by Emma Hart
I take another big gulp of wine, set it on the nightstand, then grab my little bag with all my toiletries in it. There’s no way I’m using Cain’s shampoo. I don’t even think he uses real shampoo, come to think of it.
A walk into the bathroom and a glance at the little shelf in his shower unit tells me everything. Yep. No shampoo.
He’s more low maintenance than I thought. I’ve seen toddlers—aka my nieces and nephew—require more pampering than Cain Elliott.
I slide the lock on the bathroom door. A few minutes later, I’m standing beneath a steaming hot stream of water from the shower head. I can physically feel the grime from baking all day in a hot kitchen washing off me in the heat, and nothing has ever felt this good.
Except going to sleep after a bottle of wine. Or eating a six-pack of Krispy Kreme donuts by yourself. Or sex.
Definitely up there with sex.
Maybe. I don’t know. I might have forgotten what sex feels like.
I pause.
Well. Real sex. Plastic, battery-operated sex I’m familiar with.
Let’s be real: The closest I’ve come to real sex in months is kissing Cain.
Kissing Cain.
That sounds like the chick-flick of my dreams. Probably because it is.
Wonderful.
Now I’m standing in the shower, wet and naked, thinking about kissing Cain.
I turn off the water and open the shower door before I do something stupid like slip because I’m thinking about him. That’s an entirely believable thing for me to do, after all. So I save myself by stepping out onto his extraordinarily fluffy bath mat and pulling a towel from the rack.
Oh, oh, it’s warm.
Heated towel rack, rather.
Hmm. Maybe he was onto something when he said we should live togeth—
No. He wasn’t. No, no, he wasn’t. Definitely not onto something or anything. Onto nothing. That’s right, nothing. Nothing.
He was on to nothing.
Nada.
Nope.
Nay.
I flip my head forward with a groan and wrap my hair in a second towel. When I flip it back up, I have a perfectly twirled towel turban, and I smile with satisfaction as I catch a glance of myself in the mirror.
I have no make-up lines.
I had no make-up on this morning when I made the cakes. That means I had no make-up on when Zeke came in.
Or when Cain kissed me.
I grip the edge of the sink and lean back against it, using one hand to hold in place the towel that’s wrapped around my body.
Again. When he kissed me again.
If I was confused before, now I’m completely messed up. I’ve seen myself without make-up. It’s not nice. I wouldn’t kiss me without make-up. But he did.
Maybe I’m a better kisser than I am a natural beauty. That has to be the explanation for it.
Yep. I’m taking that and I’m running with it.
I push off the sink with a shake of my head. I’m going crazy over the fact he kissed me and flipping back and forth between his obvious rebound and his obvious insanity. I need to just ask him why the hell he’s kissing me and if he doesn’t have an answer to stop before it goes too far and our friendship is ruined forever.
In fact, I’m going to do it right now.
Well. When I have some clothes on, I mean.
Which I didn’t bring into the bathroom with me.
I sigh, clutch the towel tighter, and grab up my dirty clothes. Tucking them under my arm snugly, I reach for the lock and slide it back, then open the door.
“Don’t lie to me, Cain. Your mom saw you kiss her.” Carly’s voice trails across the apartment to where I’m standing in the bathroom with the door cracked open.
I freeze. I shouldn’t stand here and listen, but it’s pretty well established I literally never do the things that I should, so…
“Can’t you drop it?” Cain responds.
Something clangs.
“No, I can’t freaking drop it! My best friends are kissing and I’m confused,” Carly replies.
“There’s nothing to be confused about. And keep your damn voice down. The shower’s off.” His voice is much quieter, and I close my eyes.
“Cain,” Carly says, barely above a whisper. “If you’re using her as a rebound from Nina, I swear, I love you, but I will personally rip off your fucking balls and choke you with them.”
“You really have to work on dropping stuff people don’t want to talk about, you know that?”
“Stop deflecting,” she whisper-snaps. “This isn’t a joke, okay?”
