Sweet Cheeks

by K. Bromberg

  I like it and hate it and don’t understand why I feel that way.

  “I’m not a kid anymore so don’t call me kiddo. Go away.”

  And of course being the stubborn teenager I know him to be, he doesn’t leave. Rather his footsteps clomping around the small area tell me he’s invading my space. My reprieve from the annoying giggles of the popular senior girls downstairs, trying to impress the jocks.

  The floorboards flex beneath me from his weight. The subtle scent of his shampoo and beer fill the space around us. The sound of his body shifting—shoes scraping, jeans sliding over wood, the grunt as he lies down beside me. The heat of his upper arm pressing against mine as he scoots next to me.

  “What are you looking at? Ah man, there’s tons up there tonight,” he says as he sees the bright stars spread across the darkened sky above us.

  “Mm-hmm.” For some reason I can’t say anything else. Nerves rattle around inside me when it’s just Hayes.

  Irritating.

  Frustrating.

  The boy who’s like a third child in our house most days. A second, annoying, brother.

  And yet despite all of that, the nerves I don’t understand are there.

  I concentrate on the sky above. Try to draw lines from star to star and make them any shape I want them to be. It’s so much easier to focus on that than the funny way my blood rushes in my ears. Or the chills that suddenly blanket my bare skin despite the warm night.

  “Have you?”

  His question pulls me from my thoughts. Makes me realize he asked something. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts. Swallow over the words tying up my throat. “Have I what?” It’s barely a whisper and I wonder if he even heard me with the party’s music and laughter carrying up here.

  I turn my head and startle when I find his face turned toward mine, our noses inches apart. The heat of his breath hits my lips. My heart feels like it somersaults in my chest and lands somewhere in the pit of my belly. I meet the dark brown of his eyes and avert my gaze immediately, way too uncomfortable and at the same time wanting to look right back at them.

  He waits. It feels like forever in the tiny space of the tree house, but I know it’s only seconds. Seconds where I neglect to breathe. Forget to think. And it’s only when I bring my eyes back to his, suddenly leery that I might have boogers in my nose or leaves in my hair, that he answers my question.

  “Have you seen any shooting stars?”

  My breath hitches as he moves his arm and the back of his hand brushes against mine.

  Is this how a boy tries to hold your hand?

  I don’t want him to.

  I do want him to.

  This is Hayes. Just Hayes. Don’t be stupid. He’s not going to hold your hand.

  The question. Answer the question.

  I clear my throat, trying to make my tongue, that feels like three times its normal size, work. “Yeah.”

  I can’t see his mouth but know he smiles because the corners of his eyes bunch up as his hair, wet from swimming, falls onto his forehead. “What did you wish for?”

  You to kiss me.

  My eyes fling open, and the familiar shadows on my bedroom ceiling do nothing to slow the rapid beat of my heart in my chest. The dream, reliving the memory, feels like just yesterday and so very long ago at the same time.

  That first longing to be kissed by a boy. The smell of summer around us, and those first moments in my teenage life where Hayes Whitley became so much more than my big brother’s best friend.

  He became my first crush.

  Then later my first love.

  And later again my first heartbreak.

  I sigh, snuggle back down into the covers of my big, empty bed, and hate how seeing Hayes yesterday caused forgotten memories to resurface. Like those first flutters of how I felt that night in the tree house when something shifted between us. Such a contrast to the regret that’s been eating at me since I jumped to conclusions. My temper. The twist of my gut as he drove away without allowing me to explain my actions, even though I couldn’t really explain them anyway without feeling more pathetic.

  Damn you, Hayes Whitley.

  Damn him for always popping back into my life somehow: his movie trailer on constant repeat during television commercials, running into his mom in the grocery store, sitting at a Starbucks in town and seeing him from afar on the very few occasions he’s bothered to venture back home. They’ve all caused those feelings of rejection and hurt to rile back up when all I had wanted was for them to be dead and buried.

