by Mary Frame
I move on.
My eyes lock with an unassuming figure in the middle of the crowd of players. His lips quirk when I don’t look away. He’s not too tall, on the slender side, with dark hair and a slightly rounded face.
Perfect.
I wait until we’ve broken eye contact and he’s distracted, talking to someone on the field beside him.
I point him out to Annabel. “Him.”
Her eyes follow my finger and then she frowns, her brows dipping in confusion. “Him? The kinda frumpy guy with the brown hair in the brown T-shirt?”
I nod. He won’t have high standards so I’ll have a chance. Plus, he’s probably a nice guy. He looks nice. He’s . . . smiling.
Jude gives Annabel one more kiss and whispers something in her ear that makes a flush spread over her cheeks. Then he steps away, megaphone in hand.
“Babies, prepare yourselves for our next event: the Battle of the Banana Hammocks!” Jude’s voice booms through the night.
“Okay.” Annabel nods. “We just have to get a big banana between your legs.”
“Seriously?”
“Follow my lead.” She drags me over to Jude and whispers something in his ear. He nods and winks at me.
Then we’re on the move, over to the group where my new potential lover is standing with his teammates.
“Hey y’all! We got one more player for your team this round.” She shoves me into the guy and I smash him in the side with an elbow.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Annabel is still pushing at me and I swipe her away.
“It’s okay.” He smiles. He’s got all his teeth. And sure, maybe he could blend in with a tree stump, but I can work with that.
“This is Fred,” Annabel says. “She’s going first with the bananas.” And with that, Annabel flits away.
“I’m Dan,” he says.
“Perfect.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I clap my hands and glance at my teammates. “So what are we doing?”
There are two others in the group, a tall, thin guy with a faint mustache and his girlfriend, a buxom brunette with a cheery smile and awesome red thick-framed glasses. Dan makes introductions, but I immediately forget both their names.
I’m a little nervous. What if this doesn’t work and I make a total fool of myself? It is rather my MO.
Beast appears in front of us, handing me a banana and a twine of rope.
“Thanks, Beast.” I smile up at him as I take the items.
Beast eyes Dan and then his gaze swings back to me. I could swear his mouth tightens before he moves on to the next group, but the movement is so infinitesimal I must be imagining it.
“What’s up with him?” Dan asks.
“Nothing.” I glance from Dan to Beast and then back again.
It’s funny. They both have dark hair and brown eyes, but on Beast it’s . . . more. Maybe because the width and breadth of him is twice that of Dan. And Beast’s features are sharper, more pronounced.
“He’s weird,” Dan says.
My hackles rise. There’s nothing wrong with weird. I’m weird. “He’s not weird. He’s . . .” I don’t know what he is, but I don’t like anyone saying anything negative about him. “He’s my friend.”
Dan laughs. “Sure. Okay, whatever.” I open my mouth to make some kind of retort but he cuts me off. “Would you like a drink before the game starts?”
Well. That’s sort of thoughtful. “Sure.” I smile.
He disappears while the other team members help me tie the rope around my waist, banana hovering above the ground between my feet.
Dan returns, handing me a Solo cup half full of warm beer.
Okay, not exactly what I thought he meant. I pretend to take a drink—I’m not stupid—and smile at him. “Thanks. This is the second time I’ve been tied up today.”
He laughs. “That’s encouraging.”
Hm. Not sure how to respond to that. He’s not even going to ask for details? Rescuing Kylo Hen is always a good anecdote.
We’re silent and I resist the urge to babble. Instead, I ask, “What exactly is this game about?”
“My guess is something to do with hitting the ball with the banana. And I think,” he glances over at Jude, “we’re about to find out.”
Feedback from the megaphone fills the night air, halted by Jude’s booming voice. “My good people! The Battle of the Banana Hammocks is upon us.”
Whoops and hollers fill the backyard.
“The goal of this event is to use your banana—the edible one only—to push the ball into the bucket on the opposite side.”
“All my bananas are edible!” a male voice yells out.
“That’s debatable, my friend,” Jude replies without missing a beat.
Beast is laying out buckets on their sides about twenty feet away from the row of competitors while Annabel moves down the row, dropping four tennis balls in front of each team.
Jude continues. “It is a relay, so only one banana pusher per team at a time. You must get your ball into the bucket and then run back to give your banana and rope to the next team member to push the next ball, and so on and so forth.” He waves one arm with a flourish. “The first team to successfully contain all their balls within the bucket will be declared victorious. If everyone is nearly ready? We will be starting in T minus two minutes.” He turns away to talk to someone behind him.
“You all ready to go?” my female teammate asks.
“Make us proud!” Her boyfriend pats me on the back.
Dan lifts his drink in salute. I pretend to drink mine before passing the cup to him. And then it’s time.
“All right babies, here we go. Get ready! One, two . . . three!”
An air horn blasts and right along with it a roar of excited cheers goes up from the revelers.
