“No,” she said, her voice firm. “We’re not sleeping together. He’s my friend. I wouldn’t mess with that.”
She had enough failed relationships to know she didn’t want to add Jamie to that list. She was glad he met Liz, especially since he seemed happier these past few months than she’d seen him in a long time. It might be weird to watch him fall head over heels for someone, but she’d be happy for him if it happened—when it happened.
Just not with her sister.
“Anyway,” Brynn continued, “you’re only bringing that up to mess with me about tonight.”
Jamie had found Liz, and tonight Brynn would get a second chance at her own fireworks.
Holly threw her hands up in the air. “I’m just asking you a question. I’m not trying to foil your ten-year plan.”
“What ten-year plan?”
Jamie walked in, and instinct told her to change the subject. She had by no means been pining for Spencer Matthews for a decade. But if the stars were aligned again, who was she not to see where they led her? A second chance at a guy she could have fallen for when she was a teen ranked much higher than another setup from her poor, grandchildless mother.
“What do you think? Is everything working the way it’s supposed to, you know, work?” she asked, doing a quick twirl and shaking out her hair. Then she smoothed her hands over the fabric, making sure the A-line skirt was straight and that the back of the dress wasn’t somehow caught in her underwear. They’d take a taxi to the ale house, so she wasn’t wearing tights. Though the dress stopped above the knee, her fabulous four-hundred-dollar boots that weren’t really hers protected enough skin to make braving Chicago’s unexpected late-September chill doable.
Holly and Jamie nodded.
“You’re sure, both of you? It’s a thumbs-up?”
“Yes,” Holly said. “You’re hot, B. Own it, honey.”
Brynn laughed.
“Can I ask you something?” This from Jamie. “Did you pick a turtleneck dress on purpose?” He raised a brow.
Brynn’s cheeks went hot, and Holly’s brow creased. She ignored the twist in her gut at Jamie bringing up that night now. But, if she had to admit it, yes. On some level the turtleneck seemed fitting. Jamie stood there, a knowing smirk on his face.
Busted.
…
Jamie didn’t know what bugged him more, remembering that Brynn wore a turtleneck that night ten-plus years ago, or that she was wearing something to remind her of the night she wished she’d had back then instead of the one she spent with him.
He laughed, a little too loud to be casual and a little too forced to be genuine. Still, he hoped he’d saved face.
“You’re wearing something to remind you of your attempt to pass on a potentially life-threatening illness to another human? That’s twisted, Brynn.”
She winced, and he knew he’d gone too far. It just slipped. Brynn. Sleepy Jean, Dieter, B, even SJ on occasion, but Brynn? That only seemed to come out when he was angry. He’d nicknamed her the day they were paired up for a think/pair/share in eighth-grade language arts class. She’d introduced herself as Brynn, and he found her later in the library pretending to read her history book. Her head bobbed to whatever was playing in the earbuds hidden in her wild, curly hair, and he sat down at her table, pulling one free so he could listen.
“The Monkees?” he had asked, eyes wide with incredulity and maybe a little embarrassment at recognizing the band so quickly.
She’d snatched back the bud and paused the music.
“Not like I should have to explain everything to you, James, but everyone knows the Monkees are my favorite band. My mom grew up loving Davy Jones, and she was good enough to pass that love on to me. No one seems to have a problem with it.”
He crossed his arms and pushed his skater bangs out of his eyes.
“Not everyone knows if I didn’t know, and you can call me Jamie. My friends do.”
She sighed. “Who said we were friends?”
He had smiled at her then. “Come on, Sleepy Jean. After all we’ve been through since third hour?” Right then something cracked in her veneer, a twitch of her lip that let him know he’d won her over.
“Fine, Jamie.” She’d sighed. “We’re friends.”
And that had been it. Since then they were Jamie and Sleepy Jean to each other, and when formal names were verbally lobbed, the other knew something was up.
“Mono is not a life-threatening illness,” Brynn scoffed. “You should know. And what do you have against Spencer, anyway, James?”
Touché. He deserved that.