  Even when I was engaged to Mitch. That spark, the one that had been missing, it was Hayes Whitley’s fault it wasn’t there in the first place. Why can’t I be free of him? It has been ten years. I was going to marry another man, for God’s sake. Shit. I don’t want this. Don’t have time for this churned-up memory. Don’t want this unsettled feeling.

  But it’s not like Hayes even cares. He most likely chalked up what we had to teenage love with his best friend’s little sister. A blip on the radar before he was swallowed whole by the flashes of the cameras that constantly follow him around to document his every move. So why would I assume he’d even think twice about me, a ghost of a memory from his past?

  It’s not like I thought of him much either. Once I met Mitch, he was the patient one earning my trust. The trust I never gave anyone after the job Hayes did on it. Because yes, while I can admit that what Hayes and I had was most likely puppy love, it was also the first time my heart was broken, and you don’t forget either of those occurrences very easily.

  But if it was puppy love, why did seeing him yesterday affect me so strongly?

  It’s ironic. I’m lying in bed thinking about Hayes all these years later and not questioning why it’s not Mitch I’m thinking of.

  It’s only been eight months. Not ten years. And yet, Hayes’s pull on me dominates without question.

  Mitch was gentle and patient and the man I was going to marry. Hayes was brash and assertive and left me with a battered and bruised heart.

  Maybe it’s just because Hayes is the one I couldn’t have. Maybe it’s an inherent thing to feel that way even though I was young without a clue about life or love. Regardless, it doesn’t matter.

  There will be no seeing Hayes again other than on his larger-than-life billboard ads. Or on one of the bazillion magazine covers that adorn the checkout stands, accusing him of cheating on Jenna Dixon: his girlfriend or ex-girlfriend or who knows what she is to him because they are tabloids after all. Or if I don’t flip the channel quick enough when he makes a promotional appearance on Ellen or Jimmy Fallon. Because I screwed up. I assumed Hayes had shown up because Ryder called him. And maybe he felt bad about what had happened a long time ago, thought I was pathetic and pitied my situation with Mitch so he came to save the day. Or laugh at me. Both would have made me feel the same way.

  But he hadn’t.

  Not even close. He didn’t even have a clue what I was talking about, but my temper was unleashed, my mouth in motion without thinking. All Hayes wanted to do was pick up an order for his great-uncle’s memorial. Mitch used to joke that he needed to carry duct tape for my mouth in case I lost my cool, so I wouldn’t make a scene and tarnish the pristine Layton reputation. Now I can see why.

  Talk about being an idiot with a capital I.

  Even worse is that, despite all of this as I lie here in bed, every part of me wants to find some way to apologize to Hayes. I need to explain but know that would only result in me feeling like more of an idiot when I tell him I was a runaway bride. That the wedding bells I thought I heard were actually alarm bells warning me to save myself and run the opposite way. How do I save face and make him see I’m not crazy when I tell him any of that? That I was in a perfectly solid relationship for six years but when it came down to brass tacks, I couldn’t do it.

  I’ll just have to lie low. Keep to myself and away from any of the places I know he frequents when he’s here. Avoidance is probably best at this point.
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  With that decided and feeling a bit more settled, I slowly sink into the edge of sleep.

  My mind drifting to that first kiss.

  To our last kiss.

  To how my heart jumped in my throat and every female part of me reacted to the sight of him in the bakery.

  To the man I shouldn’t be thinking about but can’t seem to shake from my mind.

  I should be working.

  I should be listening to the promises I made to myself.

  I should be doing a lot of things and the one I shouldn’t, I’m about to do.

  The bar was loud when I entered. The deep pulse of bass bumped through the speakers, and it took a second for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the Blue Devil.

  It’s all Ryder’s fault. Him and his you need to get out and have some fun. His a bunch of us are going out tonight to just have a few drinks and relax after a long week. His you’re gonna burn yourself out because you’re working too hard. You’ve been through a lot and it’s not going to kill you if you’re not there one night.

