When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  Until then, she’s a regular on the early shift, as well as Sundays. Our schedules rarely coincide unless Ms. Edna needs a day off. Like today. That’s when I fill in.

  Word is, the same pack of elderly women, decked out in their finest Sunday regalia, dominate nearly all of Dina’s section every week. She hasn’t decided if they’ve made it their mission to reform her from her sinful past, or help replenish her much needed funds. They tip well, so she doesn’t complain.

  I snag four menus and cutlery from under the register wave off her offer. Greet another couple who thankfully make a beeline for the counter as I head over to cover Dina’s table. I don’t mind. She needs the money. If anything, I’ll slip an extra fifty in her jar this afternoon. She missed a shift this week, meaning her check will be short. While she and Fitz juggle the costs of diapers, daycare, and a toddler outgrowing all of his clothes, I’ll sleep soundly knowing the roof over my head is paid for in full.

  “Welcome to Tate’s, gentleman.” I pass menus around before segueing into our morning spiel. “Special of the morning is the Tasty Taters platter. Comes with three eggs, two sausage links, two strips of bacon served over fried sour cream potatoes. Also—”

  “Don’t worry ‘bout the rest. Sounds good. Can I get pancakes with that?” Shawn cuts me off in his usual rich tenor. Dressed in gray sweatpants and a black V-neck tee layered over a long-sleeved white Henley, he the epitome of casual guy cute.

  “Sure. They’re extra.”

  “Cool.” He returns the menu.

  “Drink?”

  “Chocolate milk.”

  “Will do.”

  “Took a chance you’d be here this morning.” Pulling the brim of his plain black cap lower on his head, Shawn hits me with his Let’s-talk-about-how-we-can-make-each-other-happy look. The one he uses to make girls fall at his feet.

  He doesn’t usually use it on me, though. “Here I am.”

  “Figured when you didn’t answ—”

  “I’ll have the same as the rude one here, but bring me coffee instead,” the hottie seated next to him interjects. Same here echoes around the table.

  Shawn’s widens into the familiar playful smile I’m more accustomed to receiving. We’ve grown closer over the last year. Strictly as friends. I think people would be surprised if they knew what he was really like apart from his looks and one bad decision.

  “My bad—Simone, these are my brothers, Ugly, Hideous, and Yuck,” he introduces his three near-clones seated around the table. Except for the slight differences in height and hair styles, they’re perfect models for those transitional age progression pictures—there’s not an unattractive one in the bunch.

  “Excuse our baby brother, Grotesque. Boy’s not fully trained.” This from Low Fade with the Warmest Chocolate Brown Eyes I’ve ever seen. Like Shawn, his lashes are dark and thick, the kind most girls shell out their allowances to achieve. “I’m Solomon, this is Steven,” he continues, pointing to Mini Afro with Clean Shave sitting across from him, “Old dude next to him is Samson.”

  “We’ll see who’s old out on the field,” rumbles Fresh Twists with Trimmed Goatee, AKA Samson. Judging by his texting skills, he can back up the threat. His fingers are working over those keys faster than Gina Wilson spreads gossip.

  “Shawn talks about you guys all the time. Feels like I already know you.” It’s my turn to single them out as I pass silverware, starting with Samson. “Sports medicine, law school, Heisman candidate,” I say, ending with Solomon.

  “Very good. My only worry is if Captain Smooth here is talking about us while he’s with a beautiful girl, those drops on his head were worse than we thought.”

  Shawn winks at me, not the least bit fazed. He slides the last set of silverware from my fingers. “Simone and I are right where we need to be.”

  We are?

  Okay, maybe I’m reading him wrong lately, but I think that was flirting.

  Nah. That can’t be right because I’m pretty sure he’s still hung up on his ex. In a roundabout way, she’s the reason Shawn and I are as cool as we are.

  Then again, he told me the outfit I had on yesterday could make a guy forget his heart belonged to someone else. At first I panicked, thinking he’d heard something I hope is buried, but then he mentioned his ex, so I blew it off. There is such a thing as a guy complimenting a girl without it meaning he wants in her pants.

