by Wilde, Ora
Before I could even process my anger, Emerson started to spin the bottle.
Round and round and round it went. The people in the circle showed various emotions. Most of the guys were excited. Some of the girls were nervous. A few of them were actually thrilled.
I, on the other hand, was indifferent.
I knew that the bottle’s head won’t point at me. The bottle knows the people best suited for games like this... the Maggies and the Emersons and the Coltons and yes, even the Chelsea Summerses of the world... not someone who people never even noticed until her new stepbrother came to town... not someone who gets very drunk with just five shots of Tequila.
A few seconds later, the bottle stopped, pointing towards Colton. Maggie immediately fixed her blouse and gave him a wide grin.
“Oh fuck, yeah!” Colton screamed as he punched the air. “Boobies, get ready for the man meat of your dreams!”
He wasn’t really the most… eloquent… of our batch.
“The first lucky bastard is... Colton!” Emerson announced and the group applauded. I clapped my hands politely. “So, who are you choosing to be your date inside the magical dresser?”
“I choose...” Colton started. For a big and overly muscular guy, he had the highest pitched voice. “I choose the girl with the biggest boobs in this group. I choose Cassandra!” he continued as he eyed a fair-skinned and cute brunette seated a couple of bodies away from him. I didn’t know her personally. She wasn’t in my class. But I did know that Maggie isn’t pleased at all with Colton’s choice. After all, my best friend has been crushing - or should I say, lusting - over him since our sophomore year. As to why, I really wouldn’t know.
True enough, as I looked at Maggie, I saw that she was livid. She never liked the feeling of being turned down, and Colton’s decision not to choose her would most certainly be taken as a form of rejection.
Cassandra blushed, though she tried her best not to show it. Colton stood up and took her hand. She escorted her, quite roughly at that, towards the cabinet where they locked themselves up.
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the group as we waited for them to come out. Emerson kept looking at his watch, tapping his fingers on the carpeted floor. He never was a patient guy. I guess it came with being the only heir to a family that owned a third of the undeveloped real estate in the county. He saw me looking at him and gave me a warm smile. I smiled back.
“Very well,” he finally said after a few minutes. “I think they’ve had enough time. Let’s give them a knock, shall we?”
He stood up and approached the cupboard. But before he could knock, the couple went out. Colton had a satisfied beam on his face and Cassandra seemingly checked if the front of her top was in the right place. It doesn’t take a genius to know that they made out.
“Colton scores a touchdown, baby!” the mountain of a young man screamed.
“Everybody, let’s give our fist pair of lovebirds a round of applause,” Emerson requested, and everyone clapped their hands. Colton assumed a victory pose. The frustration on Maggie’s face never waned.
The game proceeded. Pair after pair after pair of people went inside the cabinet, some of them more than once. Colton, for example, was chosen by another girl, Melinda Bright, who just proved that a name is just a name as Colton was hardly a smart choice. He led her to the dresser with the same level of enthusiasm (and roughness) as he had with Cassandra, much to Maggie’s chagrin.
On the sixth go-around, the bottle spun, and for the first time since the game started, I had felt a tinge of nervousness that only escalated as the bottle slowed down its twirl.
When it stopped, I immediately knew the reason behind my anxiety.
The bottle pointed at Emerson, and he instantly looked at me with the same smile he flashed earlier in the evening.
Colton gave him a pat on the back, as if he knew whom Emerson would choose. Some of the girls looked at me with knowing grins, as if they were aware of something I wasn’t. Chelsea Summers had a smirk, as if she was happy that I’d end up with someone else. And Maggie, a picture of exasperation from the earlier events, gave me a shrug, as if she was saying that I was on my own.
“Who you choosing, Perdew?” Colton asked as he placed his arm on Emerson’s shoulder. “Do we have to wait for you to say it? Or should I shout it out myself?”
Everyone laughed.
I cringed in horror.
“I know, I know...” Emerson began to say. “It’s no secret... and I’d really appreciate this time I will be spending with her...”
There were aaaawws from the girls.
“I think fate found a way to make this happen,” he continued rather theatrically. “I’m choosing...”
He paused to take a shot of Tequila from the glass he was holding.
But before he could gulp it down, someone bumped him from behind. Emerson’s head whipped forward and the Tequila splashed all over his face and his shirt. He began to cough as some of the alcohol went straight to his lungs. I think it went through his nostrils.
