Shift by Ginger Scott
11
I’ve never been good at lying to Tommy’s face. I’ve been lucky with my feelings for Dustin. So far, they’ve been one-sided. Lines have bled together though; Dustin needs me. I want him to need me. Rather than attempt to lie to Tommy about the scene he witnessed when Dustin crawled into my lap looking for home, I’ve decided to avoid him.
I’ve kept my door shut and my light dimmed, not stepping foot in the hallway since our mom set Dustin up on the pullout sofa downstairs. When Tommy knocked to see if I wanted part of the pizza Mom and Dad ordered, I said I was full even though my stomach was grumbling. And the last text my brother sent to see if I was awake, I completely ignored, hoping he’d give up and give me time to conjure something to say in the morning. If not a better lie, at least an undeniable truth he won’t rip to shreds.
Midnight seems late enough.
It isn’t.
“Do you really want to eat that pizza cold or are you trying not to make noise with the microwave?” Tommy asks.
His observation is pretty spot on.
I set down the paper plate holding the slice I just surgically removed from the pizza box in the fridge. For some reason, I cling to the idea that if I don’t lift my head and actually look him in the eyes I can still get out of this unscathed.
“I woke up hungry,” I say. My gaze darts near him but never lands on him directly.
“Uh huh,” he says, sliding the paper plate across the counter then taking a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. He folds the piece of pizza in half and takes a huge bite.
“I guess I’ll get another piece.” I sigh, opening the fridge door and fishing out the entire box this time. My brother snaps behind me and I glance in his direction, still not fully looking.
“I want another slice after this one,” he says.
I set the box down and flip the lid over, pushing it his direction so he can get his own slice. After he does, I hook my finger in the corner of the box to drag it back to me, but he slaps his palm on the open lid and holds it in place—holds it hostage—until I look at him. In the eyes.
The shivers come first, slithering down my spine and followed by a rush of heat and instant sweat that tackles my palms.
“Hannah.”
I hate when my brother says my name like that, in that tone. He’s not my parent, and being sixteen months older doesn’t give him authority. He still thinks babysitting me when he was nine and I was seven counts for something, but it doesn’t. In many ways, I’m more mature than he is. I’m not the one who gets drunk and high on Friday nights because I suck at fending off peer pressure.
“Thomas,” I throw back at him.
He sneers at the formal version of his name. If he’s going to act like Dad, I’m going to use his name.
My brother lifts his hand in the air as some grand gesture of surrender and I pull the box back into my possession, tearing out another slice of pizza to heat in the microwave. I roll my eyes at my brother’s smirk.
“Fine. I did want to heat it up. I didn’t want to wake our guest.” My voice is defiant, a child caught fudging her F grade to a B with a felt marker.
I push the pizza box back into the fridge and flop my slice on another paper plate before sticking it in the micro for thirty seconds. I’m tempted to stare at it as it spins on the turntable, cheese bubbling.
“What are you doing?”
I close my eyes at Tommy’s question. I know he isn’t asking about my microwaving method. Still, I don’t answer right away. I let my pizza finish, stopping it just before the timer beeps. I pull the plate out and test the cheese with a touch of my finger.
“Ow!” I poke my finger in my mouth to ease the burn.
I can feel Tommy’s eyes boring into the side of my face. I won’t be able to put this off forever, but do we really need to have this conversation with the boy it revolves around sleeping two dozen feet away on our couch?
“It’s better warm. You should heat yours up too,” I say, blinking to meet his gaze. I hold my bluff in place as I blow on the edge of my slice. My act won’t hold up much longer.
I nibble on the end of the pizza, no longer hungry, and eventually I give up, tossing the plate and piece on the counter between us.
“He’s going to hurt you. You know that, right? He can’t help it, Han. And I don’t blame him for it. It’s not his fault that he was born to two of the worst people on the planet. Colt? He’s not his fault. You don’t get to pick your father. But that stuff, Hannah? It still matters. Dustin is like my brother—he’s our brother—”
I hold up my hand and wave it at Tommy’s face, stopping him before he tries to convince me that his relationship with Dustin is anything like mine.