  But now I’m questioning what I may have missed because I certainly don’t miss the way he just brushed his finger over mine.

  “Dina will be your server, but I’ll go ahead, put your orders in.”

  “I’d rather have you,” Shawn rumbles so low and gritty, I feel the floor shift beneath my feet.

  What. The. Heck?

  Even if I wanted to blow that one off, I can’t. Not with the way two others are smiling in big brother approval. Samson isn’t one of them, but my ears catch his low murmured conclusion that “the boy’s brain is just fine.”

  Shawn Williams? Flirting with me?

  Well, I did say I need a Mr. Right now. But Shawn?

  Hmm.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Have confidence in what you want out of life. That assurance is what scrapes you off the floor when things don’t go as planned.

  —Granddaddy

  Whit

  Why’d I think Ryan tagging along would be a good idea? This entire shopping excursion should’ve taken two hours, max. Instead, it’s turned into a guaranteed return trip to an overcrowded mall with the rest of the last-minute shoppers tomorrow on Christmas Eve. Every five steps forward lead us to some girl he knows, wants to know, or reminds him of some girl he’d rather forget. How he’s escaped a flock of babies toddling behind him, or worse, his dick hasn’t fallen off, is a miracle.

  Our friendship is a head-scratcher for some. Ryan and me? Night and day, least on paper. Height is our only physical similarity. Otherwise, Ryan’s what Granddaddy calls “unassuming.” Perpetually stuck on gangly, mostly because his metabolism is off the charts. He’s a ginger, lives up to the stereotype when it comes to temperament. That hair turns violent orange in the height of summer, skin burns if he sits too close to dimly lit lamp. He plays the hand he was dealt to his advantage, helped by his uncanny resemblance to a certain royal. Girls go crazy over that shit.

  Me? Check the box for French Louisianan ancestry. The sun shows my olive undertone nothing but love. Ask Ashley, she’ll say my hair is the shade of Hershey’s dark chocolate and my eyes? Same hue as those tan M&M’s they don’t make anymore.

  Name a sport, any sport, I’m a fan. Same with my little brother. Just a few years’ ago, while watching the Olympics, we got into a knockdown drag-out over Curling.

  Don’t laugh. Four people to a team, playing what’s essentially hockey meets chess on ice?

  Badass.

  Ryan don’t share the love. While I’m built for sports, and for the time being, putting my solid frame to good use on whichever field or court, playing as many games as my schedule allows, Ryan ate asphalt the first time I passed a basketball in his direction. I’ll swear in a court of law he checked his hands for dirt.

  But don’t let those clean nailbeds fool you. Ryan’s a natural born scrapper and will brawl like there’s a title belt on the line.

  Okay, in that way, we’re a little alike. Difference is I don’t try to be the guy throwing the first punch. I prefer to keep my cool, whereas Ryan’s borderline reckless.

  Also, I’m the guy with the test scores teachers use to base the curve. I love learning. Not saying Ryan’s a dummy. The complete antithesis, actually. He’s just lazy as all get out. You know the type—could easily handle a full schedule of AP classes if he put the head on his shoulders to as much use as he does the one tucked behind his zipper?

  That’s Ry.

  In fact it’s that head which landed us in this frou-frou lotion shop where he’s currently chatting up a cashier while this rambunctious blond shoves unpleasant samples under my nose.

&nbs
p; There’s another difference: Ryan loves the ladies. The more the better.

  Me? I’m more into one girl at a time. Into one girl, period.

  That kissing thing with Simone? Fluke. I’m over it.

  Ninety percent over it.

  Fifty.

  Almost.

  “Don’t think my mama’s all that fond of smelling like a fruit basket,” I tell blondie—what’s the name on that tag? Steffi? How fitting—as she bounces on her toes, giving me her best show-me-the-money smile.

  “Oh, okay.” She adds a wink and a thrust of her barely B-cups. “Well, we have some really awesome floral scents I’m sure she’ll love! I’ll be glad to help you find what you’re looking for.”

  Another wink.

  Maybe there’s something in her eye?

  She licks her lips, smiles.

  I’m gonna kill Ryan.

