by RH Tucker
Even though my bedroom is on the bottom floor and the opposite end of the house than my parents, I still urge her to be quiet while we slowly make our way to my bedroom.
“Okay.” I pull her over to the bed. “Rich said you could use his room, but you just stay here. I’ll sleep in his room tonight.”
“No,” she cries out, holding my hand tighter. “I can’t fall asleep alone.”
“Jen, you’ve slept in this house before.”
“No.” She pouts, sticking out her bottom lip.
Instead of arguing, I just shake my head, letting out a grunt of frustration. “Fine, hold on.” I turn around and pull out an old T-shirt. “Here, you should put this on. You still got throw-up on your shirt.”
“I don’t want that shirt.”
“Okay, what shirt do you want?”
“I want this one.” She tugs at the hem of mine.
“You want my shirt?” I give her an unconvinced look, as she hands me a drunken smile. “The one that’s on me?”
“Mm-hmm,” she mumbles, her glazed over eyes staring at me. Then, before I can answer, she pulls at her shirt and nearly takes it off in one motion. Nearly. Because now she’s standing in front of me, torso only covered by her bra, while her hands hang in the air, her shirt covering her face.
“I’m stuck.” She lets out a muffled slur and I can’t stop the chuckle that comes out. “It’s not funny, I’m stuuuuuck.”
“Hang on a second.” I reach up and help her untangle herself.
As I pull off the shirt, she takes a step forward to balance herself and we’re nearly face to face. She’s a little shorter than me, but only by a couple inches. And I definitely notice her chest pressing against mine. This is the closest we’ve been to each other since we were little kids. She throws me a mischievous grin and any other time, with any other girl, I might try to act on the look. But this is Jen. And she’s not passed out drunk, but she’s not herself either.
She reaches behind herself and I grab her arms. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t sleep in my bra,” she says plainly, while giving me the most innocent looking expression.
I roll my eyes, pull off my shirt, and throw it over her head, helping her arms through the sleeves. “Okay, now take off your bra.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean? Yes you can.”
“No.” She shakes her head but she’s smiling at me.
“Jen, remember in seventh grade how excited you were that you could take off your training bra under your shirt?”
The comment makes her giggle, and she brings her hands to her mouth. “That’s right.” She coughs, trying to make herself go serious. “But, I can’t right now. I’m too drunk.”
I give her a sideways glance. “If you’re coherent enough to know that you’re too drunk, then you’re definitely not too drunk.”
“You do it.”
“What?”
She bites her bottom lip. “You do it.” She remains stoic for a moment, almost daring me. Then, a grin swims across her lips. “I heard rumors at school, how you were great with your hands.”
Shaking my head, I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Fine.”
I fully intend to reach under the shirt and quickly unsnap it. But as my hands glide around her waist, she put her arms on my shoulders. I pause at the closeness again and my hands freeze. Her skin is soft, and this close to her, I can smell her honey scent. I’m not sure if she’s warm, or my fingers are hot just from touching her. Sucking on her bottom lip, her eyes lock on mine.
My hands travel slowly behind her, up her back, as she takes in a breath. I find the clasp behind her and instead of undoing it, my fingers just hang there, holding her. She closes her eyes and licks her lips. When she opens them again, a playfulness has returned to her.
“Did you need some help?”
Responding with a grin, I undo the clasp. As if on cue, she shimmies away from me and reaches under the shirt, yanking the bra loose, then goes over to my bed and crawls in.
“Your bed’s soft,” she says aimlessly.
“Yeah,” I answer, and I see her start to cuddle up with a pillow. Shaking my head, I walk back to the door and hit the light switch. “I’ll be upstairs. You remember where’s Rich’s room is?”
“No.”
“It’s the second door on the right. Just—”
“No,” she repeats. “You need to stay here.”
I give her a knowing look. “Jen, come on.”
“Lucas, we used to have sleepovers all the time.”
“Yeah,” I nod, casting my gaze down at the ground, “that was a long time ago.”
“So, let’s have another one. For old time’s sake.”
“I don’t think—”
“Pleeeaaaase.” She sticks out her bottom lip with such exaggeration, I think it’s actually going to hit the floor.
“Fine.” I walk back over to the bed. “Scoot over.”
She moves over, pulling my sheets over her, and I lay my head down. She’s right, we did have sleepovers all the time growing up. But we were five then. Or seven. I think we were twelve the last time we had a sleepover. So, while we’re laying in my bed together, it is definitely not the same. I loved this girl for so long and I royally screwed it up. At the time I didn’t know I did. Actually, looking back on it, it shouldn’t have affected either of us for so long. It was in middle school for God’s sake. But it did. I hurt her, and after that day she never looked at me the same. The crazy part of it is I had been trying to work up my own nerve to ask her out, and when she was the one who asked, I freaked. My brain stopped working and everything changed.
I’m painfully aware of her when she snuggles closer to me. I’ve hugged her before, but this is different … cuddling, even if she’s just here because she’s buzzed. She lets out a soft breath, as if she’s in a safe place. When she lays her arm against my chest, I glance over at her and see her eyes closed, like she’s already asleep. That’s when I see what looks like a tattoo.
