IT’S funny how you forget what home feels like until you’re surrounded by it.
And it’s even funnier how that feeling hits not when we’re gathered around the dining room table, ready to eat the elaborate Thanksgiving meal Lynn and Ana cooked—a freaking delectable combination of American and Brazilian food. Or when we crowd into the living room to snuggle beneath the threadbare blankets Lynn made during her crocheting phase and watch a cheesy Hallmark movie.
Apparently, I feel most at home when perched on the kitchen counter with James whipping up yet another jug of one of his infamous college-era cocktails. I have no clue what’s in it, nor do I want to know. The only important thing is it’s doing what’s intended; getting me shit-faced drunk.
Hysterical laughter bounces around the kitchen as James regales story after story of his beloved time in college. He graduated a couple of years ago but the way he’s telling them, you’d swear he was an old man reminiscing on his youth.
“You did not do that,” I shriek amidst bouts of giggles, my blood alcohol levels ensuring I find everything and anything he says the epitome of hilarious.
“Swear on my life. Stark naked except for a horse mask, running across campus with a very angry security guard on my tail.”
An easy enough picture to conjure up, especially if you know James, but I don’t even try. Mostly because I have no interest, and a slight sense of disgust towards anything involving him naked.
James doesn’t linger on any particular story, shooting them at me rapid-fire until I’m on the verge of passing out, too much laughter inhibiting my breathing capabilities.
By the time our duo becomes a party of four, I’m on the verge of tears. “We could hear you from outside,” Cass quips as he strolls into the kitchen, Nick not far behind. Whilst James and I got a head start, they drove their parents to a friend of theirs’ place for a Friendsgiving sort of a thing. Meaning we have the house to ourselves for the night, hence the alcohol.
I flip Cass off a little too vigorously, the sudden movement costing me my balance and causing me to almost pitch off the counter. Lucky for me, strong hands catch me before I can, steadying me by the hips and lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Blinking away the bleariness in my gaze, I’m dizzy for reasons beyond alcohol as I pat Nick on the shoulder. “Always saving me, hm?”
His laughter is as warming as any liquor. “Stop needing to be saved.”
I aim a knee at his thigh but it never makes contact. His grip shifts, palm encasing the entire joint, his hand so large his fingers stretch up my thigh. They tap against the limb, coincidentally mimicking the exact thump thump thump of the erratic organ in my chest. “Nice try.” He smirks. “Too slow.”
“Blame my coach. He’s kinda old. A little sluggish.”
“You’re talking a lot of shit for a girl who can’t even sit up straight.”
It’s like a steel rod slams into my spine, that’s how phenomenal my posture suddenly becomes. Narrowing my eyes, I scoff a telepathic ‘ha.’
“Well,” an amused drawl sounds from beside us, “this is very interesting.”
Like every other time we’ve been interrupted, Nick’s affection dissipates abruptly, indifference overcoming his expression as he scuttles away until his back hits the counter opposite me. “What?”
“Whatever is going on here,” James gestures between Nick and I, “I like it. Cass won’t like it but I do.”
Trepidation overrides my drunkenness as I twist to locate Cass and determine whether or not he’s within earshot. Luckily, he’s not; on the other side of the kitchen, he’s got his head in the fridge, his full attention devoted to scarfing leftovers. Scowling at James, I hiss, “There’s nothing going on.”
Which is the truth. There is nothing going on. The occasional playful flirt or errant touch or the odd little moment when kissing seems an entirely possible concept don’t count as anything. Thinking Nick is hot doesn’t count as anything. Seeing him at least once a day and not getting sick of him doesn’t count as anything. Being almost completely positive that if the opportunity presented itself, I would hop into bed with him doesn’t count as anything. Not at all.
The uh-huh James snorts reeks of disbelief. “Brother’s best friend.” He pokes me in the thigh. “Very cliché, Tiny.”
“Shut up.” Clearly, I didn’t learn my mimimize-movements-when-drunk lesson; when I reach out to cuff James, I once again tempt a face-first encounter with the floor.
I shouldn’t be surprised when someone rights me quickly, huffed foreign words brushing the top of my head as I’m steadied, not by the hips but by the safer territory of my shoulders. There’s no lingering this time either. As soon as a face plant is no longer imminent, Nick lets me go, mumbling something about needing water and practically fleeing our little corner of the kitchen.