  Maybe I feel like I owe it to him to show up after turning him down week after week when he’s just trying to be a good brother by looking out for me. Then again, maybe I showed up tonight because I feel guilty for immediately assuming he had contacted Hayes and my threatening to kill him. Not that he knew, of course.

  Regardless, I’m here and now suddenly feel totally out of place in this huge club packed full of bulging biceps and pushed-up boobs. I take in the short skirts riding up the thighs of women around me and the tight shirts putting the rest of their assets on display, and feel completely inadequate in my black slacks and light pink top.

  It’s not like I’m a slouch in the looks department—at least I’m lacking the blue frosting that decorated my hair yesterday—but this place is so very different than the places Mitch and I used to frequent. It’s more my age than the country club scene, and yet I hate that I feel so uncomfortable when, at age twenty-seven, I should fit right in.

  I think back to how I let Mitch’s influence slowly change the wild and reckless in me to sophisticated and reserved. From vibrant colors to muted beiges. How even though I understand the complexity of the concept now—that less can also be more—a part of me vows from here forward to throw a few splashes of color back in there to regain the spirit of the girl I used to be.

  The one Hayes liked.

  The one that made Mitch grimace.

  I glance up at Ryder when he places another cocktail in front of me and shake my head—glad for the drink and the derailment of my thoughts. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” A giggle escapes my lips and it sounds strange because I don’t giggle. Ever.

  “It’s not my fault you’re a lightweight.” He smirks and leans down closer to my ear so I can hear what he says. “You deserve a night off. I appreciate how hard you’re working so we don’t lose our asses, but you’re going to burn out if you don’t take a break. Besides, you’re young. You haven’t been out once since you’ve been single. Live a little, sis. Be everything Mitch wouldn’t let you be. I’ll make sure you don’t get into too much trouble.”

  He winks at me as he steps back, a boyish grin on his face that transforms as a pretty brunette walks up to him. He slides his hand onto her lower back, his laugh becomes a little louder, his free attention taken. I watch mesmerized, wondering when the last time was I felt like he looks: carefree, young, confident. I also wonder when I last felt like a woman who holds a man’s attention. Attractive. Alluring. Someone to claim. Was I ever that girl?

  Be everything Mitch wouldn’t let you be.

  Ryder’s words strike a chord within me. One I’m not sure I’m ready to face yet, but can’t stop thinking about as I sit and watch the other patrons in the club from our coveted position in the rear corner. The couples who came together and are having a night out with friends after a long workweek. The pack of women standing in the opposite corner, acting as if they don’t care to be approached by any men but whose eyes are constantly roaming over the bachelors in the club and then suddenly acting coy when they finally approach. The men on the prowl: cocky in swagger and with a drink in hand, trying to find someone to hook up with. I watch them all as I sip my drink and chat idly with my brother’s friends and acquaintances. Enjoying myself but still feeling out of place in this scene I stopped being a part of six years ago.

  The funny thing is most people would want to sow their wild oats. And maybe in time I will, but for now, I’m still trying to settle the ever-shifting world beneath my feet.

  Time passes. The music becomes louder. The alcohol flows. The laughter in the club becomes louder as inhibitions are left with one more sip, one more drink, one more smile from the guy across the club.

  I laugh at one of Ryder’s friends, Frankie, as he attempts to perform a popular dance to a song. Attempt being the operative word. My head’s thrown back, eyes closed, and my hand is pressed to my stomach. It hurts from laughing so hard. But when I open my eyes to find Hayes sitting directly across from me, his gaze a mixture of curious and intense as he stares at me through the dimly lit club, the sound dies on my lips.

  The music plays on and yet, despite the brim of his baseball hat resting low on his forehead, my eyes are riveted to his. Words, apologies, excuses for how I acted the other day ghost through my mind and yet none form the proper words to express what I need to say.

  Then again, why do I care? It’s Hayes. The man I know from experience will breeze into town and then back out again without a single word.

