Drive(38)

After an hour of watching the black boots out my peripheral, I walked onto the porch with the last beer and handed it to him. He took it and popped the top without a thank you as I stood against the railing, obstructing his view from the grass that we’d laid on days ago.

His face covered in shadow, he sipped the beer wordlessly until he drained it.

“Can I come to practice this week?”

Reid exhaled and grabbed another cigarette from his pack. “No practice this week.”

He was lying.

“You’re lying.”

“Even so,” he said in a whisper, a cigarette dangling from his lips, “no practice this week.” I scoffed and crossed my arms over my stomach, gripping my sides. I was wearing a thin tank top that showed my midriff and cut off shorts. Reid’s eyes covered me, stopping at the bronze skin of my stomach before they flicked away.

“Is this about Paige? Because I can talk to her. She thinks there’s something going on, and I can tell her there’s nothing.” I took his silence for confirmation that statement was bullshit. Because every beat of my restless heart told me that something was definitely going on, and on both our parts.

Reid stood and crushed his cigarette. That alone had us inches away from each other. “’Night, Stella.”

“Great. You know I’m trapped in this hell, too. Don’t leave me hanging like this.”

Reid shoved his cigarettes into his jeans and looked me over. “I’m not the answer.”

“What? What does that even mean?” I said, taking a step forward. Pushing.

“It means you need to find your own friends here,” he said thoughtfully. “This isn’t your crowd.” I’m not for you.

“Who says?” That’s my decision. I took another step forward. “I say.”

“Stella.” Stay away.

“Why?” I couldn’t if I wanted to.

It was there again, the unbelievable static. My whole body trembled in anticipation. I felt sick and alive as my hair stood on end, warmth everywhere—so much warmth. He towered over me as I looked up at him with permission and fear. “You don’t want me there?”

His voice was laced with an edge. “No.”

I pushed.

“Do you want me here?” I asked as I stood flush to him, my eyes pleading, my lips begging. “Kiss me, Reid. Once. Just kiss me. If you don’t like it, you never have to do it again.”

His head slowly bent, our eyes locked, and he leaned in. “No.”

“Yes,” I urged then licked my bottom lip. His eyes followed and his lips turned into a smug smirk.

“What about your boyfriend at the restaurant?”

“Reid,” I said on a whimper. We were so close, the lines crossed and my breathing heavy. My lungs filled, and I was dying to exhale into him. My heart thudded so hard I could swear he could hear it. I was completely immersed in his eyes, drunk on temptation, done.

Pissed at his hesitation, I took a step back with a forced and defiant grin. “I won’t offer again.” I shouldered past him, blocking the door. My breath caught when he gripped my arm and his head bent so that our lips brushed as he spoke. “This can’t happen.”

“If you say so,” I bit out before I ripped my arm away and pushed through the hot air of the apartment laced with alcohol and bodies before walking out the front door. I needed more air. I needed to stop drinking tequila, or anything for that matter. I’d made a fool of myself. If Paige knew, she would accuse me, as usual, of being overly dramatic.

Because I’d always been an emotional person. I cringed when I heard the words “calm down,” and got highly offended when they were directed toward me. They were like battery acid being thrown at the overly sensitive.

It was hard for me to keep them bottled, a problem for me through most of my life. That was the thing about musicians that I envied most. They could bleed at the top of their lungs for a few hours a day on stage, pouring out their hearts, hurts, or anger into the crowd, and they were worshiped for it. It was not such an epic affair when your emotions bleed into everyday life and have an overabundance of them bubbling to the surface.

One of the most powerful pictures in music history wasn’t on the cover of a magazine. It was a candid snapshot of Kurt Cobain crying backstage. I remember staring at the picture for hours. He was sitting on the floor in ripped jeans and a flannel shirt, one elbow braced on his knee, while he fisted his hair with his other hand, his face twisted in agony, crying freely. Even with his warranted success, his emotions ruled him. That picture should never have been taken. It was a moment of weakness and he deserved to have it alone. But at the same time, that powerful snapshot made me feel like I wasn’t alone in my struggle to keep my emotions at bay. I understood his inability to keep them in check even in the public eye, and especially when it hurt.

I was the crier and puker in the family and constantly scolded by my mother not to take things so seriously. When I got overly excited, I would often throw up, especially at Christmas. It was my mother’s worst nightmare. “Oh, Mommy, Mommy, Santa got me a new doll.” Bleh. “Oh, Mommy, it’s the first day of school!” Bleh. And so forth and so on.

I wasn’t happy about it. I often felt uncomfortable in my own skin, especially as time marched on. It made for euphorically charged, angry periods and days where I had to walk myself stupid to get the aggression out. It was never a pendulum swing of daily emotions type of deal, though I was tested for bipolar and every disorder under the sun. And the verdict always came back the same. “Stella just seems to be an emotionally charged kid. She’s passionate.”