“Oh, sorry bro. I didn’t know you were there,” said the guy who accidentally crashed into him.
It was Darwin.
And for the first time since that stupid game began, I found myself smiling. I didn’t understand what I was feeling at first. Relief, gratitude, thrill, delight, worry, exhilaration... a plethora of emotions that sucked my soul like a maelstrom at the center of my being.
It took a couple of seconds before I realized what it was...
Joy.
Emerson quickly stood up. He was coughing incessantly as his nose and lungs continued to burn. He ran downstairs, presumably towards the kitchen to get himself sorted out.
Darwin took his place and sat. And as was always the case, the girls became flushed and conscious about their appearance and posture.
“What are you guys playing?” he asked with the tone of coolness that everyone has since adored and which I have come to admire.
“Spin the bottle, win a date at the cupboard,” Chelsea Summers answered as she looked longingly at Darwin.
“Ah, that game,” he replied.
He looked at the bottle and his eyes widened. It was a simulated surprise. I know him enough to figure that out.
“The bottle’s pointing at me,” he said. “I guess I will have to choose my date.”
Not a few girls bit their lips. Their eyes sparkled. I could almost hear them whispering. Choose me, choose me. Chelsea Summers’ facial expression was the most obvious as she didn’t even try to hide her excitement.
“I choose...”
The girls held their breath. I knew that, deep inside, they were praying that Darwin would select them.
“I choose Elizabeth Smith!” he exclaimed.
I was stunned beyond belief. Of all the pretty girls in the group, Chelsea Summers among them, Darwin actually chose me. I had to muster enough sense to compose myself when I realized that I was looking at him with my mouth agape and my eyes stupefied in astonishment.
The people in the group couldn’t believe it as well. Their mumbles filled the air. There were curses too, but I was too staggered to pay them any attention.
Darwin wasted no time. He quickly got up, went to where I was, grabbed my hand and led me towards the cabinet.
“See you later, guys!” he told the group. “Carry on without us!”
We went inside the cabinet. It was bigger than the usual dresser, but still quite small to completely accommodate two people. We squeezed our bodies inside, embracing each other just to be able to fit in the compartment.
He closed the door and darkness engulfed the chamber. I could barely see him.
“What the fuck was that about?” I asked him.
“Why are you cursing?” he asked. “You never curse.”
“The fuck do you care?” I answered. I wanted him to think that I was furious so that he wouldn’t know how tense I was, being that close to him and all.
“Elizabeth, you never cur
se,” he repeated. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
“And what if I am?”
“Who offered you drinks? Emerson? I’m gonna beat the shit out of that dickhead!”
“No, no, it wasn’t Emerson.”
“Then you’re admitting that you’re drunk?”
“I’m admitting that I did drink, but I’m not drunk.”
In an unbelievable case of bad timing, I burped after saying those words. I think he smelled the alcohol from my breath.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said firmly. “You are drunk, aren’t you?”
“Maybe a little,” I answered. I felt a bit of shame at that moment.
“Did you ever think about how your mom would feel if she’ll find out that you got drunk?”
“Oooohhhh... the great Darwin McKenzy’s acting like a grown-up all of a sudden. Chillax, dude.”
“Chillax? That’s not a word I expected to hear from you.”
“Well... as you’ve said earlier, we’ve only known each other for less than a week. And a great majority of that time, you don’t even acknowledge my existence. You’d be surprised to know that there’s more of me that are beyond your expectations.”
“Good or bad?”
“A little of both, maybe.”
“Care to share them?”
“That would take a while...”
“We have the time, and we have the privacy,” he reminded me. “Now, shall we start?”
My breasts were pressed against his chest but I didn’t care. It was either because my body has grown numb from the amount of alcohol I have consumed, or because we had no choice but to push our bodies against each other to fit inside the small space of the cabinet.
Or maybe it was because I just wanted him near me.
It was funny that I’ve never realized how tall he really was until that moment we shared in the dresser. Now that I was standing in front of him, I noticed that his neck was at my eye’s level.
“How many girls have you fucked?” I inquired, quite sullenly. I didn’t know why I asked him that. It just came out of my mouth. Perhaps if was because those condoms in his room were still bothering me, and the Tequila gave me the courage to confront him about them.
“Why do you want to know?” he questioned. I could barely see him but I knew he was smiling. The tone of his voice revealed it. Jovial, calm, patient.
“Just answer the damn question,” I said, again, with feigned annoyance.