I jerk into motion, swinging my hips in an attempt to get the hanging banana to kick the tennis ball in the direction of the bucket. It’s not as easy as I thought it would be. Even though the lawn is trimmed, it’s still bumpy and uneven, the ball zigzagging in front of me, and that’s when I’m able to hit it. More often than not, the banana sails through the air next to the ball without making contact. Catching glimpses of my competitors swinging their hips with their own flailing bananas isn’t helping matters. I spend more time laughing than humping the air like I should be.
“Come on!” Dan yells when I run into the person next to us.
Finally, I get the ball to roll in the bucket and race back. The jock quickly unties me, and his girlfriend ties the banana to him so he can start swinging at the next ball.
“That was hilarious.”
Dan is smiling at me again and I start to think this whole thing might work out. It was a good idea to come here. I can get him alone, make out, have a good time, and not think about Jack.
Except I just thought of him.
I won’t think of him again after this.
While my teammates kick ass, Beast appears next to me with another unopened can of Delirium and I don’t have a chance to tell him thank you because Dan grabs me up in a hug.
We won third place.
With the end of the game, partygoers disperse. Some move into the house. The music kicks up, a temporary reprieve while the next round of games is being prepared for the new upcoming group.
“Want another drink?” Dan asks me.
“Sure.” I already have one but . . . I down it quickly and follow Dan back into the house.
Once again, he doesn’t ask what I want, but maybe that’s because it’s too loud to really talk, with the music blasting and all. We sip at some keg beer and glance around the party and strain builds between us like a wall. Which makes me drink even faster. The nerves start to dull as the inebriation sets in and then . . .
“Want to go somewhere we can talk?” he yells in my ear over the music.
I nod.
Then my suitor takes my hand and leads me around the side of the house, and out of vi
ew.
He kisses me. It’s terrible.
I’m about to introduce my erstwhile suitor to a sprained ankle, but first I give him a chance. “Back. Up.”
And then to my great astonishment, before I can ninja kick him into submission, he does back up. Rather rapidly.
“Let me go!” he yells.
Wait, isn’t that my line?
It isn’t the power of my voice that compels him. He’s being forced.
A giant figure looms in the darkness, bigger than The Hulk, holding Slobber Man by the back of the neck like he’s a recalcitrant puppy.
“Beast?”
Chapter Three
Every woman needs a little madness in her life.
–Cyrano de Bergerac
* * *
Beast holds Slobber Man up by the scruff of his neck. The poor puppy is not enjoying the manhandling.
“What are you doing?” Slobber Man’s arms pinwheel, but they are about half the length of Beast’s reach and he fails to make purchase. “Put me down!”
Beast stalks over to where the fence opens to the front yard. Swinging open the gate, he chucks Slobber Man onto the lawn. He shuts the gate, locking it with unhurried patience.
Slobber man shrieks from the front yard, “I’m never coming back here.”
“Good!” I call back.
His voice fills the air, laced with fury. “You aren’t worth the effort!”
Even through the haze of my buzz, the zinger hits home.
That’s exactly what Jack thought. I wasn’t worth his effort either. Apparently, I’m not worth anyone’s effort.
Beast stands in front of me, a silent giant. The sounds of the party throb in the humid air between us.
“Thank you.”
His face is a blank slate of deep grey in the dim light.
And of course he says nothing, but his gaze is like a spotlight traveling over my face. My nerves jangle. He’s probably judging me.
Shame wiggles through me like an insidious snake, hissing louder than his silence.
“I know I shouldn’t have come over here alone with some rando, since I barely know him and we were both drinking, but I wanted to feel something other than worthless, which clearly didn’t work out for me since he just threw that same phrase right in my face.” I should shut up. I need to stop talking but the words bubble up like a geyser ready to blow. “I’m sure you know I’m only here because Granny faked being sick to give me something to focus on other than the fact that my long-time boyfriend dumped me like a box of rocks, because clearly, I am worthless to everyone, including the people who know me the best.”
I clamp my lips together to slow the verbal sewage.
He doesn’t acknowledge my statements at all. He stands there, staring at me with shadowed eyes while I’m burning with embarrassment.
He can’t even nod or something? He might not be able to talk, but he hears just fine and he knows how to move.
His head tilts. Wait. Did those thoughts come out of my mouth?
He shifts again and part of his face appears in the glow from the window behind me.
“I wanted to kiss someone other than Jack. I know, it’s completely lame. But I couldn’t stand that the last person I kissed didn’t even like me. Now I’ve kissed two guys, and they both think I’m a piece of garbage. I thought it was bad when Jack was my first and last memory of affection but now it’s . . . that guy.” I shudder, jerking my thumb toward the fence.
He moves, taking one step toward me. We’re only a foot apart, his stride long enough to bring him close enough to touch.
I swallow, gazing up at his dark countenance. Dark both literally and figuratively.
A thought flashes through me like an epiphany. If this were a comic, a light bulb would go on above my head. What if . . .
“You know it’s only fair.” I step closer, shrugging nonchalantly. Or trying to, anyway. I probably look like I’m having a seizure. “Since you chased off my amorous suitor.” I reach up, rising on my toes while wrapping one hand around his neck and tugging him down.