  Yet I do. And I despise that I do.

  “Hayes! You made it, brother. Just like you to sneak in without telling a soul and make an appearance.” Our connection breaks. One last narrowing of his brow before the etched lines of his face turn softer, smile spreading, eyes crinkling up, hand reaching out to shake my brother’s. I watch the transformation in his body language as they fall back into a rhythm only they know. I’m left to wonder how he can seem so relaxed when the simple look from him has left my entire body a mess of frenzied adrenaline and unspecified emotions.

  I push away the feelings I don’t understand—chalk it up to the drinks I’ve had and the alcohol making me read into things that don’t exist—and deal with the all-consuming presence of Hayes the only way I know how to: by ordering another drink. Hopefully the alcohol will help take the edge off my thoughts. The ones that are struggling over wanting to know what he thinks of me and not wanting to know what he thinks of me all at the same time.

  And I hate that I’m sitting here wasting time wondering if he even thinks of me at all. It shouldn’t matter. He has moved so far beyond my orbit. Yet every time I look up from whomever I’m speaking with my gaze finds its way to him.

  I loathe it.

  And even more confusing, why, when I look his way, is his focus on me?

  I love it.

  He seems completely unfazed that I’ve caught him staring. It unnerves me. Makes me self-conscious. And after a few times, awakens the defiance in me that has been dormant for what feels like forever. I meet him stare for stare. A lift of my eyebrows. A shrug of my shoulders. A you have no idea who I am anymore or what I’ve been through, so don’t you dare judge me.

  I hate that it makes me wonder if what the tabloids have said are actually true. Their countless reports over the past few months accusing him of cheating on his match-made-in-Hollywood girlfriend, Jenna Dixon. And in the typical Hayes you-push-me-too-hard-one-way-I’ll-ignore-you fashion I grew up with, he has not once addressed the comments. No confirming. No denying. Not even a no comment. Nothing whatsoever.

  I despise that I know this. That I’ve followed just enough about him that I know the gossip. Even worse, when I look up and meet his eyes again, is that I don’t want it to be true. Because if it’s true, then Hayes Whitley isn’t the Hayes I used to know—Hollywood has changed him—and something about that makes my stomach churn.

  My attempts to keep my distance from him fail. Word has gotten
out to those in the club that the hometown star, Hayes Whitley, is here. Lucky for him, the club’s bouncers have cordoned off our area to keep the onslaught of admirers from bombarding him and causing a riot in the club. The darkness and our exclusive spot in the VIP corner near a private entrance affording him some privacy from the ever-ready camera phones. Unlucky for me, it means I can’t turn around without noticing him.

  I just want to get out of here now.

  But I don’t make any effort to leave. For some reason my feet refuse to walk toward the exit. So I decide to ignore him. But after a short time I realize ignoring him is impossible because every little thing about him catches my attention. The strain of his shirt cuffs over his biceps as he lifts his bottle of beer to his lips. The distinct sound of his laugh hitting my ears. How, when he leans over to talk to Ryder who is sitting on a sofa, his pants hug the very nice curve of his ass. The clean scent of his shampoo that hasn’t changed after all this time. His eyes constantly watching me in silent judgment.

  He’s everywhere when I want him to be nowhere.

  Yet isn’t that why I came tonight? I can tell myself till I’m blue in the face that I agreed to hang with Ryder and his friends because I feel guilty for blowing them off in the past, but I’d be lying to myself. And not a very good lie either.

  As I meet Hayes’s gaze yet again from across the small space, I know he is the reason I’m here tonight. The off-chance he would show up to see Ryder, his oldest friend, had me putting more effort into my appearance than I have in a while. Like going through my closet to find something that was non-bakery attire to wear, washing the frosting from my hair, and actually putting on more than my usual, lip gloss and mascara.

  The fact that he has me questioning myself infuriates me. And the notion that I’ve spent so much of the past hour and a half thinking more about what Hayes sees when he looks at me than actually having a good time is the last straw.