One Night Flame

by Beverly Evans

  I laugh and roll down the passenger side window. Okay, maybe this errand will be fun if I get the chance to lightheartedly tease her. If she’s just nervous around me, like I suspect from her behavior at dinner, I can break down her barriers. I won’t be a huge dick in my teasing like I was as a kid.

  “Hop in,” I invite her. She does and slams the door shut way too hard. “Easy on the truck.”

  She gives me an annoyed look and puts her purse in her lap. Thankfully it keeps her thighs covered so I won’t be tempted to look. She has amazing thighs, just thick and toned enough to fit perfectly with her ass.

  I pull away, and she still isn’t saying anything, staring out the window. So I turn on my music, some rapper who’s barely popular anymore. Damn, has it been that long since I’ve driven this truck? Or maybe my taste is just iffy. Before I can think about the song too long, Nadine turns it off without a word. I slow to a stop at a stoplight, so I have a chance to glare at her.

  “Hey, if you’re going to be a little shit, you can at least respect the rules of my car,” I say, turning the music back on and up. The bass thumps underneath us, and my plan to be lighthearted and fun with her starts to fade into the distance.

  “What are the rules?” she asks.

  “No feet up on the dash. Seatbelts on. Driver controls the music. If you have to fart, roll down the window first and let it air out.” The last one isn’t actually a rule, but I knew she’d get adorably embarrassed at it. Sure enough, she is. It’s always funny to press that button of hers. It makes me grin when she pulls a face. I can’t help myself.

  “I don’t like the music rule. I’m a guest,” she says, sighing and looking out the window. “Shouldn’t I have some say?”

  “Guests who aren’t little shits get some control over the music. An addendum to rule number three.” I switch lanes and get onto the highway. I know where this place is generally, but I’ll have to use my GPS when we get closer.

  “Wouldn’t that mean you don’t get control of your music?” she quips, her eyes lasering into the side of my head. I keep my eyes on the road.

  “I’m not a little shit.” I finally steal a glance at her before looking back onto the road, holding back my grin at her quip.

  “Yeah, you are.”

  Her petulant tone makes me burst out laughing, which only infuriates her more. She digs through her purse and pulls out an e-reader. As if it’ll help, she pivots away from me, so her knees are facing the passenger side door.

  “You can’t escape me. We’re in this sucker for an hour.” I shrug. “And then a whole ‘nother hour on the way back.”

  “I’m reading.” She glares at me yet again.

  “Fine. I’m listening to music.” I turn my music back on and flip on satellite radio.

  The ride is calm and smooth, and I almost forget that Nadine’s next to me until she shifts in her seat. I take peeks at her when she does, pretending I’m checking my blind spot as I switch lanes. Her reading face makes her look sweet and innocent, all the tension falling away from her face. Something about her look makes me remember when I first realized she was hot back in high school. That was such a damn shock. She keeps getting prettier with age. And not to be creepy since she’s about to be my stepmom, but Babs is a babe, in an older woman way. Dad’s pretty lucky. If Nadine looks like her when she’s older, she’ll be a lucky woman.

  We’re speeding along, making good time, and then I see brake lights light up in front of me. Shit.

  I brake too, and we come to a full-on standstill.

  “What’s happening?” Nadine asks.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I open up my map app and plug in the address where we’re going. There’s a line of red where the highway we’re on is for miles.

  “Goddamn it,” I sigh and let my hands fall into my lap. “Traffic’s a shit show for miles ahead.”

  She rests her head against the headrest with a long sigh, like I’d just told her that we’re going to have to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way.

  “Oh no, you have to sit here in a car and not talk to me. Whatever will you do?” I say, my eyes narrowing at her.

  “You’re such a pain in the ass, Noah,” she says, her voice low and calm, but her eyes are fiery. “Why didn’t you tell me we were going to be stuck in the car together like this?”

  “That’s all on Andy. I volunteered to help Babs when he couldn’t.” I shrug and hold the bottom of the steering wheel, tapping my thumb to the beat of my music.

  She sighs for the hundredth time this ride.

  “You didn’t check traffic before we left?” she asks.

  “I know the way, generally, so no.” I regret not doing it but telling her that would bring her an ounce of satisfaction I’m not willing to give her. “It’s fine. We have a big window to pick this stuff up.”

  “I have work to do, so I don’t have that much time,” she says. “I only brought my phone.”

  “No one’s going to die if you don’t answer an email for two hours.”

  “You don’t know my boss.” She laughs darkly, looking out the window again. “I can’t believe you didn’t check traffic.”

  “I can.” I inch forward.

  She looks at me the same way she did at dinner — like I’m the biggest piece of shit to ever exist. But why? A flash of anger blows through me like lightning, but I rein it back in. Mostly.

  “What’s your fucking problem with me, Nadine?” I ask, slapping the steering wheel as if that’ll make traffic move any faster.

  She squeezes the bridge of her nose and sighs but doesn’t answer my question. I turn to look at her, but she’s already looking out the window. She’s not going to respond, is she?

