by S. E. Hall
“She’s out front with Tyler,” she tells me, her smile showing she’s happy at the thought of pleasing me; not at all about willingly helping another female at a party.
“You wait right here, and I’ll go check on her and be right back, okay?”
She nods eagerly and I almost feel like I should pat her head like a puppy. I should probably tell her there’s no chance in hell I’m coming back. Surely I’m not the only man who still thinks scruples are attractive?
Whitley’s laughter fills the air before I can make her out in the dark, but I instantly breathe easier hearing that she’s okay, laughing even, and I follow the sound. She’s still in her bikini top but with short gray shorts covering the bottom, her hair down and wild. She’s sitting on a bench in the yard beside some guy dressed pretty much in the same outfit she put me in the night at Dane’s. Oh shit—what a goon I’d been in the same outfit; worse than I thought. He stands as I walk up to them, his face and stance defensive. Please. Don’t scuff your loafers or wrinkle your slacks, bro.
“Whitley, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” I say, not even acknowledging Toolbag standing there.
“Evan!” She jumps up and falls forward, but I reach out and catch her.
“Easy, easy.” I hold her up, shooting the dude a menacing look. “You get her this drunk?”
“She’s a big girl, she got herself drunk. Who the fuck are you?”
“This is Evan. He’s my new friend. In love with Laney, who doesn’t hate me anymore. She’s sporty,” Whitley rattles off drunkenly. “What she said, sorta,” I agree. “Who are you? And why do you have her out here all alone, drunk, in the dark?” If I didn’t have to hold up Whitley right now, I’d gladly wrinkle that shirt of his.
“That’s Tyler,” Whitley supplies. “Family friend forever. He had the coolest fort in his backyard; I used to sneak over. He wants in my panties, and my dad’s wallet, which is empty, I guess. Oops!” She giggles and covers her mouth.
“I’m taking her home.” I scoop her up in my arms and make towards the house, not even caring to find Sawyer. Total bullshit he left her like this. Her arms snake around my neck and her head falls back, hanging over my arm.
“Evan?”
“What?”
“Why are you mad at me?” she asks, her head bouncing with each of my steps.
“I’m not mad at you. You just scared me. We’ll talk in the morning.” I stop, hitching her up and resetting my secure grip of her limp body.
“What if my dad’s so broke he can’t pay for school anymore? I’ll have to leave. Who will take care of you?”
“Whitley, you’re drunk. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Not every girl will leave you. I don’t want to.”
I know better than to try and carry on a conversation with someone who’s drunk, but drunken words are sober thoughts, and it seems as though she’s got some pretty big ones plaguing her that she needs to get out.
“Whitley, I’m sure it’ll be fine. You won’t have to leave school.
And don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Okay?”
I look down when she doesn’t respond, seeing she’s passed out. Although difficult, I manage to get the door open and her tucked in bed, then lay a glass of water and some headache reliever I dug up in the kitchen on her nightstand.
Tomorrow, we’ll have to talk. What she did tonight was dangerous and she needn’t try to drink away her fears. She also shouldn’t be worrying about me. And I shouldn’t be thinking about how good it feels to be someone’s concern.
GOIN’ FISHIN’
“Dude, wake up.”
I open my eyes, then squint against the sunlight, barely able to see Sawyer crouched by my bed, shaking me. “What?” The one time I’m not the first person awake and here comes this guy.
“I can’t get this chick to leave. I need your help, bro. Get up and come run interference, say we gotta go somewhere or something.”
I’m not too sleepy to grin ear to ear once I turn away from him; serves him right. I hope she’s sniffing his clothes and doodling his initials when he walks back in there. “You’re on your own, bro. You left Whitley alone, drunk, and you want help? You gotta be a friend to have a friend, Sawyer.”
“I didn’t leave Whitley drunk. I left her sober, with an old friend, who she said she trusted. I specifically asked her.”