He’s barely turned his back before there’s a death grip on my thigh and I’m yanked down the counter, sandwiched between the marble and James. “Cough it up. You two are banging, right?”
Would you look at that; I’m suddenly completely sober. “No!”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because we’re not!”
“But you want to.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t say you don’t.”
With a moan, my head topples forward. “You’re hurting my brain.”
“What’s hurting your brain?”
A shriek lodges itself in my throat at the sudden intrusion of Cass’ voice, and I jump about a foot in the air when I turn to find him right beside us, frowning. “Alcohol,” I answer quickly before James can cause any shit like I know he wants to, shooting the eldest of my brothers a glare that only makes him smile wider. Desperate to redirect the attention away from me, I flick the collar of Cass’ neatly ironed shirt. “Why’re you all dressed up?”
“I told you, I’m going out with the guys.”
Right. I remember now, he did tell me that. Or asked for my permission, more like; he was very clear that if I wasn’t okay with it, he’d flake on the guys and keep me company.
“You coming?” Cass clamps his hands over James’ shoulders, giving our brother a shake whilst casting a look of irritated disappointment in Nick’s direction. “I need a wingman. Nick was supposed to but-”
“I’ll come.” Nick’s gruff interruption is punctuated by the clinking sound of him setting a glass of water on the counter, sliding it my way. I try to thank him but the words dry up, a frown creasing my forehead when I notice he’s making a very pointed effort not to look at me. Weird.
Suspicion laces Cass’ tone as he says, “You just said you wanted to stay here.”
Jaw ticking with irritation, Nick grits his teeth. “I changed my mind.”
In two seconds flat, Cass morphs from pissed to pleased, whooping and hollering as he claps his friend on the back. “Fuck, yeah. Coming out of retirement?”
Retirement?
“Fuck off.”
“I’ll give you twenty bucks if you break your dry spell.”
Dry spell. Retirement.
Ah.
I feel ill as a slow smirk—one I haven’t seen in a while, one I didn’t react to all that well the last time I saw it—twists Nick’s lips. “Make it thirty and we have a deal.”
Why does the idea of Nick breaking his apparent dry spell make me feel so fucking sick?
Either I hide the sudden wave of nausea washing over me better than I think or everyone simply attributes it to my overt alcohol consumption because no one bats an eye when I crumple like a pathetic, trampled flower. Or maybe Cass is too delighted over the resurgence of his wingman that everything else is small potatoes. “You wanna come?”
I don’t even think before declining because hell no. For multiple reasons. Sitting pretty near the top of the list; I’d rather carve my eyeballs out with a dull-edged spoon than witness Nick coming out of retirement.
Head down, I’m committed to staring at my feet until the boys leave, pretending I don’t feel James’ careful gaze inspecting me. “I’m gonna stay in,” he says through a blatantly faked yawn. A warm palm lands on the small of my back, patting gently. “Tiny and I have some catching up to do.”
I don’t insist he go. I don’t want to. The last thing I want, right now or ever, is to be left alone with only my rambling thoughts to keep me company.
“Suit yourself.” Cass drops a kiss atop my head, promising to be back soon, insisting if I change my mind, all I have to do is call and he’ll come running. Not that I will; God knows what I’d be interrupting.
I don’t look up, not once, as the freaking dream team leaves the room in a flurry of heavy steps and excited chatter from Cass, a deep chuckle that doesn’t sound quite right to my ears leaving his other half.
When their voices recede completely, James gently nudges me. “C’mon. I know where Mom keeps the good shit.”
I jolt awake at the sound of a slamming door, my head spinning as I jackknife into a sitting position. Disoriented from a fitful sleep, it takes a moment to place where I am; living room sofa, limbs tangled beneath a blanket. Ah, yes—I fell asleep down here after silently drowning sorrows I didn’t know I possessed. Pathetic sorrows revolving around a boy who isn’t mine potentially railing a girl who isn’t me.
Don’t think about it.
It must be the guys coming home that woke me up, the door slamming and the stomping. I know it’s not our parents—they rolled in somewhere between mine and James’ third round of mai tais and our first caipirinha, the latter being entirely Ana’s doing.