  Now I’m pissed, and I don’t want to hold it back. Back when we were kids, she was always the ‘mature’ one in the eyes of the adults around us, but they only got that impression since she was quiet and generally well-behaved. In reality, she would push right back at me whenever I messed with her or purposefully pushed her buttons, often equally as childish as I was. Sometimes it was arguing, but sometimes she would annoy me right back and not let up until I did.

  That stubborn streak is something that she could stand to lose because it’s not cute in the slightest.

  “How old are you again? Do I need to put you in the back in a fucking car seat? Because you’re being a child,” I say.

  The car behind us honks, and I inch forward a total of two stupid inches. I don’t even look in the rearview mirror to see who the asshole is because I’m too focused on the woman-child right next to me.

  “Tell me, Nadine. Tell me what your issue with me is,” I say, and it’s not a request. “If you’re going to be an asshole, I at least deserve to understand why.”

  “You can’t be asking me this in all seriousness,” she finally answers, looking confused and hurt in equal measure.

  “I am. And I’ve asked this before. I’ve texted you, and you’ve ignored me for years.” I try to switch into another lane, but there’s no point. No one is moving.

  “Because I asked you to make my first time meaningful, and you kicked me out like trash after making a date with another chick while I was right next to you,” she snaps, sounding pissed about it like it happened yesterday.

  “What? Who are you talking about? What date?”

  I think back to that night. I remember it pretty well, even though we were both kind of drunk. It was her first time, sure, but it was really hot. Her shyness was such a turn-on, seeing her slowly become more and more comfortable with what happened. The sounds she made. Her body. Shit. She has such nice, understated curves. Her ass is much more muscular now that she’s started working out, but her ass was just as good before.

  All in all, a great night. She got stuff off her chest and crossed sex off her life to-do list in a big way.

  But I can’t remember making a date that night. When would I have done that? Who would I have gone on an honest to god date wi
th? I hook up and almost always have a couple of non-serious girlfriends in high school and college aside. I’m not really interested in settling down.

  “That girl Caroline? She confirmed that you guys were still on for that night and asked if she should wear underwear,” Nadine scoffs at me.

  Oh, that Caroline. I haven’t spoken to her in at least two years. We had some fun, kinky nights together, and that’s it. We were never serious.

  “Wait, how do you even know this?” I ask.

  “I saw on your phone when I checked the time,” she mutters, finally looking a little less mad and more ashamed. “But that aside, you kicked me out like I was trash.”

  “I definitely had work.” I do remember that because all the guys at the fire house ragged on me for being late and could tell it had been because of a woman.

  “Still.” I can see the tears in her eyes, even though I’m not looking at her directly. “I mean, I know it didn’t mean anything to you, but it did to me, so some measure of kindness after the act would have been nice.”

  Shit.

  She’s not wrong. That was a dick move considering that her whole life had just imploded.

  Most of my hookups who stay over always leave almost right after, so I went on autopilot. And I was late for work, so I was even more careless. Nadine checking my phone at that moment was a stroke of bad luck for me, but I can’t blame her for trying to check the time. She had a flight to catch.

  But if I had known all of this, I could have apologized, and things would have been fine. Or at least not like this. We could have gone back to being… whatever we would have been. Not quite enemies anymore, since we bonded over our mutual hatred of that piece of shit Grant, but not friends.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, even though it pains me to do it. Not because I’m forcing the apology — I really do feel bad — but because all of this could have been avoided years ago. “But why didn’t you just tell me all of this shit? It’s not like I didn’t ask or text you ever again.”

  “I didn’t want to talk about it because I was mortified, okay?” she says, looking everywhere but my direction. “I’d just been humiliated in front of everyone I know by getting cheated on by the man I was in love with; then you had to go and add onto that by doing all of that. I never wanted to even think about you ever again.”

  “Shit, Nadine.” I bump my head against the headrest and let the car roll forward. “I really am sorry. I should have been more considerate. It was really… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t say anything. When I look at her, she looks tired and sad. A step up from angry, at least. Or laterally.

  That still doesn’t change the fact that I’m still kind of mad at her for making shit awkward for five years when we could have solved it by talking to each other. We’d spent hours talking about how much she and Grant didn’t talk, and then she went and did it again with me.

  She makes no sense sometimes.

  I don’t want to mess with her any more than I already have, so I stay quiet for the rest of the painfully long and awkward ride. Once we get to the place with the flour, we only say what’s necessary to get the job done. She knows all about which flours they need, so I just do the lifting. Once everything’s packed, I put in the address for the bakery and take the route with the least traffic. We get back to the bakery in record time, unload, and head back to the house.

  I pull up into the driveway, and Nadine starts to get out. Before she shuts the door, she makes a little sound.

  “Thank you for the apology,” she says quietly.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She gives me an inscrutable look, her eyes scanning me briefly before she shuts the door and goes back inside.

  Chapter Five

  Nadine

  If phones weren’t so expensive, I’d throw mine through my stupid wall. Yet again, I wake up to a wall of notifications from work and the familiar feeling of being torn. I shouldn’t turn off the notifications, because what if Michelle really needs me? But also, I should, because screw her — I’m on vacation. But I can’t leave someone in the lurch. So once my eyes have finally opened all the way, I open my inbox. Yet another hot mess. The guy who’s supposed to be covering for me isn’t doing a good enough job for Michelle’s strict standards.

