about having weird dreams."
"I am," I said, leaning forward. "Weird dreams about murdering you if you don't give me another cracker with that creamy blue one on it."
"Okay," he said, laughing. "One second." He made a few more and set them at the edge of the cutting board in his lap, and my desire for the strange, delicious cheese overrode my desire to respect his personal space.
Fortunately, I was able to anticipate the sensational flavor the second time around and keep my enthusiastic moan to myself, which seemed vitally important in that moment. After all, it was bad enough that my stepbrother had made my mouth water and delighted my taste buds. It was bad enough that he'd comforted me and made me laugh. It was bad enough that every time he looked at me, my belly did backflips.
But moaning in his presence? I had to draw the line somewhere.
E L E V E N
- James -
If I were the kind of guy who dreamt, I might've believed I was in one right then. But I knew better, which was a shame. Because I loved the idea of being lost in a dream with Brie, loved the idea that she might moan unselfconsciously again, wiggle her toes under my leg, and let me be her anchor. I loved the idea that we might be able to enjoy ourselves without choosing our words so carefully, without having to be so diligent about not letting our eye contact linger too long.
But this was no dream. If anything, it was a dangerous game.
I could feel myself getting sucked in to the pull of her attention, could feel myself craving answers to questions it would be inappropriate to ask.
The kitchen clock ticked with my slow heartbeat, and we ate crackers for a silent eternity, her delicate fingers sliding them carefully from the edge of the wooden cutting board in my lap with a bothersome timidity. Like she didn’t quite trust me. Or maybe she just found my company as confusing as I'd always found hers.
Logically, I knew she was my stepsister, knew our parents’ marriage meant there were expectations of us we'd never asked for. But could she tell I didn't trust my own feelings for her? Could she tell that the kind of pretty I thought she was made me feel nauseous and frustrated?
In all my life, I'd never willed familiarity to breed contempt so much. But I could no more hate this girl than I could stop thinking about her, and not knowing how to quell that feeling was driving me crazy.
I glanced towards Brie when she reached for her wine and watched her take down two big glugs like it was water.
"You good?"
She nodded, her soft smile lifting her rounded cheeks. "Needed that more than I realized."
"You and me both." I leaned forward and set the cutting board on the table, careful not to lay it down on any of her papers. Then I slumped back on the couch, feeling pleased I hadn't broken out the cheeseboard after the poker game. Not that any of the guys were in the mood to appreciate the finer things after I so deftly relieved them of their money.
"I'd say I like the new and improved European James, but I don't think enjoying cheese makes you European."
"That's not all I picked up," I said, trying to think on my feet. "I can hold my upper lip very still now when I want, and I'm great at keeping the discussion on the weather for an uncomfortable amount of time."
Brie scrunched her face like she wasn't impressed.
"I also bought a pair of criminally tight jeans while I was there that I'm sure would get me arrested on this side of the pond."
She laughed. "Thanks for the warning."
"I don't know what I was thinking," I said, shaking my head as I recalled the ridiculous purchase. "It's not like I've ever been wearing a regular pair of pants and wished my ankles were being more thoroughly strangled."
"Shame you didn't pick up the accent," she said. "That would've been hot."
My face whipped towards her as if I'd gained some insider information about what she was into. Except I hadn't. And even if I had, what would I even do with that information?
"Not that there's anything wrong with your voice," she said, her cheeks flushing. "It's a fine voice. Perfectly…Midwestern."
I rolled my eyes. "Well that explains why I can't pull off the jeans."
She bit back a smile.
"Can barely pull them on, to be honest."
"At least you've been somewhere besides the North Shore o
f Chicago," she said. "Can't say I've collected many passport stamps between the red and white tiled walls of Homer's."
I clocked a wistful look in her eye and could tell her wanderlust was genuine. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
Brie tucked a wisp of honey-colored hair behind one ear slowly, as if she were priming it to listen.