I roll over and look at him now, standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed and wearing a scowl. He can scowl all he wants, if he left Whitley like that, we’re done. “She was blitzed when I found her, alone in the front yard, away from the crowd, with one guy.” Scowl right back at ya.
“Yeah, Tyler or something, right? Listen, I pulled that girl aside and asked her, she said he was an old family friend and she trusted him. She was sober, on the sun porch thing with a lot of people when I walked away. I swear.”
“You’re sure?” I should have known he wouldn’t just leave her like that. For all his obnoxiousness, he’s a decent guy.
“You calling me a liar, Evan?”
“Nah, man, not a liar, I just wanted to make sure.” I stand now and offer him a fist bump. “My bad.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I could have gone back and checked on her.”
“Just remember next time. Cool?”
“Cool.” He nods, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Now what is it you need help with again?” I haven’t forgotten, in the whole last five minutes, I just want him to have to squirm through telling me again.
“This girl, she won’t leave.”
There it is, the pained grimace on his face…so glad I asked again.
“Stop hooking up with randoms and you won’t have this problem.” I throw a shirt over my head and pull on some jeans; no sense risking the clinger taking a liking.
“Ah, small price to pay, my friend.” He moves to the door and looks back. “You should try it; get your heads back in the game.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna try to start dating, I think.”
“I was kidding,” he comments, turning fully to face me, “kinda. I thought maybe you and Whitley might start something up. Girl’s gah gah over you.”
“No, she’s not. We’re just friends. I can’t do that to her, you know? What if I’m imagining something that isn’t really there because of a rebound thing?”
“My hell, you are one complicated guy. We need to run to the store for some feminine products there, puss?”
“Fuck off,” I mumble, brushing past him and opening the door. I instantly smell the coffee and hear two female voices cackling away.
“Good morning!” Whitley greets us with a huge smile and bright eyes.
Another fact learned about Whit—she is obviously immune to hangovers.
Lucky.
“Evan, this is Portia,” Whitley properly introduces us and I barely get out a hello or my hand outstretched before the stranger is draped around Sawyer’s arm.
Sasha, Portia…maybe he needs to start trying girls named Jane, or Mary, or something he has a chance of spelling.
“Oh, and Nikki came by to invite you parasailing. Said to meet them in an hour at the dock if you want to go. You guys want some coffee?”
“Sure, thank you,” I answer, but Sawyer… Yuck. That explains why Sawyer’s silent...Portia is attached to his mouth.
Whitley hands me a mug of black coffee with a smile, her eyes not quite meeting mine. I don’t know if that’s because the display right beside us is making her uncomfortable or she’s embarrassed about last night or what…but I can’t delve into it with our spectators, even though I’m pretty sure I could scream “FIRE!” and those two wouldn’t flinch. Which leaves me confused, ‘cause now I’m not sure if I’m still supposed to help him get rid of her or slip him a condom behind her back.
“What do I do?” I mouth to Whitley with a shrug of one shoulder and a crook of my head to the “couple.”
“I don’t know,” Whitley mouths back, suppressing a giggle.
“Sorry, no,” she frowns.
Yes! Here’s where my bro brilliance comes in.
“I can’t drink coffee without creamer. I guess Sawyer and I will run to the store.” I rise, feigning aggravation. “Portia, I can give you a lift home when we go.”
No response.
“Portia?” I say even louder.
“Hmm? What?” She releases suction and turns to me, eyes glazed.
“Let us give you a ride home, we have to go to the store anyway.”
“Oh, um, okay,” she mutters, looking back at Sawyer with pleading eyes, just waiting for him to squash the take her home plan…which he doesn’t. Once she realizes he isn’t going to, she starts to shuffle slowly. “Let me just grab my stuff.”
“Niceeeee,” Sawyer praises when she’s out of earshot, “I owe you one.”
“Sawyer Beckett,” Whitley chastises him in a low voice, “that is someone’s daughter. You should be ashamed.”
“Whitley, she came willingly…twice. I didn’t make her any promises. How is it any more my fault than hers?” He shakes his head. “You women and your double standards.”