He doesn’t resist, dropping down into me with ease, like it’s the most natural move in the world, us bringing our heads toward each other. That has to count for something.
I close my eyes.
At the last minute his head jerks up and my mouth connects with the underside of his chin.
Maybe I should have kept my eyes open.
He sucks in an audible breath when my lips hit his skin, but other than that, neither of us moves.
So we stand there, him hunched over, while I kiss his jawline. Kiss is a generous word. I’m mashing my lips on him.
Oh no. Embarrassment wraps around me like Mystique changing her skin. And yet I don’t move. His face is scruffy, his five-o’clock shadow sharp against the softness of my lips. He smells like fresh soap and a hint of aftershave and it’s rather . . . nice. So is being pressed up against him. He’s warm and big and there’s something inherently comforting about his hulking presence. Like, I know he could throw me over the fence with ease, but he would never.
I should step away. But I don’t. And neither does he.
We are a still-life art piece of awkward.
My mouth opens against his skin and the movement startles him to life.
He steps back. His heavy breathing falters. His arms are blocks of tension.
Shit. “I should go.” I step to the side, toward the backyard, and trip over something in the darkness, stumbling forward and he’s there, catching me before I fall. His hands grasp my shoulders, righting me quickly before releasing again. He shifts away just as fast, like he’s worried if he gets too close, I might throw myself at him again.
Can supreme mortification actually kill you?
In a haze of humiliation, I make it back through the backyard and then into the house without further incident.
“How did it go?” Annabel is like a meerkat, popping up in front of me before I can make it to the kitchen, her brown eyes wide and expectant.
“I need another drink.”
She smirks. “That good, huh?”
“I’m an idiot.”
She chuckles. “Come on, idiot, let’s play charades. I’ll get you a drink.” She leans in a little and sniffs me. “And maybe some water, too.”
I consider arguing, but I’m in no condition to drive. I follow Annabel to the living room and sit next to her on a rose-patterned love seat. A spring digs into my butt cheek, but whatever. A bruise on my ass is the least of my problems. Around me, a group of drunk and happy people play charades. I sit in silence, watching, wondering where I went wrong in my life.
How can I ever face Beast again?
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I’m tired and bed sounds more enticing than binge-watching Stranger Things.
“I need to get going,” I tell no one in particular. I push to my feet and head for the door.
Before I make it halfway there, a looming presence materializes in the kitchen doorway.
I startle to a halt.
Jude calls from behind me, “Beast will see you home, Fred.”
“I can make it myself.”
Jude shrugs. “He’s intending to stay the night at Granny’s anyway.”
I could fight it, I guess, but I don’t have the energy. Best to get it over with. Can’t avoid Beast forever. Can’t even avoid him for one night.
He opens his hand and I drop the keys into his giant palm.
Somehow, I manage to keep all my inane words to myself while we walk the dark and quiet block to Granny’s car.
He opens my door, which is awfully chivalrous, but I don’t say thank you. Can’t risk it. Once I open the hatch on my mouth, I might not be able to close it again.
He adjusts the driver’s seat back as far as it will go, then takes his time with the mirrors and is he trying to kill me? Finally, he starts the car. Then he drives with both hands on the wheel, at ten and two, eyes forward.
I lean against the wind
ow but tilt my head in an attempt to observe him without giving away that I’m staring.
The light of the dashboard gilds his rigid profile. The seat is pushed back as far as it can go, and still he fills up the space, not just with his breadth but with the force of his silent presence.
Even though we didn’t actually kiss, even though what we did—what I did—was horrifyingly embarrassing, there is a part of me that doesn’t want to run away, cowering in humiliation, although that might be the smart idea. He’s . . . intriguing. I want to observe him, like a scientist examining a new specimen.
My eyes trace his features. Strong nose. Hard jaw. He’s solid as a rock everywhere but his lips are soft and full.
What would they would feel like, if I actually kissed him? What he would be like, if I could entertain such thoughts? What would he say if he could?
I startle awake, heart pounding.
I’m not in Granny’s car anymore. I’m in bed. It’s dark, moonlight glowing through the soft white curtains. I fell asleep. How did I get here?
I’m still fully dressed, lying on top of the comforter, sans shoes but everything else is intact.
I glance over at the clock. It’s three in the morning. We left Jude’s sometime after midnight, I think. I click on the lamp next to the bed.
There’s a glass of water, two aspirin, and a folded piece of paper sitting on the nightstand next to the clock.
I take the pills, chug some water, and then pick up the note.
The edge is ragged, ripped from a spiral-bound notebook. My eyes trace over the words, written in careful block script.
Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
My breath catches on a surprised laugh.
He’s written the rest of Emily Dickinson’s quatrain. I stare down at the words.
No one ever understands the things I say. Except maybe my parents. Jack especially never got it. He would brush me off or ignore me. Roll his eyes at obscure references and jokes that only I could understand.
