#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (18 page)

Chapter 51

I lean on Beethoven, Chopin, and Brahms to lead me down moody avenues to support my melancholy as I play and replay sonatas and nocturnes until I can no longer ignore my growling stomach.

Thanksgiving dinner is the last of Mrs. Quaid's jam on toast. Through the back window, the Quaid family gathers around the table, their hands joined and heads bowed. I pretend I'm seated with them and tuck my chin toward my chest, thinking about what I'm thankful for.

On the kitchen counter, I find a recently uncorked bottle of wine. I wander down the hall. The spot on the wall once hosting my mother's mirror is a reminder of everything she refuses to see about me. I trail my hand along a framed photo of Bubbie and me, wishing, more than anything she was here now. She'd know what to say, or she'd just listen. She was good at that too.

It wasn't fair that I didn’t get to say goodbye to her when my mother insisted I attend a college prep seminar when she knew my grandmother only had a matter of hours left to live. She said it was better I didn't see her in the end. I say, she is eternally wrong.

I consider going to the living room, but can't stand the potpourri-scented house of illusion and lies a second longer.

I bundle up. With wine bottle in hand, in the failing light of the day, I go outside and climb the old maple tree, hugged and scuffed and loved by so many of us in the neighborhood, but especially JQ and me. This was our spot to hang out.

I clear off a thin layer of snow, quite the feat with the bottle of wine in hand. I follow the clouds of my breath until they disappear, counting on the wine to keep me warm and calm. Maybe everything my mother does comes from a place of fear: of not being enough or perceiving herself as the loser—the exact things she forces me to avoid.

If my rebellion, hooking up with the Niko and the Halos and kissing half the guys in town tells me anything, it's that I'm not afraid. Mary confirmed it in her text. She said I was brave. Same thing, right?

I wind down holes of thought as the wine bottle empties, lost in my own world until boots crunch through the snow.

I familiar figure climbs the tree. He startles a little when our eyes meet. "Oh. I didn't know you were here," he says.

"It's ok. You can pretend that I'm not." My voice is sloppy. The wine helps me create fantasies about masturbating in my room after our dance in the Pringle's hallway. A laugh slinks out of me.

He's looking at me or the nearly empty bottle of wine—I can't tell. He takes the bottle from my hand. I deflate a little. I hear him swallow and swallow and swallow. He puts it back in my hand empty, but remains quiet except for a slight shift on the branch.

He hiccups and it's the cutest sound I've ever heard. "I was buzzed, but now I'm good and drunk. What do they say? Never mix wine and beer. I suppose I'll find out." I almost forgot the sound of his voice, a deep, sexy rumble unlike Niko's rebel call.

"That makes two of us. The drunk part, not the beer. Just wine for me."

"Smart," he says.

His minty smell mingles with the sweet scent of the wine and the woodsy tree and a hearth fire from one of the surrounding houses.

"Hardly," I reply, wishing I could think my way sober because I want this moment to make sense.

We're both quiet in each other's company. Me, because I'm not sure how to formulate a sentence that conveys how I feel. And him, well, he probably just doesn't want to speak to me.

But he's still here.

"Did you come out here because you wanted to talk?" I ask.

"No, think." He rakes a hand down his face. "But since you're out here, I figured I'd make it tolerable by getting good and drunk."

Ouch. Tears escape, running down my cheeks, and taking my words with them.

"Just let me know if you're at risk of falling out of the tree."

I don't fall. I jump.

Then I go inside and pass out.

Chapter 52

I miss all of the Black Friday hullaballoo, but by the time I force myself upright, the previous night in the tree with JQ, freezes into focus. My chest squeezes tight, making it so breathing isn't easy. But recklessness isn't hard. I dress in my best
kiss me
now
clothing and call Penny. "Ready to film?"

"More?" she asks above the call for an order of Kung Pao chicken.

"Always more; I thought you knew me by now." I hang up. I'm ready for action and disaster, in no particular order.

She texts me ten minutes later. I instruct her to meet me at the tavern I went to with my running friends—I need nachos or mozzarella sticks—something punishingly greasy. I text them to see if they want to meet up.

A half hour later, we all squish into a booth under warm twinkle lights, making me instantly sleepy. Meg passes me a glass with an overturned can of Red Bull. I raise my eyebrow in question.

