Shift by Ginger Scott
8
I’m in trouble. And not, like, just a little trouble. I can’t fight my way out of this trouble, or run. I’m tangled in it, a mess of my own goddamn making. And I have no idea what to do.
I crept into Tommy’s room like a dog caught in the rain. No, in a mudslide, fur matted, belly hungry, paws raw, and eyes weary. One taste of Hannah and every drop of self-control was zapped from my body. I thought putting a pair of closed doors between us would help me rebuild, but damn if I don’t want to rush into her bedroom and pick things up where we left off.
Sleep is not an option. It hasn’t been for the last four hours. The sun is up now, and Hannah and Tommy’s parents have left to set up for the spring fest at town hall. I probably should have gotten up and gone with them to volunteer, or even better, headed straight for Bailey’s house and insisted on joining her family for Bible study. But man, would that have raised a flag or two. I’ve been to church twice, and both times were with the Judges. Once for the fall fest when we were nine and they gave out free pumpkins, and once my freshman year when Hannah’s mom thought we might like the youth group because she heard a band was playing. That band consisted of six people from our high school, and one of them played the clarinet.
All that aside, it would probably do to repent right about now. Maybe wash my soul out a bit and examine my priorities in life. I can’t be doing this.
I slap my hand on my face and splay my fingers wide, muffling my groan. I rub life back into my skin and then run my hand through my hair a few times before sitting up from the rollout mat on the floor. Tommy hasn’t stopped snoring since I dropped him in his bed hours ago. He smells of tequila. That’s where it all went wrong. You don’t mix beer and tequila if you can help it. But Tommy was sticking it to me. Who’s suffering now?
The slight creak in the hallway catches my attention and I study the space under Tommy’s door while I hold my breath. Hannah’s door is open. I can tell by the way light pours in through her window that faces east and reflects off the floorboards. The shadows of her bare feet tiptoe by, pausing for a few seconds at Tommy’s door. She’s probably listening to see if either of us are awake—if I’m awake.
I don’t move until the shadow of her feet disappears and the water turns on in the bathroom a few feet away. Where she’s undressing. And getting into the shower. And my God, do I want to join her.
Clearing my throat, I rock myself to a stand and roll the mat with my feet before nudging it under Tommy’s bedframe. He still hasn’t moved. Part of me wants him to wake up and accuse me of hitting on his sister so I can get this over with. The other part of me? He’s already gliding stealthily down the hallway in an attempt to get out of here without being noticed.
My efforts fail the second the bathroom door flies open and Hannah steps out wrapped in a towel, steam from the hot shower billowing behind her and cascading around her amazing skin.
She startles and clutches at the place where her towel is knotted above her breasts. I shove my fists in my pockets and will my cock to remain chill.
“Sorry. I was just . . .” I take one hand out and grab at the back of my neck, laughing lightly as I avert my eyes and stare at the floor.
“You want to go with me to help at the spring fest?” she asks.
I glance up and am shocked at her nonchalant expression. Her head leans to the side, and her hip is jutted out enough that her thigh peeks through the edges of the towel.
“Sure,” I croak out, my voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy. She calls me on it with a tight smile and laugh. She steps forward and touches her fingertip on my nose. I literally cross my eyes to stare at it as she taps a few times.
“I’ll be right out,” she says. And so I’m not tempted to follow her or watch that towel fall before the door closes completely, I excuse myself downstairs where I take the world’s fastest, coldest shower.
Hannah is already dressed and buzzing around the kitchen by the time I exit the small bathroom behind their laundry room. Her wet hair is glued to her back, soaking her pale yellow T-shirt, the fabric clinging to her skin and showing off the lines of her shoulder blades, the slope of her back, and the band of lace that crosses the middle. So much for the benefits of a cold shower. I lean forward and rest my palms on the counter while she drinks milk straight from the container.
“You’re such a dude,” I tease. She turns and wipes the milk mustache from her upper lip with the back of her hand before putting the lid back on the container.
“It was always hard keeping up with you and Tommy. It was either fit in and join the ranks or fall behind.” She laughs lightly then turns to put the milk away.
Me and Tommy. Me, Hannah, and Tommy.
Before she turns to face me and disarm me with her ice-blue eyes, I let all the thoughts battling it out in my head come running out my mouth.
“About last night. I was . . . Tommy was . . .” Clearly, I don’t get far. Thankfully, Hannah takes over for me.
“It was a mistake. We were both tired. The race was intense, and you don’t want to hurt our friendship and the friendship you have with my brother.” She pulls her lips into a tight smile that pinches the sides of her mouth as she blinks at me slowly.
