19. Brodie
I toldLizzy I wanted to go down on her.
Like. Who even am I anymore?
Still me ’cause I didn’t do it.
Did not go down on her, did not pass go.
But that was the best kiss I’ve ever fucking had.
In fact, it was fucking spectacular.
How would you know what a spectacular kiss was, dipshit? You’ve barely had a dozen basic ones.
Thems are the facts.
We ended the kiss, and it wasn’t awkward. Nothing about it was. I pulled back and helped her down from the dresser, my raging hard-on a glaringly obvious sign that I need to get laid, or jerk off, or get myself a goddamn girlfriend.
Get myself a girlfriend.
A novel thought.
One I haven’t had before.
I mull the idea around in my head.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” I had told her.
“I feel so fucking pretty,” she’d said.
Then to the sound of her other roommate arriving home, side-by-side we’d cleaned up the remainder of the mess and tossed the trash, and she’d walked me to the middle of the yard.
I didn’t have the guts to ask her to come to my place.
Or on a date.
But maybe…
The sun has set, and I flip on my bedside light, debating.
Should I text her and have her come over? Would she even come if I asked?
I don’t want her to think all I want is sex ’cause trust me, that’s not what this is.
I’d walked into the house earlier, like a zombie, and had gone straight up the stairs, my roommates” curious stares trailing after me—for once keeping their traps shut.
It’s a Christmas miracle.
I flop onto my bed, mattress bouncing, staring at the ceiling, hands behind my head.
That kiss was…
Something.
It was wild.
It was…
Yeah.
My phone buzzes, and my heart stops.
Anticipation fills my?—
Dammit, it’s fucking Sully.
Sully: If you want to invite your friend over, we all talked about it, and we’ll leave you alone.
We talked about it, and we’ll leave you alone?
The fuck.
That’s almost worse, isn’t it? Them knowing I have someone here?
Jesus Christ, Brodie—you can’t avoid it forever. At some point, you have to stop worrying about what they think and do what you want to fucking do.
They couldn’t give a shit about what I think.
Why do I care about them?
I ignore my roommates’ message, but go back and reread it at least three more times, mouth twisting as I debate.
Do I trust that they’re actually going to leave me be?
Or do I operate on the assumption or the notion that they can’t be trusted?
Sully: Well, since you’re not answering, the jury voted, and we’re going to a movie. Starts at nine but we’re going to Walmart first. Reed has a rash on his leg.
It’s seven o’clock.
Brodie: Are you seriously trying to tell me you’re all purposely leaving the house on a SUNDAY night instead of going to bed early?
Sully: So you can get laid? Yes.
I roll my eyes. Why do they assume I want to bang? Maybe I want to have deep, meaningful conversations before falling into bed with someone.
Another message comes through almost immediately.
Sully: Calm down, I’m kidding. But for real. We’re giving you the house to yourself because you’re hopeless, and we don’t need you fucking this up for yourself.
Sully: We’ll make sure to make a shit ton of noise when we come back, just in case.
Sully: You’re welcome.
Shit.
Now I’m torn.
Why are you debating about this, idiot? Text the fucking girl and invite her over. Guys do this every fucking day without being pussies about it, so why are you hesitating?
Okay, first of all, calm down and stop swearing.
“I’m not talking to myself. I’m not,” I tell myself, going to the closet and staring at my shirts.
I had a bro tank on earlier when I was at Lizzy’s helping her paint and stare at my options before I decide to message her.
I pull out a baby blue T-shirt because it’s a good color for my skin tone and hair color, and I pull off the tank top that’s gotten a little bit of pink paint on it.
“Never washing this,” I joke as I toss it to the floor, leaving the same shorts on that I had before because I’m not about to try so hard that I look like I’m trying so hard.
Maybe I’ll ask her to go on a walk.
Or for ice cream?
It’s nice outside.
An activity might feel less like a booty call and more like a…
Date or whatever.
Yeah.
Ice cream.
Good idea.
Brodie: Hey neighbor
Send.
Um. I feel like I should have said Hey cutie, or Hey, what’s up—and now second-guessing my every move seems to become my norm.
Lizzy: Missing me already?
She’s so damn confident and sure of herself. Not that I’m not, but I do better on the ice than I do in real life, at least with women.
Brodie: I’m jonesing for something sweet. Want to go for ice cream?
Lizzy: I could do ice cream, for sure.
Brodie: Awesome.
Lizzy: Like—now? or…..
Brodie: Yeah, I was thinking now? Unless you’re busy and want to do it some other time.
Lizzy: Of course I’m free now. This 12-page paper due in 3 days can wait ha ha.
Brodie: lol
Lizzy: Are we walking or driving ’cause I have a car?
Brodie: Walk? If you’re up for it. It’s still nice outside.
Not that I would know if it’s still nice. I haven’t been out since I walked home.
Lizzy: Sounds good. Meet you out front in 10??
Brodie: 10 minutes?
Lizzy: Yeah, 10 minutes you goof
I’m such an idiot.
Seriously, why is she bothering with me.
And when she finds out I have zero experience with girls, she’s going to freak out.
Brodie: Cool
I peel the blue T-shirt off and discard it in a pile, on top of the bro tank, and go back to my closet. Blue, blue, gray, gray, red, white.
Hoodie?
T-shirt and a hoodie?
I pull down a navy athletic shirt, one that my mom got me—it’s not as casual as a T-shirt but not as dressy as a collared shirt, and slide a new hoodie off its hanger.
The hoodie is navy blue too.
I eyeball my shorts in the mirror. They’re black, and if I’ve heard my mom bitch at my dad a hundred times for wearing black and navy together, I’ve heard her a thousand.