I cough loudly when I see Portia walking back in. “You ready?”
“I guess so.” She glances hopefully at Sawyer once more.
“We’ll be back in a minute, Whitley,” Sawyer says over his shoulder as he leads Portia out the front door with his hand…on her ass.
What a dog.
Evan: Don’t worry about breakfast. I’ll grab it while we’re out. You want anything special?
Sawyer climbs back in the truck, having walked Portia to her door, which shocked the shit out of me really.
“I told Whit we’d pick up breakfast. What do you want?”
“Whatever you see first is fine with me.”
Whitley: There’s a place called JoJo’s right on I-9. They have the best breakfast burritos.
“We’re having breakfast burritos. We on I-9?” I ask.
“Hell if I know.” He’s looks around for signs. “Right there,” he points, “get back over.”
“Look for a place called JoJo’s,” I tell him as I navigate back across traffic, “Whitley says they’re the best.”
“So, no Whitley for you, huh? That surprises me.”
“She’s great, don’t get me wrong. But I told ya, I think I’m reading things into it and will end up hurting her. Doesn’t it seem a little too easy that Whitley, the first girl I meet here, ends up being the one? You know, when things seem too good to be true, it’s usually because they are…”
“Whatever you say, man. I think maybe you think too much, but it’s your call.”
We pull through JoJo’s, another random, grim-looking eatery (Whitley’s specialty apparently), and Sawyer thankfully lets the subject drop, inhaling his burrito straight from the bag.
“Don’t eat ours, Saw,” I warn him with a laugh.
“I won’t, crybaby,” I think he says, his mouth full.
“So,” he finally comes out of the bag for air minutes later, now speaking legibly, “we gonna go parasailing?”
“Don’t know yet.” I climb out of the truck, snagging the bag from Sawyer as I go, salvaging Whitley and I some breakfast. “Depends on what Whit wants to do.”
He’s still bugging me about it as we walk in. “Whitley, you wanna go parasailing?” he asks her.
“I don’t think I was invited,” she glances at me, “but you guys go ahead. I just downloaded a new book. I’ll be more than happy laying out and reading.”
Not happening.
“Cool,” Sawyer shrugs, “oh and Whit? Don’t get drunk alone with guys anymore, okay? Evan here about kicked my ass for leaving you alone, even though I assured him you weren’t hammered when I left you. Not safe, sugar.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” she says pointedly to me, “Tyler had a flask of whiskey I got carried away. Sawyer didn’t know.”
I nod briskly; I’d already settled it with Sawyer and he’d now issued the warning I wanted to, so no need to rehash it.
“I’m gonna hop in the shower, then we’ll head out. Cool?”
“Nah,” I answer him, “you go ahead. I’m gonna hang with
Whit.”
“Evan, you don’t have—”
“Hanging with you,” I cut her off sternly.
“You guys settle it,” Sawyer laughs, “I’m going with or without ya.”
He leaves to take his shower and I get up and gather the trash from breakfast, Whitley fixing an imaginary problem with the bottom of her shirt, a small smile hinting at the corners of her mouth
“So, what do you feel like doing?” I ask.
“Well, I know a really good spot to go fishing. We have poles in the garage I think.”
My eyes pop and I look at her suspiciously, one brow raised. “You fish?”
She full-on smiles now. “I do if you teach me.”
“You know where to get worms?”
“Um, the ground?”
I laugh at her innocent but correct answer. I was thinking of a Vendabait machine, but yes, the ground works too. “I don’t know if we’ll find enough that way, but we can sure try. Go get ready, I’ll check the garage for poles.”
“Okay!” She bounces all the way down the hall; I know this because I watch with a grin plastered on my face.
It’s gonna be damn hard to find people to date when I get home.
Whitley is the best accidental squirrel hunter I’ve ever met. Her hook has been up in the trees, which aren’t exactly right on top of us, more times than not, so she must be trying to hook herself a squirrel. She apologizes profusely every time I have to put down my pole and help her, but I really don’t mind. It’s fun to watch her keep trying, her little tongue popping out in determination with every attempted cast.
