of me before dissolving into the night.
I make my way around the building and into the parking lot. It’s a sea of cars, two hundred guests in attendance, but I spot Cooper’s six-foot-three frame easily, wandering between the line of limos that transported us from the church.
He lifts his head as he hears me move toward him, cupping a hand over his eyes to shield out the lamppost’s glow.
“You forgot your phone,” I say, extending my arm, cell in hand.
“Oh, hey. I thought for a second…” His words trail off and I know what he was about to say. The only differences in appearance between my sister and I is our daily attire and the way we wear our hair. But today, with us both dressed up for her wedding, we could almost pass as twins. That is, until you get close enough to realize I’m younger by over four years.
Cooper thought Roselyn was coming out here to talk to him.
I jerk my head in a subtle shake. Hope is a real bitch sometimes.
He takes his phone, turns it off, and shoves it into the inner breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. I unscrew the lid off the Jack Daniel’s bottle and take a long drink. It burns down my throat and simmers in my stomach. Holy shit, this stuff is nasty. How do people tolerate it?
Cooper watches me, his disappointment slowly replaced by amusement. “What are you doing? You’re underage.”
I lick my lips and hand him the bottle. “Only by ten months,” I reply. “And seriously, this coming from you?” Where I have never been a big partier—the underage aspect having no baring—Cooper has become well acquainted with it.
He cocks a brow and his head at the same time in a you-got-me-there gesture before pressing the rim to his mouth and chugging a quarter of the bottle. I don’t know how he pulls it off without puking. I guess practice makes perfect and he’s been training hard. Since about the time he found out Miles and Roselyn started dating. Right around when I changed up my wardrobe, trading in my sister’s hand-me-downs for band t-shirts and ripped jeans. I can’t believe Cooper and I were suffering over the exact same thing all these years.
I think, looking back, there were probably clues. I was too busy hiding my own feelings to notice anyone else’s.
He gives the whiskey back and gestures to my feet as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where are your shoes, Jailbait?”
I cringe at the nickname bestowed on me at twelve by the Fitzpatrick brothers when I began developing at a rapid pace, catching up to my driver’s-license-carrying sister. Not enough for Miles to ever really see me, but enough for him to try not to get caught looking.
“I haven’t been jailbait for two years, Coop. I think I’m about due for a new nickname. Or, you know, you could actually just use my real name.” I tip the head of the bottle back and swallow down more fire. It’s nice, the way I can feel it swimming through my veins, making my worries melt down to my feet. It’s like I can almost kick them all away. Now I’m starting to see why this is my current company’s favorite pastime.
I shiver as a breeze twists my hair and billows my dress, making my toes curl, seeking warmth. Cooper scrunches his nose and he looks so much like Miles it makes my heart beat a little faster. And then I realize he doesn’t look like Miles. He’s older. So that means Miles looks like him. Or they look like each other. I’m not sure why I’m debating this in my head right now. Probably the Jack.
He takes his tuxedo jacket off and drapes it over my shoulders. It’s heavy and long, but it’s so warm. I push one arm through a sleeve, transfer the alcohol to my other hand, and then push the other inside. I must look ridiculous, however, I’ll trade appearance for comfort any day.
“Thanks.”
Cooper tucks his hands into his pants pockets and leans his shoulder into the side of the building. He dips his chin in welcome before coming back to my earlier statement.
I make my way around the building and into the parking lot. It’s a sea of cars, two hundred guests in attendance, but I spot Cooper’s six-foot-three frame easily, wandering between the line of limos that transported us from the church.
He lifts his head as he hears me move toward him, cupping a hand over his eyes to shield out the lamppost’s glow.
“You forgot your phone,” I say, extending my arm, cell in hand.
“Oh, hey. I thought for a second…” His words trail off and I know what he was about to say. The only differences in appearance between my sister and I is our daily attire and the way we wear our hair. But today, with us both dressed up for her wedding, we could almost pass as twins. That is, until you get close enough to realize I’m younger by over four years.
Cooper thought Roselyn was coming out here to talk to him.
I jerk my head in a subtle shake. Hope is a real bitch sometimes.
He takes his phone, turns it off, and shoves it into the inner breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. I unscrew the lid off the Jack Daniel’s bottle and take a long drink. It burns down my throat and simmers in my stomach. Holy shit, this stuff is nasty. How do people tolerate it?
Cooper watches me, his disappointment slowly replaced by amusement. “What are you doing? You’re underage.”
I lick my lips and hand him the bottle. “Only by ten months,” I reply. “And seriously, this coming from you?” Where I have never been a big partier—the underage aspect having no baring—Cooper has become well acquainted with it.
He cocks a brow and his head at the same time in a you-got-me-there gesture before pressing the rim to his mouth and chugging a quarter of the bottle. I don’t know how he pulls it off without puking. I guess practice makes perfect and he’s been training hard. Since about the time he found out Miles and Roselyn started dating. Right around when I changed up my wardrobe, trading in my sister’s hand-me-downs for band t-shirts and ripped jeans. I can’t believe Cooper and I were suffering over the exact same thing all these years.
I think, looking back, there were probably clues. I was too busy hiding my own feelings to notice anyone else’s.
He gives the whiskey back and gestures to my feet as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where are your shoes, Jailbait?”
I cringe at the nickname bestowed on me at twelve by the Fitzpatrick brothers when I began developing at a rapid pace, catching up to my driver’s-license-carrying sister. Not enough for Miles to ever really see me, but enough for him to try not to get caught looking.
“I haven’t been jailbait for two years, Coop. I think I’m about due for a new nickname. Or, you know, you could actually just use my real name.” I tip the head of the bottle back and swallow down more fire. It’s nice, the way I can feel it swimming through my veins, making my worries melt down to my feet. It’s like I can almost kick them all away. Now I’m starting to see why this is my current company’s favorite pastime.
I shiver as a breeze twists my hair and billows my dress, making my toes curl, seeking warmth. Cooper scrunches his nose and he looks so much like Miles it makes my heart beat a little faster. And then I realize he doesn’t look like Miles. He’s older. So that means Miles looks like him. Or they look like each other. I’m not sure why I’m debating this in my head right now. Probably the Jack.
He takes his tuxedo jacket off and drapes it over my shoulders. It’s heavy and long, but it’s so warm. I push one arm through a sleeve, transfer the alcohol to my other hand, and then push the other inside. I must look ridiculous, however, I’ll trade appearance for comfort any day.
“Thanks.”
Cooper tucks his hands into his pants pockets and leans his shoulder into the side of the building. He dips his chin in welcome before coming back to my earlier statement.
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