  Better yet, I’ll leave his ass here. Let him take the long hike through the snow. That unexpected blizzard the weatherman forecasted as light flurries ought to cool him right off.

  “Er, no. Thanks.” I pick up a bottle closest to my hand, nod like it’s just what I’ve been looking for. “I’ll take this. For my girlfriend.”

  Disappointment flickers in Steffi’s eyes.

  I know I should feel at least a little flattered, but all I can think is finally, something puts a lid on that enthusiasm.

  “Figures,” she mutters, then points at my hand. “Um, you know that one’s from our men’s line?”

  Men’s? She shitting me? What self-respecting guy travels to the mall for fruity lotion when he can just grab an industrial-size bottle of something from Wally World at the same time he runs in for condoms, deodorant, and razors?

  “Perfect.” With any luck, I can use this miniscule container to bludgeon Ryan to death and make him smell nice before the burial.

  Steffi eyes my choice once more, frowns, then heads for the register, her steps considerably less peppy. A quick mental calculation of what this unnecessary purchase will do to my gas budget adds up to me braving the cold tomorrow morning, shoveling an extra driveway. Southern winters definitely win. Won’t be out there alone, though. If I have to, I’ll drag Ryan’s ass out of bed through his second story bedroom window.

  Speaking of, he must sense the danger aimed his way because he stops jabbering long enough to remember how he got to the mall in the first place.

  “Choirboy, right on time, dude.” Or, maybe not, if he’s using that annoying nickname to get a rise out of me. I don’t disappoint, slapping him in the back of the head the second I reach his side. He smirks. “Meet my friend, Mandy. Mandy, right?” he asks the girl he’s been flirting with, although her nametag is clearly visible. He lowers his brows, does what he calls his James Dean pose—who I don’t think had a pose, per se, nor does Ryan look anything like him, but whatever—against the counter.

  Mandy giggles, waves.

  Ridiculous.

  I nod in her direction. Fish a precious twenty from my wallet. “You’re paying me back for this shit,”

  “No problem, dude. I got you,” he assures me with another grin.

  “Right.” I’ll never see it. Honestly, Ryan’s family is probably loaded because they don’t pay anyone back. “Gonna hit the toy store across the way, find something for Cheyenne before I rush to find all the other gifts I still need.”

  Dickhead has the nerve to smile bigger.

  “Bet they have cool shit over there. I’m right behind you.” Typical Ryan, using me once again. “So, I’ll call you later?” he asks the Steffi-clone.

  Swear it’s like they were hired in a box set, the way they both smile. They remind me of a kewpie dolls, all blushing pink cheeks, blonde hair, and huge doe eyes, except neither of them have a curve worth noticing.

  My shoes squeak on the shiny tiled floor as I hightail it away from the pitiful sight of Mandy furiously scribbling what I’m sure is every bit of her contact information, short of her social security number. Wouldn’t be shocked if she’s giving that, too, the way she’s giggling back there.

  Take note, ladies: Giggling is not cute. Giggling is annoying.

  Ryan joins me just inside the toy store.

  “You’re an asshole, know that?”

  “That’s not what Maddie said.”

  “Mandy.”

  “What?”

  “The Giggler. Name’s Mandy.”

  “Oh, man, the giggling. Gah!”

  “How long before you toss her number?”

  “Probably on the bottom of that old guy’s shoe.”

  See? On paper, Ryan and I might not make sense, but we know each other better than twins.

  I toss the bag with the lotion over my shoulder. I know he’ll catch it long as it’s not a football. “Merry early Christmas.”

  “Aw, thanks. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Uh, huh. Receipt’s in there. Exchange it when you’re ready to give Mandy a shot.”

  “And miss the chance to smell like . . . a sophisticated blend of sandalwood and peaches? Who the hell comes up with this shit?”

  “Beats me.”

  I head straight for the dolls, find the one with a humungous head and undersized body my baby sister has her heart set on. Thirty-seven dollars and the outfit on this thing looks like it was pieced together with scraps of discarded trash. Damn shame.