"Why are you still working at that shithole?" I asked, my stomach sinking when I saw her expression fall. "Surely you could be doing something more worthwhile while you finish your program? Like something related to what you actually want to do? They can't be paying you enough for the crap you must put up with."
"First of all, it's not a shithole," she said, straightening up. "I know the place has gone a little rough around the edges, but generations of families have been coming there for almost a hundred years as a special treat, which makes it a treasure, whether you can see that or not."
"Sorry." I raised my palms. "I didn't mean—"
"Furthermore," she continued, her glare stopping my flapping jaw in its tracks. "I'm well aware that it's not exactly an inspiring résumé builder, but I can do the job with my eyes shut at this point. Which means I can occupy my mind with more important matters."
My brows lifted. "Like what?"
"Like my writing, for example, and my independent studies of…the human condition."
She sounded so sure of herself that I was reluctant to challenge her, but her defensiveness had charged the room with some much-needed energy after the onset of our cheese comas. "When you say the human condition, are you talking about hunger?"
"Not just hunger, no."
I kept my eyes on hers, willing her to continue despite her obvious frustration with me.
"People give a lot away at the ice cream counter," she explained. "You'd be surprised. They get to the front of the line, and they get flustered trying to order everything they want exactly how they want it without aggravating the people behind them. They forget that I can see them from the other side of the counter. And for a few brief moments, everything shows on their face. Their exhaustion from work. Their frustration with their kids. Their anticipation of a childhood treat their doctors warned them against. It's fascinating."
"And then what?"
"And then they pay, put their mask back on, and go back to pretending they have all their shit together and don't need the overpriced ice cream they just ordered as bad as I know they do."
"You see all that in the time it takes people to order?"
She nodded. "I see everything. I can see when couples are new and when they're in the throes of breaking up. I watch people argue with themselves and bargain with themselves. I can tell how people feel about money just from the way they open their wallet. I can see when people are buying ice cream for the right reasons and the wrong ones."
"The wrong ones?"
She shrugged. "Believe it or not, ice cream can't fix everything."
"What a world it would be if it could, eh?"
Her eyes smiled. "What a world indeed."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to presume it wasn't a good job."
She batted my apology away like a housefly. "That’s okay. It's not a good job."
"So you stay because…?"
"Because it doesn't interfere with my real job of being a writer."
Her dedication to her craft hit me then for the first time, and I was stunned by a rush of admiration that surprised me. After all, nothing had changed from moments ago. She was still employed at a decidedly average (albeit long-standing) ice cream parlor that would never help her earn enough money to travel, much less the respect of her peers. But she didn't care about other people’s opinions. She cared about writing. More than anything. And in an unexpected moment of clarity, I felt envious of her passion, which made her brave in a way I wasn’t and probably never would be.
"Plus, I look adorable in the paper hat."
"That you do," I said, laughing until my eyes met hers. But this time felt different. Because this time, I was conscious of her habit of seeing more than people meant her to. And I couldn't help but wonder if she'd already performed the same sorcery on me. If one look was all it took for her to know what I was really like. Or worse, what I really wanted.
Because it sure as hell wasn't ice cream.
T W E L V E
- Brie -
"Well this has been fun," Crystal said, crumpling a napkin and tossing it on her empty plate.
"I told you I had to work."
"I know," she said, leaning back in her pinewood chair, which perfectly matched the sea of half-occupied cafe chairs behind her. "But you always say that."
I sighed and pulled my glasses off to rub my dry eyes, which were burning in their sockets. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," she said, snatching her fountain drink off the table. "Just doesn't bode well for when you make it big if you can't even make time for me now."
I smiled, slid my glasses back on, and closed my laptop after compulsively hitting “Ctrl+S” three times. "You're right. I can barely think straight, anyway. I was up half the night." I shook my head before dropping it back against the padded maroon wall behind me.
"Something eating you?"
"No," I said. "Just fell asleep on the couch and then got to talking to James when he came home."
The whites of her eyes grew bigger. "Oh?"
