Whiskey Kisses (19 page)

New again in Hollow Brook,

~Your baby girl

Jemma isn’t one to mince words. So when she demands I haul ass to her place ASAP I put on my running shoes and speed over. Usually this sort of distress signal from my BFF kicks off a spontaneous moving day, one in which we pack up her apartment before her soon-to-be ex comes home from the strip club. Lord knows I’ve helped her clear out a three bedroom in under thirty on more than one occasion. Only, when I walk in, there’s not a box in sight. No pile of broken dishes to attest to how pissed off she is, and not a single mound of “his expensive crap” awaiting a trip to the pawnshop. Instead, I find Jemma participating in a rather domestic activity—baking cookies. The kids are all lined up on the couch watching cartoons with their matching trance-like, surprisingly clean, faces.

“Don’t judge.” She holds out a batter-laden spoon. “One day you’ll have an entire herd of rug rats, and you’ll wonder how I ever survived with my hair intact. I’m telling you, Sponge Bob makes a damn good babysitter, and he’s only one DVR away in a pinch.”

“Got it.” I find this doubtful. For one, I haven’t even considered bringing my own children into this world, and two, my mother—

Then it hits me. I had sex with Holt. It was the exact procreative measure necessary to fulfill such a wish list. My mouth falls opens, and I’m lost for a moment just daydreaming what children with Holt might look like when Jemma jabs me in the chest with her overgrown acrylic nail.

“Knew it,” she snickers, grabbing a hold of me by the wrist. I follow her back to the kitchen where she pulls a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. “Spill it, Sawyer. Where, when, what, and, well, I think I know who.” She claws the air like a tigress in heat.

“His place, the last two bliss-filled days, everything, and yes—Holt Edwards was the prime suspect.” I plop down at the table and shove a hot cookie in my mouth.

“Holy Jezebel.” She falls into the seat across from me, slacked jawed and pale. “There are so many miracles that just happened—I think we’d better get Mother Teresa on the line.”

“Mother Teresa is dead.”

“Then get the freaking Pope!”

“I’m not Catholic. And I hardly think the ‘freaking Pope’ will give a rat’s ass. Relax, would you? Things just sort of progressed with Holt and me, the end. No need to drag religious hierarchy into this.”

She gives a solemn nod. “So, did you mention anything about that whole—”

“Nope.” I snatch another cookie off the pan. “And I don’t think I’m going to. It’s not important.”

“You think?” Her face contorts in a grimace. “I guess I always thought once you got serious with someone, you’d be able to talk things through. There aren’t too many people out there you tell that stuff to. Plus, you know—it’s affected you. Don’t you think he’s picked up on that by now?”

“Picked up on the fact I’m damaged goods? He’s a smart boy. I’m sure he’s known from the beginning. But, I’ve sort of skirted the topic each time he’s asked. He knows I’m not ready to go there. Besides, if I didn’t know better, I’d bet he’s got a few hang-ups of his own.”

“Oh, hon—I swear over my dead mother’s grave that everyone’s got a hang up. Maybe that’s what makes you two peas in a pod. I bet that weird social juju you carry around like a torch attracted him to you. Moth to a flame.” She nods at her tired analogy.

“Please. It did not. Holt says he’s been crushing on me since he was thirteen. In fact, that day it happened”—I glance at the tablecloth and pull on a stray fiber—“he was one of the last people I spoke to.” The memories rush back like a flood. It was just Holt and me in that stifling studio after the girls ran out to change. I can still see him standing there, looking at me a moment too long, and even then I knew what he was thinking. “He said I was beautiful.” Tears blur my vision, and I sniff them back, shoving another cookie in my mouth before they have a chance to surface. I swallow it down as if I were trying to dam up the past. “Jem”—I press my lips in tight—“I think I love him. In fact, I know I do.”

“Izzy”—she whispers so low it sounds like a hiss—“those words were meant for sharing.” She bears into me with a solemn nod. “The sooner the better.” She gets up and pours me a tall glass of milk and pushes the pan in my direction. “So—how was it? Did you walk funny in the morning? ‘Cause if you didn’t, I hate to break it to you—you did it wrong.”

She hedges her hand toward mine, and I’m quick to smack her away.

“Walk funny? I could barely stand. You didn’t tell me it would feel like someone scraped me raw with a sanding belt.”

“Ooh!” She squeals. “He must be a big one.” Jemma starts in with a spontaneous applause.

“Would you stop?” I throw a piece of my cookie at her. “I’m glad you’re amused, and, since you asked, yes, he is well-endowed.” Not that I would know the difference, but my insides seem to confirm this theory all on their own.

“Anything else?” She gravels it out, rife with sexual pretense. “Does that boy like toys—or was his new pet kitty enough to keep him occupied?”

“No toys. But he does have an affinity for syrup.” I clamp my hand over my mouth because I’m about to regret this.

Jemma lets out a whoop and stomps both her hands over the table like she’s rooting for the home team, and, in a way, she is.

“I called it!” She howls. “That boy is a freak of nature.”

“He is, but in a good way. I’m afraid together we might be just plain freaks.” I wrinkle my nose. “I hate that I’m older than him.”

“You’re insane.”

“No, really. It sort of bugs me. I mean not when we’re together. I don’t even notice it. But I wonder if other people do. Is that weird?”

“Yes, and I think we’ve already established the fact you’re weird in general, so get over it. You’re the new
it
couple. You’re the couple of the new millennium. You’re like Ashton and Demi.”

“Newsflash Ashton and Demi aren’t together anymore. He’s currently with a much younger woman.”