“You think I don’t know that?” he replies harshly, his voice at the same level as hers.
I’m straining to hear them now, which is a good thing since I shouldn’t be listening at all.
“I know it’s not a joke,” Cain continues in the same low voice. “This isn’t just a random fucking girl, Car. This is Brooke. And, shit.”
“You’re right. She’s not a random girl. She’s your best damn friend.”
“You don’t get it, and I can’t explain it to you, so leave it alone.”
“No. Don’t you dare fuck with her feelings, because she’s been screwed by them long enough where you’re concerned.”
My entire body freezes. Except my eyes. They widen. Oh—and my heart. That’s in my goddamn throat.
Shut up, Carly. Shut. Up.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cain asks after a second. “She’s been screwed by her feelings long enough where I’m concerned.”
“Nothing,” she replies quickly. “I don’t even know why I said that.”
Buy it. Buy it. Buy it.
A light bang, and then, “She didn’t hate Nina for no reason, did she?” Cain’s voice is flat.
Carly. Run away. Now.
“I, er, um. Shit, look, an eagle!”
Five seconds later, the front door opens and closes as she obviously runs away.
Hey, look. It’s like she heard me.
“Fuck!” Something bangs immediately after Cain’s snap of the cuss word.
It brings me crashing back into reality. I need to get out of this bathroom before he hurts himself. Again.
“Are you all right?” I ask, hovering in the doorway.
He spins around in a flash. His jaw twitches, a sure fire sign he’s not being completely truthful, and he says, “Yeah. Banged my foot.”
“Ah. Right. After you cussed?”
“It was a preemptive fuck.” He reaches up and rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you were here ‘til I heard the shower.”
“Yeah, I was going to ask, but I couldn’t think past the shit that was coming from your room. The shower was the only way to drown it out.”
“I’m going to ignore the comment about my taste in music—”
“Which is positively traumatizing.”
“—and remind you that you’re standing in front of me in a towel and it’s not very long.”
I slap one hand down to cover my apparently on-show vagina, but all I connect with is fluffy towel.
“Gotcha.” He grins, throwing in a wink for good measure.
“You’re an ass.” I turn around and head for the spare room.
“Brooke? Your ass is on show.”
“Fuck off, Cain!”
“No, for real. The towel is bunched up.”
I flip the bird over my shoulder and shut myself in the spare room with a slam of the door. Then catch sight of my half-bare ass in the mirror, beneath the towel that, like he said, is bunched up.
“Brooke?” Cain says from outside the bedroom door. “Don’t worry. It’s a great ass.”
And just like that, any embarrassment disappears, and I burst out laughing.
He’s not wrong.
Why did my sister have to bring her kids? And her in-laws?
Don’t get me wrong. I adore my nieces and my nephew, but only in small doses. They’re loud and shouty and exhausting. And a
constant reminder of all the reasons why I dropped out of college and dropped the misguided dream of becoming a teacher.
I’m sorry. My mom’s dream of becoming a teacher.
I dream about pizza and wine and not wearing pants.
I know, I know. I’m going places. Like Weight Watchers, probably.
I sip my cocktail. I have no idea what’s in it. It’s one of what Cain’s mom would call her specialties—making endless jugs of various cocktails without a name or recipe attached. Oh, actually, I lie. This year, we have names. According to the card propped up in front of the jug on the table, the blue delight I’m currently sipping on is called ‘Cocksucking Cowgirl.’
I don’t even know how to answer that. Apparently she’s taken advice from my grandpa to name them. I wonder if Mom’s seen these…
“Hide me.” Billie grabs my arm from behind. Thankfully not the one where I’m holding my cocktail.
“Whoa,” I say, shaking my arm in an attempt to extract her claw-like grip. “Why do I need to hide you? And who from?”
“A good wingwoman doesn’t ask questions.”
“Happily married people don’t have wingwomen.”
“Fine, good sisters don’t ask questions.”
“True.” I tilt my glass at her. “But we both know I’m a shit sister.”
