Hold My Breath(27)

“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. Step one to standing.

“You also showed her what it feels like to throw up in a stranger’s toilet,” my mom says, lips pursed and weight shifting, jutting out her other hip.

She’s really pissed.

I scrunch my face.

“Amber got sick?” I ask.

“Yeah. Your friend Holly took care of her. She drove her back this morning to get her car. Told me to tell you she’d give you a call later tonight,” my mom says, moving to the doorway.

“Where…was Will here? He…he drove us,” I say.

My mom stops at the door, her back to me.

“I didn’t see him. Your dad said he walked home last night, though. Your father heard you all come in and offered to drive him, but Will refused,” she says. She tilts her head to the side, glancing at me over her shoulder just enough that our eyes meet one more time.

I was wrong. She isn’t pissed. She’s disappointed. Whole different emotion. Whole lot more guilt.

I wallow in my self-made misery for another thirty minutes, eventually tying my hair up and getting changed into my swim suit, sliding on my cut-off shorts and favorite flip-flops.

My mom is at the table, reading through what looks like a set of planning documents.

“I’m heading to swim,” I say.

I pause at the other end of the table. She looks up at me, pushing her black-rimmed glasses down her nose, and nods. We both glance at the top of each other’s heads, our brown hair twisted into knots. I smirk as she chuckles.

“You’re more like me than you care to admit,” she says.