Has she caught a fish? No.
Has she actually caught a squirrel? Still no.
Is being here, fishing, just what I needed? Yes.
Have I won the battle with myself to ignore the memories and comparisons? Damn near.
“I think I need an intermission,” she says, propping her pole against a tree. “I’ll just watch you for a while. Catch me a big one.”
“We can go if you want.”
“No way!” she gasps. “I’m having a great time, really. I’m just taking a break. Go on,” she motions with her hands, “keep fishing.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t be too much longer. I’m almost out of worms.”
It’s gorgeous here, the water calm and a bit clearer than back home, and no crowd; this back cove to a small lake Whitley’s great little secret I guess . The air isn’t as sticky as home, either, which is a blessing. Now I know everybody says there’s nowhere as muggy as South Carolina, and maybe it’s just me, but you sit by a body of water in a Georgia summer, your shirt’s soaked in ten minutes. The breeze today may be helping, but this spot seems pretty close to perfect. It also doesn’t hurt that sweet Whitley has been humming “Fishing in the Dark” by The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band quietly behind me since she started her intermission. It’s a favorite of mine, and I’m shocked she knows it. It’s all kinds of cute…another example of her “mood music.”
I haven’t gotten a single nibble the whole time I’ve been daydreaming, so I reel in, seeing I’ve been picked clean. When I reach down to grab another worm, the cup is gone. So is the humming.
“Whitley?” I lay down my pole, walking around to search for her. “Whitley?”
“Over here!” I hear her call from my right.
Pushing aside the tall grass and snipping off two flowers, I tromp over to find her crawling around on her hands and knees, dirt flying up around her.
“What are you doing?” I ask, dumbfounded yet amazed at what I’ve stumbled upon.
“Digging you some more worms, of course.” She turns her head to answer me, pushing the hair out of her face and leav
ing a smear of mud across her forehead. “I’ve got eleven,” she says proudly, offering the cup to me.
I take the cup and trade her the two flowers with a big smile. I look down—she really did find a whole pile of worms. That’s true fishing dedication.
“Evan,” she snickers as she smells the flowers, “I think these may be weeds.”
“Even if they are, you pretty ‘em up by holding ‘em.”
I gotta say—women look real nice in dresses, bikinis, or of course less, but when a little blonde is on her hands and knees, her tank top gaping down in the front, perky ass up in the air, her face smeared with mud, AND she’s holding out a cup of worms she dug for you… This is the stuff country boys dream about. I’m so turned on right now, I want nothing more than to scoop her up and kiss the lips off her, but I just can’t. It might ruin everything, and I can’t lose another great friend because I misread things. One thing I’ve learned the gut-wrenching way—I’d rather keep the friend forever than have a month of two of “more.”
I offer my hand to help her up. “This is a good look on you, Whit. You may have to trade in those pretty nails and fancy clothes for some cutoffs and boots.”
“I have a pair of boots,” she says proudly, “and cutoffs. But I like my nails. Even though there’s dirt trapped under them right now.” Her nose wrinkles just a smidge.
I can’t resist playing with her just a little. “Well then, next outing, you’re wearing them. You owe me since you dressed me like a preppy clown.”
“Deal,” she squeezes my hand, still holding hers for some reason, “and I won’t do that again, I promise. I didn’t know a gathering at Dane’s house would be so informal. For what it’s worth, I thought you looked very nice.”
“I looked like Tyler.”
Why did I just say that? Here I am, deciding to stay on the friend path with this girl, and then I go spouting off shit that makes me sound jealous.
“About that,” she starts, dropping my hand and wrapping her arms around herself protectively. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t feel anything for Tyler, really. We were just talking and I drank too much. I know it’s not a good excuse, but I just have a lot on my mind. Thanks for taking care of me, though,” she lifts her head slightly from its bowed position and smiles apologetically, “and I’m sorry.”