Billie pauses, then jerks her head side to side with an “Eh, yeah,” expression on her face. “My in-laws are driving me insane. My mother-in-law saw the cocktail names, and when Grandpa introduced himself as the genius behind the names, she went pale. Brooke, I thought she was going to pass out on me. I’ve never seen her so terrified.”
“That still doesn’t explain why I need to hide you.” I knew it was Grandpa.
“Because she hasn’t seen them all, and they get worse!”
“They’re worse than ‘Cocksucking Cowgirl?’”
Billie’s eyebrows shoot up, and she holds her hands out in front of her. “There’s the ‘Screaming Oh,’” she says, ticking it off on her pointer fingers. “‘The Blow Whoa,’ the ‘Cherry Popper,’ and the…” She takes a deep breath and covers her eyes with her hand. “‘The Salami Slammer.’”
That’s it. I can’t.
For the second time today, I burst out laughing. Salami Slammer? That’s the most random thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Where does the old guy even come up with this shit? I just…I don’t know.
At least I know where I get my crazy from.
My mom’s line. I’m sure she’s thrilled at that.
“Bill, that still doesn’t explain why I need to hide you.” I run my hand through my hair as I swallow down the last of my giggles. “Sure, Grandpa’s cocktail names are, um, dirty, but these are your in-laws. They know you’re not like Grandpa.”
“No, but they’re like Mom,” she hisses.
“Then why in the hell did you bring them?”
“Marcus invited them and Mandy said it was okay. I couldn’t refuse, could I?”
I tilt my head to the side. “Um, yes?”
“Broooooooke!”
“Eeesh, you sound like Bella.”
“Ack, and here I was convincing myself my daughter brattiness comes from you.” Billie sighs and looks over her shoulder to where her kids are running riot with some of the other neighborhood kids. “Quick, talk to me. They’re looking at me.”
I glance past her to where her mother-in-law is looking at her with pursed lips. She catches sight of me, and being the awkward turtle that I am, I raise my hand in a strange wave-type thingy.
Billie glares at me. “All right. I’m pulling out the big guns.”
I snort. “Please.”
“I spoke to Carly about half an hour ago.”
I freeze for a split second before deciding that my glass is too full and that alcohol should be in my stomach. So I move for self-preservation and down half the glass.
Ha. Ha. Oy. Strong!
I shudder as the alcohol burns my throat, but I still stalk the few feet toward the table and grab the jug full of… Fuck it. I want the Salami Slammer. So the Salami Slammer I have. I fill my glass to the brim and I’m already sipping by the time my sister catches up with me and shoves me to the side. It takes everything I have not to let my drink spill, so I save it by taking another mouthful and stepping backward.
Thank god I’m barefoot, that’s all I’m saying. She’s manhandling me.
“Hey, what the hell?” I snap at her.
“Shhh.” She presses her finger against my lips, grabs my hand, and drags me back toward the house.
Ugh. I don’t want to go inside. Going inside means we have to talk. I don’t want to talk, and definitely not about what she wants to talk about.
Doesn’t she know I already talk to myself about this crap?
I can’t see how she’d have better advice than I do.
“Don’t you have children to watch? A husband to give attention to? In-laws to convince you’re not from a family of heathens?” I ask when Billie shoves me into the kitchen and closes the sliding door.
My sister turns to me. “Cain kissed you?”
“Cain did what?” Zeke casually strolls into the kitchen, Gabe following right behind him.
Like his brothers, Gabriel Elliott is tall, dark, and handsome. I’m not sure I need to elaborate more on that to explain the current level of male hotness in the room.
“Cain kissed you?” Gabe opens the fridge, looking at me with a smirk. “Great. It’s only fucking taken him ten years.”
I swallow.
“Wait,” Billie says. “What do you mean, ten years?”
“Do we have to do this right now?” I interject. “Shouldn’t we be out there? Celebrating independence and shit?”
Zeke snorts and takes a beer from his brother, but he doesn’t answer.