“Just don’t. Not with that ‘we’re family’ shit, okay? I know we’re like family. I know we all grew up together. But damn it, Tommy, I can’t help how I feel!” Even whisper-shouting, my voice cracks. My brother’s head falls to his shoulder at my confession. I ache at the disappointment I see pulling down the corners of his mouth and drooping his eyes.
“You could date literally anyone, Hannah. You’ll be a senior next year and, hell, who knows where the fuck Dustin will be!” My brother waves a hand over his shoulder toward our sleeping friend—our brother.
“He’ll be with you!” I growl.
My eyes lock with Tommy’s in an intense stare as we lean toward one another. That’s when I see it—the secret my brother has been hiding from me.
“Tommy?” My face falls as I say his name.
My brother’s gaze falls to the counter, guilt taking over every little movement he makes. He shoves his half-eaten crust and plate away before resting his forehead in his fingertips, letting them sink into his temples.
“I don’t know, Han. I don’t know. That’s always been the plan, but that’s his plan. I’m starting college in the fall—”
“You can do both, Tommy! It’s just the weekends, and it’s not every weekend,” I argue, trying to convince my brother to stay on board with the plan he and Dustin hatched when they were eight.
It’s one thing being the King of the Straights, but that’s not where the road ends for Dustin. Anyone who has seen him drive knows that. He’s meant for greatness. Sponsorships, titles, leaderboards, and so much money—money he earned the right way, legit, with his own two hands, a heavy right foot, and a daredevil in his heart. My brother has always been at his side. There’s trust between them. My brother understands how engines work, and his presence gives Dustin the edge he needs on the road. An engine that’s been blessed by Tommy Judge is one that can be pushed to the brink. Anything less is faking it, waiting to blow up in someone’s face.
“It’s not like I won’t try, Hannah. I will. It’s just—”
“You want different things,” I answer for him.
His eyes meet mine and the truth sits heavy in the quiet between us. He shrugs and leans back, threading his hands behind his neck and eventually letting his head fall so he’s staring at our ceiling, the dim light my mom leaves on so we can see down here glowing above us.
“Not really different. I mean, I love engineering, and that stuff comes easily to me. I don’t know that I want to spend the rest of my life on a track somewhere, hauling a beat-up car around the country waiting for a break.” My brother rolls his head, and this time he’s the one avoiding my waiting eyes.
“You really think that’s what it’s going to be like? Years of dirt tracks and drag races? Drifts and pay-to-plays? Side bets and small towns?” I know my brother can’t think that. He might not like Dustin’s family tree, but he believes in the guy who has been his best friend for more than a decade. Doesn’t he?
“I don’t know. Is Dustin good? I mean, yeah. He’s the best we’ve seen. But really, what have we seen, Hannah? Dad driving us around the Southwest to kart races? Some small-game races in Phoenix and Vegas? The odds of breaking in are so thin. I don’t want to look back on my college years and wish I’d actually lived them, ya know?” My brother’s gaze lifts, his pained expression cutting into my chest.
“Odds are for the other guys,” I say back to him. His lip turns up, but only briefly. That’s one of Dustin’s favorite sayings. It’s cocky as fuck, but it’s always been true when it comes to any race he’s in. Whatever wheels are being driven by Dustin Bridges are the ones crossing the finish line first. Everyone else fights for second.
“Whatever,” Tommy says abruptly, standing and circling the stool he abandoned. He positions his hands on the back of it, fingers wrapping around the ornate metal design. My eyes focus on his hands, the way they seem to be stuck on pause, anchoring him here with me.
“Just see how it goes,” I spit out. My words sound desperate, even whispered. Tommy can’t abandon Dustin, though. He just can’t. My insides burn at the mere thought of what that would do to Dustin.