"I should've just gone to bed," I said. "Then my brain wouldn't be mush right now."
"What were you guys talking about?"
I shrugged. "Nothing. Garbage. What does anyone talk about in the middle of the night?" Except even as I said the words, I didn't believe them. Because it hadn't been nothing. It had been too much. It always was with him. I don't know why. There was just something about him that made me feel like getting carried away. He'd always had that effect on me.
Even when we were kids, his presence made me want to do stupid, show-offy things that were out of character. Like the time I nearly broke my neck trying to do a front flip on the Masons’ trampoline. Or the time I tried to swing from the willow tree in Centennial Park like Tarzan and got horrible friction burns on my hands. Or that night I stayed up eating cheese when I had two assignments due Monday that weren't finished. Ugh. "What did you do last night?"
Crystal looked down at her plate like she wished she still had some sandwich she could shove in her mouth.
"You didn't."
Guilt shrouded her face. "Nothing happened."
I cocked my head and waited for her culpable eyes to meet mine. "Go on."
"He said he wanted to talk."
My brows crashed together. "And you wanted to hear what he had to say?"
She smoothed her hands over her braids, which were pulled back in a high ponytail. "I know that sounds stupid."
I scoffed.
"And I feel like enough of a tool without you judging me, by the way."
"I'm not judging you," I said. "I just don't get what he could possibly say that would make you forgive him for sleeping with someone else."
Her eyes dulled. "Me neither."
"I'm not trying to pile on and make you feel bad. I'm just frustrated because you deserve better."
"I know," she said. "But the sex…"
I blinked at her. How dare she ask me to put my work away for a conversation we'd had six dozen times.
"I'm worried he's the best I'll ever have." Her dark eyes pleaded with me. "Like, ever."
"Well, better to have loved and lost. At least you've had some sex in your life worth daydreaming about."
"Are you kidding?" she asked. "I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat. At least you don't know what you're missing."
My neck hinged forward. "I put my work away for you. The least you could do is not lie to me."
She pursed her lips, biting down on a silent apology. "I don't mean to act like such a crazy person." She folded her arms and hugged herself. "I just don't know what to do. Logically, I know I need to stay away from him, but my body'
s not getting the message."
I wanted to empathize with her. Really, I did. Not just as a woman, but as a writer. But I'd never had sex worth losing sleep over, much less sex worth getting addicted to. "So what happened?"
"I went home as soon as he got that look in his eye."
"What look?"
"You know. That look guys get when they think they're being really smooth and sexy, but the fact that they're about to make a move is written all over their face."
I laughed. "So then what?"
"I left."
My brows jumped. "Really? Wow."
"I have some self-control."
"And?" I asked. "Do you feel good about it?"
"No, I feel like shit. That's what I'm trying to tell you. At least if I were sleeping with him, on top of feeling like shit, I'd have that ethereal glow you get from relentless orgasms."
"Relentless orgasms," I repeated, marveling at the phrase. "How poetic." The only orgasms I was used to having were more suited to adjectives like "handy" and "efficient." Then again, sex with myself was more of a necessary chore than an indulgence I tried to drag out.
"What if I never meet someone else who can make my body sing like that?"
"We'll probably have to find something new to talk about over lunch."
She scowled. "Bitch."
"I'm right about this. All you have to do is look at that guy's rap sheet."
"If he were more disciplined with his rap sheet, I wouldn't have to."
I tapped my nose with my pointer finger. "Touché."
"How long till you're done?" she asked, ignoring my untouched sandwich and nodding towards my laptop.
"Why?"
"It's ladies’ night at Cassidy's."
"No can do," I said, shaking my head. "I have to finish this short story. Plus, I'm supposed to give Professor Herstall three new chapters Monday, and they have to be perfect."
"I wish you were as eager to impress me as you are to impress your professor."
I glowered at her. "Helpful."
"Speaking of helpful, maybe you could write something that would help me get over Darnell faster."
"Like a list of the women he's been with since you dumped his ass?"