"It's an Irish trash can."

I take a sip. "Whatever it is, I'll take another." Caffeine rushes me awake.

After we share appetizers, Meg queues a line for #Kissing and Penny films. I lose track of the others. My deliriously drunken state causes me to replace the long-sought image of JQ's lips on mine with Niko's when a Halos song plays over the bar's speakers.

I sing along between kisses, until my lips are tired and loathsome and not the solution I'd hoped they'd be. I wander to the bar, bumping into a guy wearing a loose tie around his neck. He gives me his number on a napkin.

"Oh good, now I have something to burn." I'm so harsh.

I resume the #Kissing game and lock lips with a dozen more guys, their breath malty and sour. Someone asks me for a threesome. Another invites me to suck his cock. And a third grabs my boob. The color red that people say they see when they get angry is more like the color of Mrs. Quaid's blueberry jam.

"Mother chucker," I shout. Then everything inside me unravels, and I throw up on him. I waver on my feet, wipe my mouth, and say, "Serves you right."

This'll go viral next. Ugh. I put my hand in front of Penny's camera, still rolling.

Her mouth hangs open.

"Enough. Let's go."

I stride out of the bar, a cloud of cigarette smoke assaults me instead of the fresh air I'm desperate for.

A guys whistles. "I'll take you home, get you undressed, and make sure you end up in the right bed."

I flip them off.

"She's feisty," says a different guy.

Another adds, "Frisky."

"You know what they say about girls like that in bed," the first one says.

"What part of fuck you don't you understand," I spit.

Penny clings to me, her arms trembling as she tugs me away. I lunge at them, and she grips me harder.

"I understand it perfectly well if it means you and me," he says.

"No, fuck you period. End of sentence. What I wear or look like or what I do isn't an invitation to say shit to me. Leave me and girls like me and girls everywhere alone, asshole."

They stand in stunned silence until my back is to them along with yards of sidewalk and laughter. More heckling spews from their mouths.

I don't bother stomping back to them, but just stop on the sidewalk and shout into the sky, to anyone who's listening, "FUCK YOU!"

My feet are frozen and my heels send me skittering along the sidewalk. The occasional slosh of a passing car interrupts the silence between Penny and me as we cross onto Highland.

"I was supposed to meet Braden tonight," she says softly.

When we reach the apartment, she finds him playing a video game, and explains she's going to drive me home.

"What happened to you? I thought you were supposed to be over a few hours ago?" he asks.

"I happened," I slur, helping myself to another beer, not that I need it.

"I'll pick you up in twenty minutes," he offers Penny. "I need to find a sober driver."

"Are you drunk?" she asks.

He whispers something, and she smiles. I imagine he said something like, "I'm drunk on you."

I shuffle outside.

Penny remains quiet all the way to my house.

As we pass JQ's, I toss the empty beer bottle out the window just to punctuate the kind of night, or year, I'm having.

"Don't mind me; I'm just an angry feminist, anti-feminist, slutty drunk who knows too many somber piano songs to get JQ out of my head."

Her eyes are damp in the light of a passing car.

In the driveway, I say, "It was cool you came out with me tonight, for hanging out with me at all, but let's not do this again." Through heavy eyes, I see her face fall. "I'd rather hang out in the coffee shop. This was stupid. I'm sorry if you were uncomfortable when those guys were saying that shit."

The corner of her lip twitches up. "I'll help you get inside."

I don't know when my mother is going to return, but I'm glad it's not tonight, because the walls shift and tilt, the furniture spins like teacups, and my attention drifts again and again to sleep.

Penny walks me to my room, and I sprawl on my bed. "I avoided going to parties in high school, but then it's like I went to the opposite extreme."

"That was a close call."

"My life is a close call."

"You make it that way. You make these choices," she says.

I pull off my sweater and the green bracelet, Josephina the palm reader gave me, catches in the sleeve. Her words about destiny and fate reel back to me in an untidy snarl.

Penny asks, "Why are you doing this?"

This time I let the silence stretch between us, summoning an answer through the dimming falsehoods I've told myself. "Because, actually, I am afraid."

Chapter 53

The downy light of a snowy, wintery morning filters through my open curtains along with guilt about hardly remembering how I got home.

The scent of peppermint stirs something inside me. When I roll over, I gasp.