“Yeah, I guess that’s really the plan. I’m kind of doing that. But”—he pauses, letting go of the chair and flexing his fingers, curling them into fists that he holds in front of his chest, head down as he stares at his knuckles. His head starts to shake—“you don’t need to see how this goes, this you and Dustin thing. It doesn’t go anywhere. You understand?” My brother lifts his head, his muscles flexed and jaw clenched like a father putting his foot down. He’s not even giving our father a chance at the role.
“What happens in my life and who I decide to share parts of it with isn’t up to you.” I fold my arms around my stomach and tip my chin up to let him know I’m not afraid of his pseudo-authority.
“It’s not. It’s up to you, but . . . this?” He gestures over his shoulder. “Getting involved with Dustin won’t end well, Hannah. Hell, it won’t even start well. I don’t want you to get hurt, and he’s a whirlwind. No, he’s a fucking tornado. His life, his family—it’s one giant black hole. It will suck you in, sink you. I want more for you than that.”
“That why you lied about the car part I bought for him?” It’s an odd thing to throw back at him, but I’ve been harboring resentment over the credit he stole from me. And maybe I’m a bit of a petulant child. Sure, Tommy thinks he’s coming from a good place with all of this “advice,” but it’s preachy bullshit. He doesn’t see Dustin the way I do. He can’t.
“Tell him. I’ll tell him. You want me to wake him up right now and let him know my sister has a crush on him and bought him a present so he’ll pay attention to her?” He rolls his eyes as he dishes out the insults, and I shift my feet, offended.
“Are you serious with this?” My molars grind together while I bite my tongue—literally—to hold back from saying more.
Tommy moves close to me, dipping his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants as he steps close enough to show off his height advantage. He loves looking down on me when he’s trying to win an argument. It’s a power play for him.
“I’m dead serious. This crush of yours means a lot more to you than him. I guarantee it does. He’s clinging to you because he’s hurting, and you’re familiar. But Hannah, you’ve gotta know that if it ever comes down to you or the race, he’ll choose the race. Always. Every single time. You’ll never be more than a girl who gets him and his history, and that might feel all warm and fuzzy and full of butterflies and shit right now, but a month from now? Or when he’s graduated and you’re still a high schooler? Consider the optics of that for a second.”
“Pfft,” I retort, turning my head to the side so my brother can’t see the sting that left in my eyes.
He clears his throat, probably baiting me into looking back in his direction. I don’t, especially as I feel him step back.
“You do what you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. When this hurts—and it will—don’t expect me to listen to your broken-heart sob story.”
Tommy slaps the wall where the light switch is as he leaves the kitchen space, killing the soft light and leaving me standing alone in the dark. I give in to the burn in my eyes for a few seconds, squeezing my lids shut tight so the tears welling up release down my cheeks. I run my palm over my face almost instantly, erasing their existence before breathing in deep. My attention shifts to cleaning up our mess, tossing the half-eaten pieces in the trash, along with the paper plates. I follow the same path my brother took, but instead of rounding the corner, I halt in the space that leads to the stairs and the direction of the couch, where Dustin is breathing softly.
Holding my breath, I listen for pops and creaks in the house, testing to see who else might be awake. Tommy won’t come back down here. He’s thrown all his moves, and he loves having the last word. My eyes adjust to the darkness as I scan the familiar things in my living room, the extra blanket still folded on the back of the sofa. I move toward it, taking the soft knitted throw in my hands and unfurling it as I round the couch arms and rest a knee on the mattress.
Dustin’s back is to me, one leg bent, the other straight as an arrow, his foot poking out from the sheet he’s sleeping under. I start covering him there, draping the throw over his body until it runs out at his chest. I’m slow and gentle with my movements, not wanting to wake him. I want to lie with him a little while, to hear his heart beat and smell the faint trace of oil on his T-shirt. I nestle in behind him, touching my nose to his spine before rolling my head so my ear rests flat against his warm back, the steady thump taking over all other sounds. I bring my palm up to his bicep and shoulder, and hold on softly, wishing I could reach around his chest and cling to him harder.
