He grabs my poking finger and holds it. “Banana yellow. Lines of any nature. And no, I’ve never come close.”
I think the Dax in my timeline might answer this question the exact same way. Funnily enough, it’s not one either of us has asked before.
“Standards too high?” I guess.
He shrugs. “That could be it. I keep telling myself I’m just a late bloomer.”
My response is a hiccup. It’s not even a cute hiccup. It’s a loud and borderline obnoxious one, and it’s followed by two more in rapid succession.
“You are drunk,” he says to me, laughing.
“I am very drunk, and you’re still holding my finger.”
We both look down and stare at his hand, which has somehow weaved its way through all five of my fingers.
“People make bad decisions when they’re drunk.”
He probably means it as a joke. A throwaway statement. But he’s right. My track record in the intoxicated-life-choices department isn’t exactly stellar. Case in point: agreeing to an ancient ritual that managed to flip my entire life upside down.
“And now you look like you’re thinking about something again.” Dax squeezes the hand he’s yet to let go of.
“Just recalling my last bad drunk decision.”
Dax finally drops my hand but doesn’t step away. “Did you kill a man?”
I don’t know if it’s the raspy timbre of his voice or the way his eyes lock on mine and don’t look away, or maybe it’s just some invisible signal he’s giving off. Still, I get this feeling that Dax wants me at this moment.
And I…I don’t know how I feel. The tiny part of my brain not bogged down with beer is screaming, Think about the consequences. The rest of me has been lulled into a dreamy haze by the deepness of his voice and the smell of the damn lotion. Every cell of my body feels like it’s tuned to the highest frequency.
I stop walking.
To catch my breath. Or steady my mind. Or stop my body from vibrating. I don’t know.
He stops too, then takes his time walking back until his toes are inches from mine, and I can feel the heat of his breath, and he can probably hear the beat of my heart, which is launching itself against my rib cage.
“You about to confess to murder there, Gems?”
He’s calling me Gems. Yet it feels so different in that damn voice.
I look up. “If I did, would you help me hide the body?”
His smile spreads slowly. “That’s a big commitment. Do you think we’re there yet emotionally?”
I shake my head. “Probably not.”
He leans in, and for a second, I think he’s about to kiss me. Instead, he whispers, “I’d help you ditch the car.”
I could turn my head and kiss him.
He’s lingering.
I know it. And although all along, my plan has been to get him to kiss me, it’s not supposed to be here or now, yet I still want it to happen.
Whether he reads my hesitation or not, he backs off. My head clears, and I realize how close we were to doing something irreversible.
I start walking before either one of us changes their mind.
It takes a full block before my heart stops beating like a sledgehammer and a second block before I rationalize that the almost-kiss was entirely in my head. Maybe. Probably. No. Definitely in my head.
By the time I’m feeling somewhat normal again, we’re walking up Catherine Street, and I can see my house.
“Thank you for walking me home. This is me.” I point at the front porch, which is completely dark.
Dax gives the house an assessing look. “I remember. Seems like a nice place.”
I shrug. “Frank and I like it.”
His eyes cloud. “Who’s Frank?”
“My spider. We share a shower. I live in the basement. My entrance is around the back.”
Dax eyes my yard. “Right. Down that creepy dark pathway.”
“It’s not creepy,” I say defensively. Then I give it a second look. “I guess it’s a little creepy.”
He nods and settles into an awkward silence that stretches longer than a beat. “Text me when you get inside,” he finally says.
“I can do that.”
Again, he points to the path. “I’d walk you, but…” His voice trails off.
“But what?”
Now I want to know what he’s thinking.
It takes so long for him to answer that I almost think he isn’t going to.
“You told me earlier you make terrible decisions when you’re drunk, so it’s probably better that I stay out here on this sidewalk, and we leave it at that.”
There are many ways I could take that statement. And the most obvious one has dangerous implications.
“Goodnight, Daxon McGuire.”
“Goodnight, Gemma McGuire.”
“It’s Gemma Wilde, you drunk.”
He shrugs, smiling. “Slip of the tongue.”
I turn and leave before I change my mind and do something stupid. When I get to the gate, he calls out, “Hey, Gemma, care to make one bad decision tonight?”
I turn, ready to agree to whatever he suggests.
“Always.”
“Friday. Dougie and Brandon are having a party. You should come.”
I nod. “I’ll let Frank know not to wait up.”
Chapter 12
I have been to enough Dougie-and-Brandon parties in my timeline to suspect I’m walking into a frat-boy-style kegger with fancier cups.
The text message that flashes across my home screen on Wednesday confirms this theory.
Dax: Hey there hot stuff!!! Party on Friday is hero/villain-themed. Come dressed to kill. Handcuffs encouraged (seven kissy-face emojis).
It’s immediately followed up with a second message.
Dax: In case it wasn’t clear. Dougie stole my phone, but looking forward to friday…hot stuff (single winking emoji).
Last year, in my timeline, Dougie and Brandon held a hero/villain party. I invited Stuart, but he wasn’t into crowded places and held strong opinions on wearing costumes past middle school, so I skipped our standing Friday night date and instead went with Dax. We spent two full weeks scouring the thrift shops on James Street until we found replica costumes of Batman and Robin of the Adam West era. They looked just homemade enough to be amazing. We were the hit of the party.
For some reason, I can’t let the memory of that night go. And although I don’t have weeks to source the perfect pieces for my costume, I manage to find a pair of beige tights and a red sweater vest and to borrow a yellow cape and black mask from my nephew Riley. Not amazing, but good enough to do Burt Ward justice.
The party is only a twenty-minute walk from my basement address. I can hear Beyoncé blasting before I reach Dougie and Brandon’s block. Already there are costume-clad partygoers on the lawn with fancy rose-gold-trimmed plastic cups in hand, playing what looks to be croquet.
The music is so bumping that I can feel the bass reverberate in my chest as I climb the steps to the porch and push open the brightly painted blue door. It opens into Dougie and Brandon’s living room and dining room, both of which are packed with sweaty bodies clad in a rainbow array of vividly colored spandex.