I’m a little woozy but definitely, painfully sober as I pad into the kitchen, intending on saying a quick hello followed by a quicker goodbye summed up with the quickest escape. I rethink that plan, though, when I don’t find the guys in the kitchen.
Just a guy.
Hovering awkwardly in the doorway, I mumble a hello that Nick barely reciprocates—he offers nothing more than a grunt. No eye contact, no movement, no real acknowledgement of my presence. He stays where he is, hunched over the counter with his hands palm-down on the marble, his head hanging.
Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I glance at the clock on the wall. “You’re home early.”
Another grunt.
“Is Cass back?”
An almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Foolishly, I listen to the inner voice urging me to crack a joke, assuring me that’s the best way to break this awful tension. “You strike out?”
A bitter, bitter laugh.
If I was smart, I’d leave. If I had a little more self-respect. If I knew how to listen to my head instead of my heart. But I think I’ve proven in the last month that none of those things are my forte.
Tentatively, I close the distance between Nick and I, coming to a jittery stop at the counter’s edge closest to him. “Are you mad at me?”
He sighs, a long, drawn-out, weary noise. “No.”
“You’re acting like you are.”
Daring eye contact, Nick’s head snaps up, voice sharp and just a little angry. “I’m not mad.”
“Don’t snap at me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“No, you haven’t,” he agrees but it’s not reassuring. It’s irritated. Frustrated. Exhausted.
He’s not the only one.
I drop my head with a shake, annoyed at myself for even trying. For caring. “Okay, then. Come find me when you’re done being a little shit.”
I don’t make it even two steps before he stops me. Literally stops me in my tracks, blocking my escape route with his big body. “Don’t walk away from me.”
“Don’t be a dick for no reason.”
A deep, grumbling, growling noise rumbles in Nick’s throat. Suddenly, his hands are on my hips, his forehead is dropped to mine, both working in tandem to force me back step after step until I hit the counter. “You don’t fucking get it, do you?”
Looming over me, Nick is the picture of intimidation yet I don’t shrink. I don’t feel scared. His blatant frustration only fuels mine, and I steel myself under his heady, intense glare, and glare right back. “Get what?”
“I’m not sweet, Amelia.” he spits. “I don’t turn up at girls’ houses to watch movies. I don’t buy them lunch or bring them coffee. I don’t let them sleep in my bed or steal my clothes. I don’t get jealous when a guy so much as looks at them. I don’t get in fights with their ex-boyfriends. I sure as fuck don’t introduce them to my mother. I’m not that guy.”
I swallow hard over a suddenly incredibly dry throat. “I don’t understand.”
“Join the fucking club.” His dry chuckle coaxes out goosebumps up and down my arms, amplified when one of those treacherous hands drifts, tracing a buzzing path up my waist, skimming my collarbone, and settling on my neck. Thick fingers curl around the curve while a calloused thumb traces my jawbone, eyes following the movement.
“Sometimes, I find it hard to look at you,” he murmurs, “because you’re so fucking beautiful I can’t think.”
I know the feeling; thinking is not within the realm of my capabilities right now. Speaking neither. Breathing, barely.
“Thought that the first time I saw you,” he continues, undeterred by my wide-eyed, slightly panicked silence. “Pissed me the fuck off.”
“Are you drunk?” He must be. That’s the only explanation. He’s drunk or I’m dreaming.
“Not even a little.” His hold on me tightens, his thumb digging into my cheek, not hard enough to hurt but enough that I couldn’t pull away if I wanted to. “Thought I could go out and fuck you out of my head.” I flinch, try to duck away, but he doesn’t let me. “I couldn’t. Didn’t even try. Didn’t want to.”
Every time I think he’s as close as he can get, he proves me wrong. One shift and there’s nothing but stifling air between us, every inch of me flush with a hard inch of him. His nose brushes mine and I have to close my eyes, a useless attempt to ward off the gold irises swirling with so many emotions I can’t decipher.
“You’ve fucking ruined me and I don’t like it.”
Only indignance and the hand wrapped around my throat keep me upright. “If you’re waiting for an apology, you’re not gonna get one.”
“I’m not.” Soft, smooth skin brushes my cheek and my whole body trembles. “I’m done waiting.”
I don’t get a chance to ask what he’s been waiting for.
In a split second, every intelligible thought empties from my brain, chased away by the feeling of Nick’s lips crashing down on mine.