“What’s this?” I say, mostly to myself, because I’m not sure she’s awake.
“My heart,” she answers, and I look over at her and see her eyes staring at the tattoo.
“When’d you get it”
“About a month ago,” she replies before yawning.
I inspect it a little closer. It’s a red, heart-shaped lock, with a keyhole in the middle. “So, your heart’s locked?”
She nods, and she closes her eyes once more. “And I’ll never open it up again.”
My fingers glide over the tattoo, then over the back of her hand. I know Jen’s had it rough. She told me once that she never knew her dad and her mom left when she was little, but it was always something she never went in to detail about. She’d splurge on the details about any and everything in her life when we used to hang out, but her parents always seemed like a taboo subject. I know she felt hurt by them not being around. I stare up at the ceiling wondering if the tattoo is about them. Or perhaps it’s about a guy she went out with. Franco, maybe? I wish we could talk like we used to. I wish we could go back to how things were.
“Lucas?” Her words still sound slurred, but more from being tired than drunk.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t we do this anymore?”
I let out a chuckle, caught off guard by the question. “Well, we haven’t talked in a while, let alone have a sleepover.”
“Yeah.” She shifts and pulls my arm up, so it wraps around her. “I liked our sleepovers.”
“Me too.”
She snuggles a little bit closer and my mind drifts to how amazing this would be if we were like this all the time. Not the drunk part, but the coziness. The comfortableness. The only kiss I ever shared with her was our first kiss, and even if it was years ago, every kiss since then I’ve always compared it to. Which sounds crazy, because it was just a childish kiss. Almost a dare. But as the years passed, I always felt like the older we got, the more we could’ve
been. The more we should have meant to each other.
When she rests in the crook of my neck, her breathing slows. Before I realize it, I’m brushing my fingers over her shoulder and she lets out a sigh of contentment.
“Then why did we stop?”
Now it’s my turn to let out a sigh. Only I’m not content. It’s remorse. “Lots of reasons.”
“Name one.” I can feel her smile against my neck as she pokes me in the ribs.
No time like the present to be honest. It almost helps she’s still tipsy. “Well, you started getting boobs.”
She snickers loudly, still in my neck, then lays her head on my chest. “You said boobs.”
“I did,” I chuckle along.
“Fine, then name another.”
“I noticed you got boobs.”
She lets out another laugh. “You said boobs again.”
We settle down in to a quietness, my thumb making circles over her shoulder as her breathing steadies. A small glimmer of hope sparks inside. We hardly spoke at all through high school, but high school’s over. We’re moving on with our lives now, and even if she’s drunk tonight, this could be the start of a new beginning for us. For a moment, for a brief flicker of time, I resolve to start anew tomorrow.
“Lucas?” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“I really thought you weren’t like her.” She stops, and I can feel her breathing steady as she starts to fade to sleep. “I thought … you loved …”
But there aren’t any more words. They trail off into calm breathing, and she’s asleep and I’m left staring at the ceiling, wondering. Wondering what exactly she thought of me all those years ago, and wishing she’d still think of me now. Most of all wishing that this night wasn’t a one-time thing, as the glimmer of hope I just had starts to fade, because I know tonight is exactly that. Tomorrow she’ll be gone. And she’ll go back to hating me. So, I revel in this one night, holding her while she sleeps. If this is all I get, I guess it’ll have to be enough.
Chapter 8
Jen
I wake up in the morning, clenching my eyes tight when a throbbing hits my head. I have no idea where I am when I suddenly feel someone’s chest under my face and my heart drops. I didn’t think I had that much to drink last night, but the fact that I can feel a guy’s chest I’m sleeping on makes me think otherwise.
Keeping one eye shut, I peek open my other eye and see a room I’m familiar with. It’s changed a little bit—new posters on the wall, the furniture is moved around—but I know this room. My memory comes back to me and I remember Lucas dragging me off a counter-top, buckling me in to a truck. Me, throwing up in said truck.
Daring to open both eyes, I look up to see Lucas asleep. Bits and pieces are coming back to me about last night, and a wave of embarrassment hits me. I guess nothing could be as embarrassing as throwing up in front of him, and now I remember he actually cleaned me up. Which, now that I remember it, was really sweet of him.
I let my eyes roam over his face, dark blond stubble covering his chin. He has one arm wrapped around me and part of me wants to move away slowly. But another part wants to stay right where I am, where I feel warm. Where I feel safe.
I draw up my hand, sliding it over his chest. He’s not bulky, like his football playing brother, but he’s definitely toned. My hand slides over his chest then lower, traveling over his stomach, feeling his abs. I quickly pull my hand back before I do something I probably shouldn’t. One, it’s probably morally wrong to try and feel up a guy in his sleep, though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. And two, it’s Lucas. The guy that broke my heart. As I pull my hand back I see the tattoo on my wrist.
I’ll never open it again.
My words play over in my mind, remembering them from last night.
It’s true. As far as I’m concerned, my heart’s locked away and there is no key to open it. Because everyone who should have ever cherished it, treated me like garbage. And that includes Lucas.