“Basically, uh, yeah.” I swallow because her tone doesn’t sound as though she’s on the same page. Hell, I’m not even on the same page with myself.
She holds my stare for a few seconds then laughs before rolling her eyes in the direction of her purse that’s tucked in the corner of the kitchen counter.
“Fine, whatever,” she says, moving straight to the door without glancing my way again.
“Hannah, don’t be like that.” Deep down she has every right to be that way. Because everything she just quoted for me is bullshit. I couldn’t even get it out of my own mouth; she had to spout it for me.
“So, are you still coming with me or not?” She pauses at the door, back still to me, T-shirt still wet from her twists of hair.
“Yeah,” I say, because she’s like a drug. I don’t know if I can make it through withdrawals.
I don’t think I’ve ever been a passenger in Hannah’s car. The fit is strange, and I find myself fumbling with the seat belt and shifting my feet around the floor as she backs out of her driveway. She shifts her eyes to me a few times and laughs under her breath.
“You always have to drive, don’t you?”
I glance up to catch her eyes, and I can tell she’s still ticked. One brow is higher than the other and her mouth is a straight line.
“I might be a bit of a control freak about being behind the wheel, yeah. It’s your dad’s fault.” I pull the chest strap out and hold it with a stiff arm, elbow in my gut. It feels like it’s choking me.
“My dad didn’t make you a control freak. He showed you how to work a manual and time the clutch. Your control issues are of your own making.” She slaps my arm aside and sends the safety belt back to its original snug position across my chest and neck. Why does it cut in there?
I give her a polite laugh as I twist and inspect the harness buckle along the door frame. It doesn’t adjust. Great.
I cough out a cat-like noise and turn back to face the front as Hannah stops at the intersection. She laughs at me one more time and mumbles something under her breath. I can’t say for sure, but I think she called me a child. Fair enough.
The drive to town hall is quiet, and she doesn’t even make a move to turn her radio on, which for her is extra weird. She’s obsessed with that thing. I think she’s trying to punish me with the silence, and the lack of music makes things that much more uncomfortable. I pat my palms against my knees a few times, playing along with the music in my head. Hannah drives on, unfazed, and definitely unimpressed. She pulls into a parking spot between her dad’s truck and her mom’s van, and she’s barely stopped the car by the time I unlatch the safety belt and crack open the door.
I race out of the tight shared space, reveling in the lingering smell of her shampoo. I take long strides, glad I know my way around this area so I don’t depend on following Hannah for directions. The faster I walk, though, the quicker her stride becomes, and by the time we hit the main park square, we’re in a stupid speed walking race like children competing to tattle. When our feet hit the sidewalk leading to the booth her mom is running for the day, Hannah shoves my side and knocks me into the rock garden that lines the walkway. She begins a full-on sprint.
“Oh, hell no,” I say, finding myself caught up in her all over again. She looks over her shoulder, smile wide and cheeks blushed as her purse swings from her shoulder, bouncing off her hip as she speeds away from me. I’m caught up to her in seconds, first grabbing her purse strap that she manages to spin free of before my other arm wraps around her waist and swings her around in circles.
Her laughter booms and draws the eyes of almost everyone setting up at the festival. Her hands form fists that pound gently at my back as I sling her over my shoulder and continue to run toward her mom. I don’t let her down until we’re in front of a table of craft supplies. Her wet strands of hair encircle my neck and slide free from my skin, leaving the cold trail of their presence behind.
Our eyes lock as our laughter fades, and I can’t help but hold on to her gaze when it stops completely. I’m suddenly aware of how we appear to the dozens of eyes on us. We look like two young people doing a shit job at pretending not to like each other. We look exactly like what we are.
“Who wants to paint faces?” Hannah’s mom interrupts our truth stare by shoving a paint set and two brushes into view.
“I’m not a very good artist,” I say as Hannah takes the supplies from her mom.
“Then you can be in charge of taking the tickets and helping people pick out their designs.” Mrs. Judge shoves a binder into my chest and I hug it as she walks away, already on to the next task she needs to get handled for the day.
“Your mom seems stressed,” I say, flipping through the pages of the folder she gave me. There are butterflies and flowers and superhero designs all sketched out in colored pencil.
“She’s always stressed out,” Hannah jokes.
I follow her down the series of canopies to a booth right next to the park Hannah and I ran off to whenever we played hide-and-seek with Tommy. She catches me staring at the swings and waves a hand to get my attention.
“Tommy hated it when we did that,” she says, drawing from the same memory.