“Let me see.” He started to count in hushed words. “Around twenty, I think.”
That was a lot for a nineteen year old!
“And how many girls have you fucked since moving in with us?”
Again, he counted silently. One, two, three... twelve, thirteen... twenty, twenty-one... twenty-eight...
“Including Chelsea Summers?” he tried to clarify?
Ugh!
“Yes, including her!” I answered furiously, though that time around, my anger wasn’t faked.
“None,” he answered.
“None?” I was taken aback by his answer. “Then why are there dozens of condoms in your drawer? Used condoms!”
“Oh, those? I planted them there as a prank.” He was chuckling.
“A prank?” I was incredulous.
“Yup. I saw a box of condoms when I was unpacking. I opened each packet and filled them with lotion. At first, I thought your mom would be the first to discover them. It would’ve been a great and unforgettable icebreaker. But when you saw them before her...”
“You decided to just keep quiet and let me assume the worst about you?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“That’s so cruel!”
“Cruel? Why is that?”
I didn’t answer. I was trapped in a corner. If I’d reveal how affected I was, he would start to think that I have feelings for him.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him instead. “And Chelsea Summers?”
“What about her?”
“You didn’t have sex with her or anything?”
He let out a laugh.
“Why’re you laughing?”
“It’s because you’re acting like a jealous girlfriend all of a sudden. What’s up with that?”
“I’m not acting like anything! It’s just that Chelsea Summers is a slut! I’m worried about you and whatever disease she might’ve given you!”
That’s most probably untrue, of course. I didn’t know much about Chelsea Summers. For all I know, she’s as virginal as I was. But I hated her so much and I was too drunk for civility that I just blurted out whatever was in my mind.
“Chelsea is pretty,” he started to explain. “And she’s nice too. But we’re not going out. And we’re not fuck buddies either. And no, I don’t think she’s a slut.”
“And why are you giving me the cold treatment most of the time?”
“I... I have my reasons.”
“What reasons are those?”
“I’d rather keep them to myself.”
“I thought we’d spend this time opening up to get to know each other better.”
“If that’s the case, then I should be asking questions too, right?”
I swallowed some air as I braced for the worst. I gathered every bit of courage in my body to allow him to continue.
“Shoot,” I finally said.
“Why did you get drunk this evening?” he asked. His tone changed from affectionately casual to intimidatingly stern.
“Geez, you’re starting to sound like my mom.”
“Just answer my question,” he commanded.
“It’s a party, alright? It’s the first party I’ve ever attended my entire life. I just wanted to experience what it’s like. Just for one night... I just wanted to feel like I belong... like I’m one of them.”
A long silence followed. He was exhaling heavily. The warmth of his breath coiled through my neck down to the crevice of my dress. I felt a skittish tingle emanate from my tummy, pulsating throughout the rest of my body.
“You’re not one of them,” he said. “You’re... different.”
Oh great! Now I know he’s like everybody else who thought of me as some kind of weirdo.
“You’re very much different, Betty,” he continued.
Betty. The second time he recited my name like that.
“You’re...” he paused as if he was unsure whether he should proceed or not. “You’re one of a kind,” he finally concluded.
His words dazed me. It was a fuzzy kind of trance, though. One that hit me right in the heart and melted my entire being.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Before me and my dad moved in, I was in a really bad place. Sometimes I feel I still am. But whenever you’re around, I start to believe that I can be someone else completely. Someone I can be proud of. Someone better.”
Was I hearing those correctly? From him? From my stepbrother?
“Then why do you keep treating me like I don’t exist?”
“Not all the time.”
“Sometimes?”
“It’s because I don’t know how to react to how you make me feel.”
“And how do I make you feel?”
“The same as how I make you feel.”
“And that is?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to assume it’s something good. I feel it in the way you shiver whenever I touch you. The way you breathe whenever I whisper words to your ear. The way you smile that delightfully uncomfortable smile whenever I tease you.”
He noticed. All the small things like those... he noticed. I gave myself away.
“And you laugh at my vulnerabilities?” I asked nervously.
“No,” he answered strongly. “I adore them. They make you real. And the real you is beautiful.”
How was I supposed to react to a man who has poured his heart out the way he did, with words that will resonate in my mind for days and months and years to come? How was I supposed to react to a kind of honesty that was both brut
al and doting? How was I supposed to react to someone who, in essence, was telling me that he wanted me... just as much as I wanted him?