JQ slumbers next to me, clothed and with his forehead furrowed. He's seen me happy, sad, stressed, but he's never seen me completely come undone, still dressed in my beer and vomit soaked outfit from last night, my hair a mess, my eye makeup crusty, my breath; I don't dare exhale. I fight the urge to flee to the bathroom and shower, brush my teeth, my hair, and cleanse myself of the mounting regret, but to do that is to lose this moment.

He used to be self-conscious of his ears, but they're perfect. The line of his jaw is kissable, even though he needs to shave. And those lips. If they were the only ones I ever kissed again, I'd be the happiest woman alive.

This is the ultimate in humbling moments. This isn't pretty or glamorous. I don't have something sassy to say. As if to punctuate this, my stomach makes a loud, lamentable noise.

JQ shifts and stretches out his long legs, ending in marled wool socks. Being so close, he seems even bigger somehow, like all the living and learning he's done while I've wasted my days drinking and partying has fortified him. Also, he's broader and more muscular than I remember. A man now, capable, confident, and likely not interested in my juvenile ways, except he's here. In my bed.

My tripping pulse counts down the seconds to him fully waking and realizing whatever happened between when I passed out and now is a mistake.

Too soon, his eyes blink open under the stiff lines of his eyebrows. We stare at each other for a long time. In the comfort of those familiar blue eyes, I find clarity. He bites the inside of his cheek, and I fight back tears.

Then one escapes, trailing along my nose. His expression softens as he catches it and wipes it away.

"Good morning," I whisper.

As if realizing this isn't a dream he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

Good morning? It is and it isn't. He met me in the tree twice, but that was an accident. Right now, for whatever reason, he's here on purpose, bringing me shame that I have to answer to, hold myself accountable for, and reconcile.

He doesn't say anything as my ego wrestles with the words so close to my lips, but ultimately, thankfully, courage wins. "I'm sorry." Maybe I'm not as afraid as I thought.

His answer comes out flat. "I want to believe you."

I want to believe me. Everything I should have said ages ago rushes out. "I'm sorry I was a bad friend. I'm sorry I was careless with what you told me about how you felt about us. I'm sorry I threw myself away."

He sits up, planting his feet on the floor and resting his elbows on his knees. "I didn't think coming here was a good idea, but—"

Everything hangs on the word
but
.

He scrubs his hand down his face and then goes on. "I'm only sorry if you lost yourself and that I lost you." His voice is gravely with sleep, and I want to hear it wake up again and again, every day, more than I ever wanted to hear a Halos song or Niko sing or the sound of my own laughter.

"I did lose parts of myself, but found others. I want to become a new me, and I want you to know her. We haven't met formally, but I think we might both like her." I wipe away another tear.

He turns to me, his blue eyes full of meaning. "Does the new you remember to take her medicine?"

I nod, my messy hair rough against the pillow.

"You scared me that night when I found you under the tree. You terrified me last night. You've always scared me, Josephine."

My name on his lips gives me hope.

"I'd like not to do that."

"As long as you take care of yourself, it's good to live with a little boldness," he says. The comment reminds me of something Bubbie would say and softens the tension slightly. E ven though things are different  between JQ and me, there's familiar comfort between us as though we hadn't fallen out of touch for the last few years.

"Does that include breaking into my house?" I ask,

His eyebrow darts upward. It might be a little too soon for joking around.

"No, I got a message from your phone—your friend Penny texted me in a panic."

"In a panic?" I trace the vague memories of last night.

"After you passed out, she was worried because of your medicine and didn't know what to do. She said she hates needles and you'd mentioned that the two of us were friends in high school and figured I'd know what to do. Luckily, you still had my number in your phone. Beautiful sunrise by the way." He chuckles darkly.

"Remember how your mom used to have everyone gathered around the Thanksgiving table name something they were thankful for? It's a little belated, but I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you knew what to do."

His forehead wrinkles again. "But that's the thing. I don't know what to do. You've spiraled out of control, tagging along with that band, a human wrecking ball, kissing all those strangers. It's intolerable."

His comment from the other night in the tree returns. "Are you drunk? Does that make this tolerable for you," I say more sharply than I mean.

"No, of course I'm not drunk. Are you?"

"Maybe a little." But it's not on alcohol, it's from his proximity. He hasn't run from me like I did from him.