“Speak. Now.” Billie uses the Mom Voice.
Both guys step back.
“Ain’t it obvious?” Gabe asks. He pops the ring of his beer can, the satisfying pah-cha-hiss filling the room. “Cain’s had a crush on her for years.”
“Her is sitting right here.” I wave my arm. “And no he hasn’t.”
Zeke meets my eyes. “Yeah, he has. He’s never done anythin’ about it because of your friendship.”
“But apparently that’s irrelevant now.” Gabe smirks. “Because he’s done somethin’ about it.”
“He hasn’t done anything!” I slap my hand against the table, making my glass jump. “He kissed me on the rebound. Because I’m a fucking idiot who didn’t and can’t tell him no.”
“That’s not what he said to Carly,” Billie adds softly.
“I know what he said to Carly!” I turn to her. “I heard the fucking conversation, Bill! What he said and what Carly thinks he said are likely two completely different things. He’s on the rebound and that’s the end of it.”
“What if he ain’t?” Gabe pulls a chair out from the table, spins it, and turns it around. He sits on it backward. “Trust me, Brooke. Everything I know about my brother says he ain’t on the rebound.”
“Well, then, you know wrong.”
Billie raises her eyebrows. “Really, Brooke? You’re gonna tell Cain’s brother he doesn’t know what he’s talking about?”
“Yes!” Both of my hands slam against the table, and I shove myself back and stand. “Yes, okay? I am. This isn’t new for me. It’s old damn pain being pulled up just to be shoved back down again. This is straight up bullshit and I don’t care how I feel or how I’ve felt or how you all think he feels. I don’t care how Carly took his words. This isn’t simple and this isn’t easy. He’s my best friend. He’s always been my best friend and he will always be my fucking best friend. Leave it alone, y’all. All right?”
All three of them stare at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Although they do as I ask, and one by one, they nod their agreement.
My stomach is churning sickeningly. The sharp pains in my heart are unrealistically strong, but I take a deep breath and beat down
all these awful feelings.
“I—I need to be alone.” I grab my glass and shove past Zeke and Gabe toward the door. I shove it to the side and step outside into the still too-hot evening air.
The party is going strong. It’s barely eight in the evening, and a glance at the cupcakes on the sweets table tells me one thing: I’m better at baking than I ever assumed I was. They’re almost all gone, and it makes me glad that Cain’s parents have a huge yard, because there are at least one hundred and fifty people here.
Okay, huge is an understatement. I rarely pay attention to it, but now, I am. The yard is beyond massive, and I know everyone here is thinking how a builder and a hair stylist have such a big property. Well, they worked hard and bought at the right time. A little inheritance and moving from Atlanta to Barley Cross didn’t hurt them, either.
Despite the people here, there are pockets of the space that are empty.
Good. That means I don’t have to go climb up to the roof. Yet.
I slip into one of those pockets. It happens to be a table in the corner of the yard, not far from the built-in grill that’s still smoking from the coals Cain’s dad insists on using. Various bits of meat are still sitting on the table next to me, and I’m not gonna lie, it all smells real good, but I don’t feel really hungry right now.
Does everybody know more about Cain and me than we do? Than I do? Than he does?
Apparently so.
And I have no idea what to do about any of this shit.
SEVENTEEN
LIFE TIP #17: Alcohol is bad.
Drinking seems to be the way to go.
Honestly, when you’re screwed, alcohol works. It’s probably not wise, but watching the alcohol table seems like a real excuse for sitting here next to it and drinking my way through the cocktail jugs before Mandy wisely fills them up.
Okay, maybe wisely is a long shot, but she keeps filling them up and she knows I’m drinking it, so I’m blaming it on her.
I grab the jug of Cherry Popper and pour the bright red cocktail into my glass. If you were wondering, my sister demoted me from a full-on cocktail glass to a martini-style glass an hour ago.
Like that’ll slow me down. No, no. I’m drinking quicker, if anything. Just to be a pain.