He was just a boy.
A lump forms in my throat as my thoughts betray me again. I don’t care about the circumstances, he did what he did, and it hurt. No, more than hurt. It seared. It destroyed me. After my mom left, that should’ve been it. I should’ve known I can’t count on anyone. But I did, I counted on Lucas. I trusted him and look what that got me. Nothing but heartbreak I’ve been carrying with me for years.
Slowly, I unwrap his arm from me and crawl out of bed. I grab my bra off the ground and then my shirt. I’m about to change back in to it, when I smell it and it reeks. Peering down at Lucas’s shirt on me, I decide I’ll leave it on his front porch later, after I change out of it.
Tiptoeing toward his door, I reach for the handle when I hear him cough. Not a sleepy cough, but a noise that tells me he’s awake.
“So,” his voice scratches out, “that’s what the walk of shame looks like.”
I turn around to find him smiling, his eyes still sleepy.
“Technically, it’s not a walk a shame.”
“No?”
“Not unless we did something that I don’t remember.”
He smirks, sitting up in the bed, and I can’t keep my eyes from roaming over his bare chest again. “Well, you are wearing my shirt. And is that your bra in your hand?”
“Very funny.” I want to keep an attitude. The same attitude I’ve given him for the last four years. But I can’t. Instead, I fight back a smirk. “If I remember correctly, last night involved some vomit, so I highly doubt there was any action after that.”
“This is true. But I could’ve made an exception.”
“Oh,” I laugh. “Is puke a fetish you have? Because if so, that’s disgusting.”
“No.” He bites back a laugh. “Just pretty girls. Especially ones that get stuck in their own shirt, looking all cute.”
His remark catches me off guard and I have to look away. He’s never flirted with me. I mean, I guess in the last few years there wasn’t much opportunity for him to, but still. I want to turn it on, the anger. The annoyance. I want to remember how I felt that day and remember why I never want to trust anyone with my heart ever again.
“Lucas—”
“I do have a question.”
Fine, I’ll indulge him. “Okay, you get one question, then I’m leaving. My aunt’s going to kill me for not calling her and telling her where I’m at.”
“Rich called her.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” he says, grabbing his phone off his nightstand and opening his text messages. “He sent this to me last night, before I fell asleep.” He reads it, “‘Called Nancy to let her know about Jen. Said she’s fine, and she’s sleeping over at the house. Didn’t sound too thrilled but thanked me for watching out for her.’”
Now I really am blushing because of embarrassment. “Tell Rich thanks for me.”
“Sure. Now, about my question.” I take a deep breath, unsure what he’s going to ask. “Did you really mean what you said about your tattoo?”
I know exactly what I said, and I meant it, so I nod.
“But why?”
“You only get one question.” I give him a smile.
“Come on, Jen.”
“Just let it go, Lucas.” I should leave. I should ignore him and walk out the door. But I don’t.
“No. Why are you locking your heart up?”
“Because …” I stop and don’t finish, mostly because I don’t want to say it out loud.
“Jen.”
“Just drop it.”
“No, I want to know.”
“Why?”
“Because I do. Is it about a guy?”
“Lucas—”
“Is it about your parents?”
“I said to drop it, okay?” I’m getting louder, and annoyed.
“You can’t live life like that.”
“Yes, I can. And I will.”
“But why?”
“Because! It’s been broken too many times, okay?” He stares at me and
I feel my eyes burn, tears threatening to fall.
“By who?” he whispers.
“Who?” I shake my head, letting out an exasperated laugh. “Who? Gee, let me think … everyone!”
“Wha—”
“My dad. My mom. You.”
“Me?”
I take a deep breath before glancing back over at him. He’s staring at me with those jade eyes that I used to get lost in, looking confused and hurt. My head is still throbbing, and I really don’t want to get into whatever argument will inevitably come from this.
“Just forget it, Luc.”
“Jen, please tell me—”
“Tell you what?” I scream at him, and he flinches. “Why I’ll never know why my mom left? Why my dad has never even bothered to try and find me? Why you broke my—” I cut myself off, looking down at the ground. “There are some things I’ll never have the answers to and I’m done with it. I’m so done.”
This argument isn’t going to do either one of us any good. And honestly, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll always choose to keep my heart locked up, because even if I could choose to trust someone again, even if I could trust him again, it doesn’t take away the chance of me getting hurt. And I won’t be hurt anymore.
“I have to go.” I open his door to leave, but as I take a step through the threshold, I remember a thought last night before falling asleep.
I acted stupid and said stupid things and I could blame it on being drunk, but I wasn’t. I mean, sure, I was tipsy, but I let that be an excuse. I do remember having his arm around me and feeling safe. I remember thinking I wish it could be real but knew, even as I was falling asleep, that it won’t ever be.
“Lucas?” I whisper to him without turning around.
He’s quiet for so long, I don’t know if he heard me. Then he speaks. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for taking care of me last night.”
Chapter 9
Lucas
Anytime.
Yeah, that would’ve been a good response.
You’re welcome.