My eyes close and I draw in his scent, the mix of my mom’s fabric softener cutting through all things Dustin. I promise myself I won’t stay for more than a minute, but those plans change the moment his hand reaches around and covers mine where it rests on his arm. Our fingers naturally twine together, loosely at first, then our grasp grows tighter as his body shifts and his back is soon replaced with his chest.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say.
He breathes out a whisper of a laugh.
“Hard to sleep through a creepy stalker smelling your clothes,” he says. I blush and press my face into his chest as I playfully slap at his arm.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t glad you woke up.” I lift my chin to peer up at his dark eyes. Even in the darkness, I know exactly how his features look—the sharp cut of his jaw, the flex of his neck muscles, the split in his eyebrow from the stitches he got when he was eleven and his father threw a wrench at his head. I move my hand up his body to his face, my finger tracing the familiar scar.
“You really got the intake back for me, huh?” He heard. How much did he hear?
“Mmm, yeah. I mean, technically, Michael Bosa bought it for you.”
Dustin’s body shakes with a silent laugh.
“You raise your prices on that douchebag?”
“I sure did,” I say, smiling proudly. Dustin’s thumb lands on my lips as they curve, and I close my eyes again at the feel of it tracing along my mouth. My lips part, kissing his thumb first then his wrist as his hand snakes its way into my hair. His warm lips find my forehead a second later.
“Thanks, Hannah. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” he says, and sadly, I know he means it.
I grip a handful of his T-shirt and slink my way up a few inches so our lips meet.
“Didn’t even let the guys at the shop take advantage of me,” I say against his lips. His quiver with a proud, quiet laugh in return.
“Thatta girl.”
He sucks in my top lip, tracing the tender skin with his tongue. I open my mouth for more, and he gives me what I crave, cradling my head in his palm as our mouths collide into a hungrier kiss this time. Nothing is rushed; our movements are soft and silent. There’s something taboo about us, though Tommy seems to see what’s happening despite our efforts to hide it from him.
I nudge his frame as our kiss deepens, wanting to push him to his back so I can hold myself on top of him, feel him under me. Feel what I do to him. With every push I give, though, he pushes back. I know it’s not because of the cut on his stomach. Mom and I cleaned him up and it wasn’t as deep as he thought. Of course, my mom also thinks he snagged his skin on barbed wire while leaving his house, not that his father tried to gut him.
After one more failed attempt to move things further, I grow frustrated and suck his bottom lip hard, letting my teeth graze against his skin as I let go.
“Nobody is coming down here,” I say, more forward and obvious than I want to be, but I have a growing need boiling in my body.
“Maybe,” he says, his hands cupping my face, thumbs sweeping my hair from my eyes. He brings our foreheads together and I can tell by the way the air slowly escapes through his nose while his shoulders remain tense that he heard Tommy’s warning.
“My brother doesn’t understand,” I say. Long seconds pass without a response, and I regret saying anything at all. Eventually, though, Dustin’s lips brush against mine, peppering me with soft kisses while he seems to think.
“He’s just being Tommy,” he finally settles on. I shift to put space between our faces, to adjust my sight enough to stare into his eyes. His long lashes tap his cheeks with a few slow blinks before I catch the slight gleam of his pupils from the room’s dim light.
“I know. But Tommy isn’t us. And I can’t go back to pretending, Dustin. I’ve wanted this—you—for a really long time, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” My breath stops with the last word and my throat burns from honesty.
More slow blinks mark the face of this boy I crave, nearly a man but so far from grown up. He needs someone to care for him so badly, and I need him to let me.
His eyes close and he brings our foreheads together again, several breaths passing between us before he finally speaks.
“I feel exactly the same, Hannah. And we won’t go back. We’ll never go back.”
I’m somehow both settled and terrified at his words. I choose to hold them close and think of them as precious, and I choose to hold on to him for a few minutes longer, at least until he’s fallen asleep.