“So sue me. I’ve got kids and live under a Dora-shaped rock.” She leans in like a tiger about to pounce. “So you sharing? Or is this one going on the private reserve list.”

“No, I’m not sharing.”

“Sharing is caring.”

God, she’s drooling now.

“Creating STDs does not say you care. Holt is mine, back off, Jem. Besides, aren’t you off the market?”

She blows out an unsteady breath. “Ron says he wants to see other people.”

“See? As in
see
other people?”

“As in see what they have to offer under the hood, take ‘em for a test drive—you know the drill—try out another model.” She picks up a cookie and taps it over the table. “But I guess I’m okay with it.” She shakes out her blonde curls, and they catch the light streaming in from the window. I’ve always admired her lemon waves. In fact, I’ve always admired everything about Jemma, but, lately, her life just looks hard—three kids, almost just as many husbands under her belt, and now this new arrangement. I don’t think I could handle it if Holt were seeing other people on the side.

“How are you okay with this?” I’m afraid to tread in this direction. I can tell by the crumbling look of grief on her face that she’s not okay with any of it.

“I don’t know. I think maybe it’s time to settle down and find me a sugar daddy.” She blinks a quick smile. “God knows I’m going to need one. Denny hasn’t paid child support in two months. If this keeps up, I’ll be needing a J-O-B, and the only J-O-B I’m currently skilled at has the word blow in front of it.” Her expression sours. “Hey, you think Holt needs a new waitress at the bar?”

“It’s not that kind of bar.” My lips twist. “I’m teasing. I’ll ask.”

“Thanks. That way I can pull double duty and catch me one of those cute frat boys like you did. We can start our own sorority—the Cougar Club.
Rawr
!” She claws the air, and suddenly I’m fearing for my eyes and my social standing.

“We’re not old enough to qualify as cougars.” I hope.

“You just keep believing that. And if anyone gives you any shit. You tell them you’ve got an entire den of crazy cats just waiting to pounce.”

“Crazy cats.” That sounds about right.

Lila rushes in and snatches a cookie off the table.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” She scolds through a laugh. “You guys ate all the cookies!”

“Come here, you.” Jemma scoops her up and plants a sweet kiss on top of her little blonde head.

“Hey girl!” I give her finger a quick tug. “When are you coming to dance for me?”

“I gonna go when my momma tells me.” She smears the cookie over her mouth like lipstick.

“Good girl.” Jemma buries another kiss in her hair before making crazy eyes at me. I know how Jemma feels about the financial commitment that goes along with the studio. It’s anything but cheap. The monthly tuition can easily equate to a small car payment.

“How about I comp this one?” I give a little wink.

“Your mother will shit a brick the size of a refrigerator.”

Sometimes I think Jemma knows my mother better than I do.

“She won’t have to. I’m thinking of taking over the studio. She wants to sell.”

Jemma sucks in a never-ending breath. “Are you shitting me? I would have thought she’d keel over in that place before she ever gave it away. What’s the story?”

“Greasy D was up to his old tricks, so I told him to take a hike. He took off, and now she’s blaming the studio for her inability to hang onto a ‘damn man.’”

“Selling it over a damn man.” She mindlessly picks up a cookie with her gaze fixed on a faraway horizon. “I wonder what she would do if she found out it was you all along?”

I wonder the exact same thing.

That afternoon Laney sends a text and lets me know there’s a fitting at the bridal shop. I drive all the way to downtown Jepson with its metropolitan appeal, its skyscrapers—and a twinge of envy bites through me. Laney really does have it all. And I’m thrilled that Ryder is not only one of the nicest guys on the planet, but he’s established in life, too. I’d hate to see her in the same position as Jemma. Poor thing. I worry for her sanity almost as much as I do mine. But then I’m no Laney, either. I’ve got issues I could stack to the moon myself.

I wonder how different my life would have been if that day never happened? If I would have found someone to talk to—someone who could have helped me move beyond the hellish borders of that night. Instead, I cemented my emotional feet in it and spent the next decade holding the rest of the world at bay. I wonder how different things would be—how far I could have gotten in life by now—if my father had just stuck around in the first place.

The posh bridal shop comes up on my right, and I park and hop out.

I wonder if I would have long since met my Mr. Right and had a few kids of my own by now. Would I still be at the studio? My head spins with the possibilities.

Holt comes to mind with his hotter-than-a New York-sidewalk-in-July smile, those teeth that flash bright as a North Carolina sunrise each time he opens his mouth. Holt is a god among men and deserves to be venerated as such. I’m sure there are plenty of coeds ready and willing to drop to their knees for him. I wonder if I’m nothing more than some fantasy conquest left over from his childhood. But I don’t think I am. I can feel a real connection between us. Holt and I are on the path to something great if we ever let it get there.

I step inside the overpriced dress shop, and the scent of spiced tea hits me, thick and suffocating. An entire sea of white candles glow along a granite counter. The facility alone is large enough to outfit an entire fleet of honeymoon bound 747s.

Baya waves from the main room, and I make my way past countless bridal parties as they fawn over their own brides in the making.

“Where’s Laney?” I give her a quick hug before joining Annie and Roxy on the white velvet sofa.

“Trying on her dress.” Roxy hammers it out devoid of any emotion. Roxy has had the same hardcore personality since she was a kid. She’s consistent, I’ll give her that.

“Have you seen it?” Baya bounces in her seat so hard that the entire sofa shakes with her Richter scale exuberance.

“No, but I’m dying to.” I’ve invested more than Laney will ever know to make sure she gets her happily ever after.