"That was a stupid thing to say the other night. I'm sorry. I felt like I needed to be drunk because it hurts to be in your presence, and it's been hard with my grandfather gone—I go to the tree to just be or something. I don't know, but I imagine you understand that."

I think of Bubbie and how many tears I left on his shoulder after she passed away.

JQ meets my eyes. "I've always cared about you, Josephine, and I just want you to be ok."

"I want to be ok too."

"Then be ok for goodness sakes." He doesn't hide his frustration as he paces. "Take care of yourself. Look—" He reaches over me for my phone on my bedside table and his leg grazes mine, sending a shiver across my bare skin.

"I installed a blood glucose monitoring app on your phone. You can log your glucose levels, when you take your insulin, and it will send you reminders. There's even a feature to track what you eat and your activity to see how it affects your levels. The drinking doesn't help, but I know you're on your phone often enough, so I thought this would."

"My pancreas sucks, but I must have a decent liver."

He doesn't laugh. "Maybe don't push it to such extremes." He shows me the app. "It was this or a dog."

"A dog?"

"Yeah, they have special dogs for type one diabetics. I did a lot of research last night, trying to stay awake. I must have dozed off. Sorry I failed."

"You didn't fail because I didn't go into a coma and die." I clear my throat and try again for humor—laughing together is what I miss the most. "But are you saying you're a dog, watching over me?"

The corners of his lips lift, ever so slightly. "Woof."

He leans his head into the hammock of his clasped hands making it so I can't pull my eyes from the bulge of his firm biceps.

"I can't always be here. You used to be the kind of girl I could count on to always hold herself up, who could kick the soccer ball as hard as any dude, who had test answers before me, whose smile lit up the entire room, making me proud to be best friends with you. Josephine, you were the girl I picked." He gazes at the ceiling while he speaks.

More than anything, I want to see if his eyes sparkle when he says my name.

"I want to know that she's still there, somewhere inside: the strength, the intelligence, the true confidence; the Josephine who was strong and fearless and beautiful and creative, who carried a sense of self-preservation and remembered to take her fucking medicine."

"The girl you knew wasn't me. She was a cyborg my mother created out of her own misgivings."

He exhales with his hands clasped, cradling his head, eyes still fixed above.

I can't ignore the slim line of skin peeking out between the waist of his jeans and the bottom of his shirt.

"You can't blame her anymore. Maybe you had to work some stuff out of your system that she caused, but it's on you now. You're an adult. You're your own person. Deal with it or—"

The truth of it smacks me hard, and I get to my feet. "Or what?" I shake my phone in his direction. "Or what? Go crazy, turn into a girl who goes around drunk and kisses strangers? The
or what
has happened. There's evidence of the
or what
right here in my hand. Want to see the videos?" My voice rises. "Apparently, the
or what
comes with a hefty cash flow and fame if you're interested."

His eyes narrow. "I've seen them. I watched them again last night. That's not you." He shakes his head and turns toward the door. "I just want you to be you."

Tears spring from my eyes. "I don't know who that is anymore," I say through a sob.

He turns back to me. "Josephine, please?"

I don't know exactly what he's asking me, but other questions trickle into my thoughts.
What do I want? Who am I? Where am I going?
The answers include: not a life of empty and reckless relationships—especially with myself—I'm not an alcoholic, and I'm not staying here. For once, knowing what I don't want calms me. In a way, it clears space for what I do want aside from freedom. My other biggest desire stands, towers really, over me. I meet his blue eyes.

A newish kind of smile blooms on my face. "I don't know exactly who I am or what’s next, but I do know that I want you to be a part of my life. I knew that the moment I walked away from you, before that even, if I'd have been brave enough to be honest with myself."

JQ stands there for an agonizingly long time, his eyes never wavering from mine until he bites his lip, teasing me by holding back the heart-melting smile I've missed so much. "Then why did you leave after I told you—?"

"I was afraid I'd be stuck being the girl you knew, I guess."

"But I liked that girl."

"I didn't. She was everything my mother wanted."

He sighs and sits on the bed. "I guess you have a point. But there were parts of you that were you."

I slide next to him, our thighs pressing together on top of the soft mattress. "I've liked you for a long time, more than I've ever wanted to admit, but I was also afraid because liking can lead to loving and loving can hurt."

"Most of the time it doesn't," he says.