  I’m over today, and I haven’t even gotten out of bed.

  To make matters worse, it’s the crack of dawn — five-thirty in the freaking morning. Today’s the annual fair at the biggest church in town, so Mom asked me to help her with her bakery’s booth. I know she’s been short-staffed for a little while, so I said yes. She needs to get a bunch of things into the oven and prepped to sell later, so we have to start soon. But I agreed to it before I spent the night tossing and turning.

  I’m just awake enough to remember my dreams in vivid detail. My nightmares were filled with phone notifications, missed calls, and Noah, streaming by in skits like a twisted Saturday Night Live. Every time Dream-Me screwed up at work, Noah would appear. Sometimes he seemed sympathetic, but other times he seemed amused at my misfortune. And other times, he’d kiss it all better.

  I fling my blankets off and stand up. The only way to forget about dreams like that is to wake up, so I head to my shower. I turn it on ice cold and jump in before I can convince myself not to. It sucks, but it does the job of waking me up to a certain degree. By the time I dress, I can smell Mom making coffee downstairs. It draws me to the kitchen like I’m a magnet, and I pour myself a huge cup before I even say anything.

  “Morning,” Mom says, sounding entirely too cheery and looking too put together for this hour. Her hair’s back in a ponytail, and she’s in her usual work outfit of a white t-shirt and jeans.

  “Hi.” I sip the coffee. God, it’s almost as good as the kind Paolo makes at The Toasted Bean.

  “Drink up. You’ll need the energy today.” She finishes up her coffee and puts the mug in the sink. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Ehn.” I take another long sip of coffee. “I’ll be fine once this kicks in.”

  “Good. We’ve got a lot to do.” She checks her watch. “Put that in a travel mug. We should get going. I think I want to do an extra batch of oatmeal cookies.”

  I want to protest, but that wouldn’t help the situation at all. I’m already roped in, so I can’t do anything about it.

  We hop into Mom’s SUV — a gift from Joseph — and head to the bakery. It’s my first time here in ages, and not much has changed. There’s a new POS system on the counter, but that’s about it. The sweet smell of the kitchen, the stainless steel everywhere, the industrial mixers. I worked here in high school, mostly in the front, but sometimes in the back if things were busy. I love baking. I’m not as passionate about it as my mom is, but it’s one of my favorite things to do. I especially like decorating cakes.

  I glance at a wedding cake in progress in one of the fridges. At least I used to like decorating cakes. Now I just think about wedding cakes and get a little queasy.

  “Here’s our list of what we’re bringing, the status they’re in, who’s doing what, and the prices,” Mom explains, gesturing toward the big white board on the wall.

  Since it’s for a family crowd, we’ll be bringing a lot of cupcakes, cookies, and brownies. Today’s not the day for Mom’s more experimental quick breads or tarts.

  I’m on cupcake frosting duty first, then packing. Once Margie, Mom’s long-time employee arrives, she’ll be doing more of the baking. I start making the frosting, like I have a million times before, listening to Mom flitting around the kitchen.

  “Want some music?” Mom asks, somehow already covered in flour.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  She turns on some 90’s pop playlist, the only kind of music we both like, and it makes the work go by much easier. We work without talking to each other, just waking up all the way and trying to get things done efficiently. I put the frosting into multiple bowls, coloring them in every color of the rainbow. I even do a few with
a swirl of colors that’ll hopefully be eye-catching.

  About a half-hour later, Margie comes bustling in. She’s from down south, and never lost the accent or the charm. She also seems to be ageless — she could be anywhere between her late thirties and early fifties. I don’t know how she manages to pull it off if she’s doing her makeup like that on purpose.

  “Deenie! I didn’t know you’d be here!” She hangs her massive purse up and rushes to give me a hug.

  “Yeah, I’m in town for a little while.” I squeeze her back.

  “Look at you!” She holds me by the shoulders and looks me over. “You’re so grown up!”

  “It’s been five years.” I flush. Does she mean that I look older? Or hopefully less like the naive child I probably (okay, definitely) was back before I moved.

  “Even so. You look so lovely, dear. And buff, goodness.” She squeezes my arms and lets me go. “New York City treatin’ you well?”

  My knee-jerk reaction in my head is ‘no’, but instead, I say, “It’s fine.”

  “Let me get my apron on and started on my work, and we can catch up.” She disappears into the back and returns a couple of moments later in her bright pink apron.

  While she gets set up with her tasks, I think about what to even say. I hate being confronted with my life and how dull it is. I mean, most people probably don’t do more than go to work, go home, and do all the necessary things to keep going, right? I’ve been looking at law schools off and on. That’s something.

  “So, tell me everything.” Margie is prepping muffins, putting the batter she or Mom made last night into the huge tin in front of her. “How’s work? Anyone special in your life?”

  I laugh nervously, accidentally making my spiral of frosting fall sideways. I hate dating questions. I know everyone gets them, especially if they’re single and my age, but could people not? I don’t think anyone really likes them, even if they have a decent dating history.