pushes into the center of my chest, her eyes blinking slowly while she looks up at me. Two shots and a beer are about to talk to me right now. I smile softly and nod.
“That was a much better dance,” she says.
I chuckle, tilting my head back to laugh before bringing it forward slowly, resting my brow against hers. My eyes look down at the curve of her lips, lower at the line of her jaw, and even lower at the swell of her breast under the soft black cotton of her dress. A heavy breath escapes me.
“I make you nervous?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away, instead closing my eyes and swallowing again. I don’t even care if she can feel it. I drag my hands up her body to her neck until I’m cradling her head in my palms, my fingertips flirting with her hair along her neck and my thumbs caressing her jawline.
“That’s what you said…before. You said you didn’t dance well because I make you nervous,” she says, her words coming out slow and sleepy.
My mouth smiles against the top of her head, and I give in, opening it enough to press a kiss against her, hoping only the strangers are our witness.
“Yes, Maddy. That’s right,” I say. “You make me incredibly nervous.”
Chapter Six
Maddy
* * *
I ’m a happy drunk . Always was.
The first time I went to a kegger with the Hollister boys, I took over the DJ duties, and apparently, I played nothing but the Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill album over and over again. It’s because I know every word. Because when I was eleven, Will Hollister locked me in his tree house and forced me to listen to it until I admitted I liked it.
I love that album, and it’s all his fault.
No Brooklyn rap at its best this morning, though. I spent the night swaying to country songs in Will’s arms, and at some points, my mind tricked me— I thought it was Evan. I would look up and realize it wasn’t. It hurt, but it was also okay.
And so, I would drink more.
I’m not sick now, but I am not well. I can tell it’s not morning any longer. My head is pounding, and I’m still wearing my black dress. My face is sweaty, and my hair is sticking to my cheeks and mouth. My tongue feels…dry. I chew at nothing and push my body over, stretching my arm out to feel for my friend Holly, for Amber. I’m alone.
I slide down my mattress, my dress sticking to the quilt tossed over it, and when my knees find the floor, I manage to slide the dress up and over my head. I crawl on my hands and knees to the closet, and I pull down the cotton shirtdress, sliding it over my body, but leaving the bottom pooled around my waist because I’m too miserable to stand just yet.
My back finds the comfort of a few stacked boxes, so I decide to spend the next thirty minutes waking up right here, just like this. I consider crawling back to the bed and forgetting about heading to the club when my door pops open. My mom carries a stack of fresh towels and my latest round of laundry, folded into perfectly neat squares. I smile at it, or at least, I think my face is smiling. I’m not entirely sure because I can’t be certain that I feel my lips right now. I bring my hand to my mouth and rub it, relieved when I feel my touch.
“You’re a mess,” my mom says after setting my basket of laundry on the mattress. She picks up last night’s dress and a few other items I’ve left on the floor, then rolls them into a ball and tucks them under her arm as if she’s going to drive them to the end zone. She’s pissed. I can tell by the way her hand is on her hip.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I moan. I let my head roll to one side along the soft cardboard behind me.
“Like what? Like my daughter is throwing away the most important thing in her life?”
I blink a few times before lifting my head to meet her waiting stare. She is not blinking.
“I’m not throwing anything away. I just wanted to blow off some stress last night, maybe show the new girl a good time,” I say, pulling my knees in.
“That was a much better dance,” she says.
I chuckle, tilting my head back to laugh before bringing it forward slowly, resting my brow against hers. My eyes look down at the curve of her lips, lower at the line of her jaw, and even lower at the swell of her breast under the soft black cotton of her dress. A heavy breath escapes me.
“I make you nervous?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away, instead closing my eyes and swallowing again. I don’t even care if she can feel it. I drag my hands up her body to her neck until I’m cradling her head in my palms, my fingertips flirting with her hair along her neck and my thumbs caressing her jawline.
“That’s what you said…before. You said you didn’t dance well because I make you nervous,” she says, her words coming out slow and sleepy.
My mouth smiles against the top of her head, and I give in, opening it enough to press a kiss against her, hoping only the strangers are our witness.
“Yes, Maddy. That’s right,” I say. “You make me incredibly nervous.”
Chapter Six
Maddy
* * *
I ’m a happy drunk . Always was.
The first time I went to a kegger with the Hollister boys, I took over the DJ duties, and apparently, I played nothing but the Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill album over and over again. It’s because I know every word. Because when I was eleven, Will Hollister locked me in his tree house and forced me to listen to it until I admitted I liked it.
I love that album, and it’s all his fault.
No Brooklyn rap at its best this morning, though. I spent the night swaying to country songs in Will’s arms, and at some points, my mind tricked me— I thought it was Evan. I would look up and realize it wasn’t. It hurt, but it was also okay.
And so, I would drink more.
I’m not sick now, but I am not well. I can tell it’s not morning any longer. My head is pounding, and I’m still wearing my black dress. My face is sweaty, and my hair is sticking to my cheeks and mouth. My tongue feels…dry. I chew at nothing and push my body over, stretching my arm out to feel for my friend Holly, for Amber. I’m alone.
I slide down my mattress, my dress sticking to the quilt tossed over it, and when my knees find the floor, I manage to slide the dress up and over my head. I crawl on my hands and knees to the closet, and I pull down the cotton shirtdress, sliding it over my body, but leaving the bottom pooled around my waist because I’m too miserable to stand just yet.
My back finds the comfort of a few stacked boxes, so I decide to spend the next thirty minutes waking up right here, just like this. I consider crawling back to the bed and forgetting about heading to the club when my door pops open. My mom carries a stack of fresh towels and my latest round of laundry, folded into perfectly neat squares. I smile at it, or at least, I think my face is smiling. I’m not entirely sure because I can’t be certain that I feel my lips right now. I bring my hand to my mouth and rub it, relieved when I feel my touch.
“You’re a mess,” my mom says after setting my basket of laundry on the mattress. She picks up last night’s dress and a few other items I’ve left on the floor, then rolls them into a ball and tucks them under her arm as if she’s going to drive them to the end zone. She’s pissed. I can tell by the way her hand is on her hip.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I moan. I let my head roll to one side along the soft cardboard behind me.
“Like what? Like my daughter is throwing away the most important thing in her life?”
I blink a few times before lifting my head to meet her waiting stare. She is not blinking.
“I’m not throwing anything away. I just wanted to blow off some stress last night, maybe show the new girl a good time,” I say, pulling my knees in.
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