The shorts come off, and I take out a pair of jeans.
I root around and find a pair of sneakers that aren’t as scuffed, then stand to inspect myself in the mirror.
I look…
Like I’m going to class.
But I’ve spent eight minutes fucking around and have no time to change, so I grab my wallet off the desk, stuffing it into my back pocket along with my phone.
Lizzy is in the yard before I am, standing under the tree that separates the lot lines and I’m pleased to see she’s also wearing a sweatshirt. Hers doesn’t have a hood, but it’s casual, just like I am, and I instantly feel more mellow.
Lavender crewneck. White shorts.
Sandals.
Long, dark hair down around her shoulders.
She’s like a fresh freaking daisy.
“Hey.”
I’m shocked when she goes on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on my cheek before we start walking toward downtown. The nearest ice cream shop is only two blocks away.
We fall into step.
I’m hyper aware of her, keeping my hands in my pockets because I have no idea what to do with them. It seems too soon to take her hand even though we spent a good fifteen minutes going hot and heavy in her closet.
Damn, that kiss was hot.
If I hadn’t asked her on this date, I’d definitely be jerking off at least more than once in the comfort of my own bedroom.
“My room looks so cute,” she tells me, glancing up with a big smile. “It’s dry, so I was able to put everything back.”
Glowing skin.
No makeup.
I swallow, looking away, looking this way and that, watching for trouble in the dark.
“Does it? I’ll have to come see it.”
“You should.” Lizzy pauses for a few heartbeats, probably thinking of something new to say. “Did you have dinner?”
I nod. “Ate a sandwich. It wasn’t very exciting.” Then. “Did you?”
I have to admit I’m pretty fucking proud of myself for remembering my manners and not just freezing her out like I would with my friends because small talk is not my forte.
We stop at the corner and wait until a few cars pass before stepping off the curb and crossing the street.
Walk another hundred feet and arrive at our destination, the diner-style ice cream parlor with its glowing, neon OPEN sign calling us in like a beacon.
I pull the door open for Lizzy, glancing down at her backside as she passes, and she trails her hand across my forearm in the process with a backward glance over her shoulder.
Is she flirting?
Together, we stare into the freezer at the flavors.
“What are you thinking you’re going to get?” she asks. “I love chocolate, so I might do Mackinac Island Fudge.” Her nose is nearly pressed to the glass as she debates. “Or Truffle Brownie Delight?”
She hums.
“I like mint chocolate chip,” I confess. “But maybe I’ll do something different.”
Lizzy hums again, still staring into the freezer full of ice cream buckets.
Her finger presses against the glass. “Have you ever had Blue Moon?”
“Probably when I was little.”
She pulls a face. “Too sweet.”
I laugh. “That’s too sweet, but you’ll eat Truffle Brownie Delight? That’s nothing but chocolate!”
“I love chocolate.” She shrugs adorably, being cute with her button nose and freckles and pouty lips that she’s got dipped in gloss.
“Okay, I know what I want to eat—Peanut Butter Cup.”
Lizzy rubs her tummy. “Yum. Are you going to share with me?”
“Yes, I’m going to share with you.”
We each get one scoop in a waffle cone—I pay—and decide to eat while we walk and not sit at a table, shuffling side-by-side down the street, walking past shops and restaurants that are mostly all closed.
Still, it’s a relaxing, companionable silence.
We hang a left at the corner and make our way back to our block, the street lamps casting a low glow on the sidewalk; shadows of trees and street signs line the way.
“No squirrels tonight,” Lizzy says as she licks away at her chocolate ice cream.
“They’re in bed, dreaming of ways to torture us.”
She nibbles the edge of her cone. “For sure.”
I lick my ice cream, then notice Lizzy eyeing it. I hold it out, offering her a taste.
“Want some?”
“Yes, please.”
We stop on the sidewalk, beneath a low glowing streetlamp—a city-marked garbage can is chained to the pole—and Lizzy steps closer, tongue slowly licking around the rim of my Peanut Butter Cup ice cream, licking her lips after she’s done, and humming the same way she did when she was smelling my neck in her closet today.
My dick twitches.
Why is it so easy to get me turned on? Jesus.
“So good,” she says.
“What does yours taste like?”
We stand here, trading tastes, and she holds her cone as I lick the frozen but melting chocolate scoop on top.
“I don’t love it as much as I love mine,” I declare, still standing close, sliding my hand around her waist. “Let’s see how they taste together.”
Did that come out of my mouth?
Who am I?
Lizzy puts her cone in the trash can behind us before sliding her arms around my neck and tilting her face for a kiss. She tastes like chocolate and brownies, moist and wet and hot.
My cone falls from my hand to the ground, and I sidestep it to pull her closer, hands instantly gravitating toward her ass. I grip her cheeks, peeking out of the bottom of the hem and squeeze, causing her to giggle and moan into my mouth.
I have to lean to kiss her, crouching a little to accommodate her shorter stature, but somehow, we make it work. Somehow I’m able to feel her tits pressing against my chest.
I feel like a teenager.
Not that I made out with girls when I was a teenager. I had crooked, jacked-up teeth that were constantly getting whacked with fists and sticks, and I needed braces. My shyness didn’t help my social life, and before I knew it, I was focused more on hockey than girls—but I imagine this is how I would have felt when I was younger. When a pretty girl liked me enough to let me kiss her.
I pull back.
And bend to pick up my cone and properly dispose of it while Lizzy straightens her sweatshirt and fluffs her hair. I do the one thing I never thought I’d do once we start the walk back to my place: I take hold of her hand.