“He totally did. Served him right, though. He cheated. Fucker always looked while he was counting.”
Hannah sets out the paint supplies and fills a few water cups at the nearby drinking fountain. By the time she gets back, I’ve already taken six tickets and formed a line for her to start painting. I’m flipping through the book with her first customer as she calls him over to take the seat in front of her.
“That one,” the kid says, pointing to the page that shows a football player throwing a ball. The drawing seems kind of intricate.
“You got it,” Hannah says, swirling her brush in the water before dipping it into one of the colors.
“You sure you can do all the things in here?” I ask, flipping through the remaining designs that only seem to get fancier.
“I mean, I drew them in there, so not sure there’s much of a difference,” she says.
I flash my eyes to her then back to the book a few times and she laughs.
“What?” she says.
“I didn’t know you were an artist.” I mean, I knew Hannah could draw decently, well enough to make posters for school and stuff like that, but the images in this book are pretty spectacular. At least, compared to the stick people I can manage.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Dustin Bridges.” She gives me a sideways glance, her lips puckered slightly as a sinister smile plays at them. I don’t argue with her, and I don’t look away. Instead, I wait for her to return her focus to the wiggly boy sitting across from her. Then I watch her work.
Two hours fly by, at least for me. I’m not sure Hannah would agree. She ran out of black and white paint about twenty minutes ago, and she just finished an elaborate fairy design on a kindergartner’s entire face. I notice that all of her water cups are muddied, and since nobody is stepping up with tickets to join her line, I make an executive decision and shut down our booth.
“I think the artist is done for the day. How about you?” I fold up the spare chair and dump the water cups into the grass.
“I agree,” Hannah says, flexing her tired fingers out then shaking her hands. “I think I have carpal tunnel.”
I tuck the binder under my arm and motion for her to give me one of her hands as she stands from her seat. I rub the meat of her palm with my thumbs, squeezing her fingers one at a time, and her eyes flutter shut.
“Dear God, I think you might put me to sleep if you keep this up,” she says.
I take advantage of the moment, looking at her soft lashes as they brush the tops of her cheeks above the satisfied smile that stretches into them. As if under a spell, I lean down and gently press my lips to hers. The second our mouths touch, her hand tenses and she takes a quick step back.
“I thought this was too complicated,” she says, her tone even, soft.
“It is. Incredibly so.” I shrug and look over my shoulder, making note of the people still milling about. We might be out of view of her mom, but everyone at this thing knows the two of us on some level. That’s the thing about a town like this, only two degrees of separation exist between anyone.
“What about our friendship?” she asks. There’s a smugness to her tone, and I look back to her and quickly sink into the pools of blue staring back at me. I swim in her gaze, drown in it. I dive in and come out reborn.
I briefly drop her hand and move to the front of our booth, unlatching the flap meant to block out the sun, giving us privacy. I turn back to stare at this girl I’ve known all my life. Paint speckles dot her arms, a little of it in her hair too. I nod a few times, smiling, and give in. Really, I never had a choice. It was probably always going to play out like this—now, a year from now, someday.
“I think maybe our friendship is the reason this is happening,” I say, reaching forward and taking the white and blue strips of hair between my fingers. I pinch the dried paint and slide it from her hair before dropping the strands and pressing my thumb lightly to her chin. She looks up at me and I can tell she agrees. Hannah has always enjoyed being right. She’s always been the first to say “I told you so.” She was right about us. And though she didn’t say it with words, she said it loud and clear. She said it with her mouth on mine, with her body pressed against me, with the trust she willingly gave me out on that road last night, and in her bedroom when we were all alone.
“This is going to be messy,” I say, closing the space between our lips an inch at a time.
“It already is,” she responds.
I breathe out a laugh and nod again. My eyes dive to her mouth, hands slide along her jaw and into her hair just as she grips a fistful of my T-shirt, the same handful of cotton she gathered up last night. We’re cursed to replay this scene over and over again it seems. If she weren’t so delicious, I’d be able to stop. But she is. She’s sweet like honey, and my body grows hungrier and more dependent on her every time we touch. We probably only have minutes before someone peeks inside or her mom comes to check on the booth.
Minutes.
I thrive in a world of seconds. Milliseconds. When I think about it that way, Hannah and I have all the time in the world. Long enough for me to memorize every sound she makes when I suck in her top lip, bite at the tender skin of her neck, and trace each curve of her back, following the arch all the way down to the inside of her jeans.
This secret, it won’t last forever. Tommy will find out. And he will fucking kill me. But my God, will I die happy.