  Ryan promptly snatches the box out my hand, flinging it back on the shelf. Startles the shit out of a woman next to us, reverently clutching two of the monstrosities against her chest. I offer an apology and retrieve the box, giving Ryan a not so subtle shove down the aisle.

  “No, wait. Get the girl something cool, like a racetrack or a remote control plane.”

  “Shut up. I’m over shopping for tonight,” I grumble along with my stomach. The line at the register is enough to make me want to go home and set the Christmas tree on fire just to be done with this whole thing. “Anyway, I promised Ashley I’d be at her house by 7:30. Shit’s bad enough without me pissing her off even more.”

  “Still? Over the school thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “Gee, not like you two can’t see each other on weekends. What is it? Forty, fifty miles?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Walking distance.”

  “Yeah, well hopefully Ashley’s in a good mood, and we’ll go a whole night without her bringing up—”

  Simone.

  Her name gets lodged in my throat at the sight of her standing just outside the store, texting someone. A flicker of excitement ignites inside my veins, this strange new reaction I’ve developed as of late. I’m all thumbs. Fumble my wallet. Nearly drop it twice trying to extract some cash. Screw it. I thrust everything in Ryan’s direction.

  “Buy the doll. I’ll be out there.”

  “What’s up, du—ahhh,” His eyes find my intended target. “Scratch that. Think she’s here with your girl?”

  “Doubtful.” I tug the sleeve of my coat from his grip. “Ashley spent the day with her mom.”

  “Well, looks like she’s waiting on someone.”

  Shawn Williams slithers up beside her, pecks her on the cheek. Didn’t think I could dislike the guy any more than I already do.

  “Take heart, my good man. Bright side is he doesn’t have her alone in the confines of a closet,” Ryan says, reading my mind, “and, from where I’m standing, I only saw one pair of lips involved in that kiss.”

  True. But who says their kisses are always that way? Ours wasn’t, and she don’t even like me.

  “Don’t matter. I only wanted confirmation that what happened in that closet, stays in there. She’s moved on. I will, too.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Simone

  We’re at the last place any sane person should be on Christmas Eve. My bestie has been questionable as far her careful consideration goes, so I wasn’t too surprised when she called yammering about a trip to the mall for last minute “reveling” in the Christmas spirit. What did surprise m
e is how easily I let her talk me into tagging along, especially since I was just here last night with Shawn. I loathe mall shopping. Too many people and way too overpriced for my liking. I’m more of a boutique kind of girl, preferably secondhand. There’s something about finding a gently worn pair of True Religions with a $20 price tag, and don’t get me started on the vintage stuff just waiting to be loved.

  On the flip side, aversion for shopping takes a back seat to a freezer full of food that actually requires cooking and an aunt who won’t be home until tomorrow morning. Then again, had I known the purchase she just had to get for her grandmother was a miniature birdhouse ornament, I might‘ve thawed chicken in lieu of sitting at a table in the overcrowded food court, wishing I could vanish into thin air.

  Why do I want to disappear?

  Ashley set me up.

  Oh, I’m sure she didn’t realize she’d set me up when she failed to mention how she also invited the guy who I’ve done an admiral job of evading until today.

  Making matters worse, I just took a knock to the head, courtesy of some woman wrestling an armful of bags (somebody’s getting boulders of coal for Christmas) and an out of control toddler (bet that kid’s name is Chuckie) who may very well be the reason those leash things aren’t always cruelty. Lord forbid I ever decide to shave my head because for sure I’ve got a permanent dent in my skull after that.

  I dab gingerly over the spot, checking for blood.

  Waving off her apology, I refocus on the cards in my hand. I’m not much of a card player, and today marks my foray into the game of Speed, but I’m grateful to The Cowboy for inadvertently providing me with a distraction by bringing along his sidekick. Ryan’s an entertaining teacher. When he’s not flirting with every girl who passes by, anyway.

  After suffering through Ashley doling out an abundance of PDA on her boyfriend on top of her non-stop chatter about prom of all things, my holiday spirit resembles something along the lines of Scrooge. I have permanent eyestrain trying not to watch them cuddling while sharing French fries. Watching the two of them like this ranks right after skinny-dipping through the sewers on the list of my favorite pastimes.