12. June #2
My breath catches in my throat. This isn’t a decision made lightly—she must’ve been thinking about it for a while. “Because of Shaw?”
“Yeah. And because I haven’t exactly made any friends here, either. What’s the point?” Even her shoulder shrugs are elegant.
I can’t shake the memory of Hannah, standing alone on the sidewalk after fighting with Shaw last week. She was so alone, so sad. “Do you want to leave?”
“N-no. Aside from Shaw and his drama, I like it here. It’s peaceful. The kids are great.”
I hate that she’s letting Shaw make this decision for her. “Then fuck Shaw. Stay.”
She rolls her eyes and makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. “What about the friend part?”
I lock eyes with her, and a grin tips up the corners of my lips. “I’m your friend now, bitch.”
“Thanks.” She laughs and turns to another customer.
After I pour their drinks, I notice Hannah twisting her engagement ring around her finger again. She catches me staring and says, “I guess I should take this thing off, huh? It was a shut-up ring anyway.”
“Sell it on Facebook Marketplace or some shit.” I grab a towel and wipe down the bar top.
“You’re really funny.” She laughs again and takes tickets from another patron. The guy stuffs a tenner in the jar, just for her laughter.
“Thanks, bestie.” As I pour a pitcher, I shoot her a saucy wink and shoulder shimmy.
Friendship officially solidified.
June
After another hour, Hannah slips away in search of food. But I’m not alone for long. Nick swings by as I come out from behind the bar to clear cups and garbage.
With a sharp exhale, I make a big stink about dumping a stack of cups into one of the five trash cans in the tent. “ Five . Trash . Cans ,” I complain, turning to Nick.
He laughs, watching me throw my little tantrum. I gesture to all the garbage cans and he shakes his head. Ever the drama major, I put on a show, throwing away more trash, making sure his eyes are still on me. I grab a discarded plastic cup, but wince as a sharp sting pierces my hand.
Ow .
A burning sensation radiates from my palm all the way up my arm. I was too busy acting a fool to notice the wasp crawling around the lip of the cup. I grabbed it by the top, putting my hand directly on Satan’s little helper.
My eyes ache with tears, but I swallow them. I’ve already freaked out and goofed off in front of Nick today. But getting stung by a wasp when I’m allergic? I didn’t need to add a swollen and hive-covered arm to that embarrassing litany.
Shit, my hand’s so itchy and the skin feels tight enough to burst.
Nick ducks under the wooden plank of the bar, jogging to me. A whole new wave of tears threatens to fall as I glimpse the concern etched onto his face. “Benadryl?”
“Behind the tent. Next to my water bottle.” I glance back at my arm, and boy, those hives are big. So’s my hand. Like a giant hand balloon.
I snort a laugh, hand balloon .
“Here.” He thrusts a bottle at me but I stare at him, then my hand balloon, and back to him. “Shit, I’ll open it. Do you need a cup or?—”
I swipe the open bottle in my good hand and take a healthy swig, then another for good measure. “Straight, no chaser,” I croak.
Nick’s brows furrow as he studies my arm. I fight the urge to hide it behind my back.
“How bad does it hurt?”
“Like a bitch. But it’ll go numb soon, then just be itchy.”
“Stay there. I’m getting you some ice.” Nick takes off again.
A minute later, he returns holding a plastic bag filled with ice already melting and leaking out the bottom. I cradle my arm against my stomach and lay the bag on top.
It soaks my shirt but the relief is instantaneous and I moan. Nick’s breath catches in his throat. He hands over my water bottle without making eye contact. I drain half of it in one go, wiping my mouth with my forearm.
Panic still clings to him, his eyes tight and crinkled at the corners, jaw clenched. Before I can reassure him, the entire Danielowicz clan descends on the beer tent.
“Buddy called,” Dad says, crushing me in a hug.
“Oh, Junie.” Mom hugs me next, digging around in her purse. She thrusts a bottle of Benadryl at me. “Here.”
“I already took some.” I don’t know why I’m annoyed that my mom brought it as well, like I can’t take care of myself. I literally bite my tongue, though; this whole ordeal has wreaked havoc on my already tenuous verbal filter.
“See? She’s fine, Mick.” He takes the bottle from his wife and stows it back in her purse.
Willow has hung back, but a devious grin stretches her face as her eyes dart between me and Nick. “Aren’t you going to introduce Mom and Dad to your friend ?”
Mom straightens, finally registering Nick’s presence.
But Dad beats me to the introductions. “Nick, good to see you.”
“You, too, sir.” Nick shakes my dad’s hand, then turns to me. “Your dad guest-conducted at All-State Band a few years ago.”
“Nice. Wow, so great. You’ve met my dad.” Verbal filter? Who is she? I can’t concentrate with this strange feeling squeezing my heart as Nick and my dad stand together.
“Wow, you’re super pumped about All-State Band.” Willow snorts.
Mom’s smile is so wide as she hugs Nick. “Thank you for keeping her company. I’m so glad she has someone.”
Can you die from embarrassment? Sure feels like it.
“Thanks, son.” My dad claps him on the back and Nick stumbles, eyes dazed.
“Don’t thank me. I’ll always”—he clears his throat—“be happy to help.”
“Well,” Willow says, taking a decisive step in our direction. “I’m gonna hang with these losers. I know you want to hit up the auction baskets, Mom.”
With a hug for Willow, and a gentle shoulder squeeze for me, my mom says, “Come on, Tom. Did you see the money tree this year?”
Once our parents leave, Wils’ gaze sweeps over my frame. “Nice fit, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
Even through the antihistamine fog, I didn’t miss the way Mom said someone .
Like she was about to tack on the word special .
I glance at Nick, hoping he’s not weirded out that my mom called me a thirsty bitch, but his stare is still assessing.
Which reminds me … “How did you—how did you know to grab the Benadryl?”
“Uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “During our senior class trip to that amusement park, I remember Jay Urban teasing you for having a fanny pack. You said it was for your medication because you're allergic to wasps and assholes.”
“Her asshole allergy runs in the family. It’s very serious,” Willow chimes in.
“Lucky you have a good memory,” I whisper.
“Yeah, lucky.” He nods, the tendons in his neck rippling from his still clenched jaw.
“Hey.” I run a finger down his temple, hoping it releases some of that tension. An aching wrongness twists me around at seeing Nick upset. “Everything’s fine. You were amazing. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The words are simple, but the way he stares as he says it, there’s another meaning.
I’m too hopped up on my adrenaline and antihistamine cocktail to figure it out.
“Please, continue your public displays of affection,” Wils grumbles.
Sounds from the beer tent filter back in. A new wave of people enters, packing the small space. I rustle the arm cradled against me. The swelling isn’t too bad with the ice, but I’m done pouring drinks for the rest of the day. “I’m officially relieved of barkeep duties. We should get out of here.”
“What other fair activities only require one working arm?” Willow asks.
“How do we feel about bingo?” Nick steers me out of the tent, an arm wrapped around my shoulder.
“I feel like I’m gonna kick your ass.” Nope, sounded better in my head.
Nick laughs and it vibrates through his chest where he’s pressed against me. “I don’t know how you kick ass at bingo, but I can’t wait to see you try.”
I stop in my tracks. “What about chaperone duties for the campers?”
“No, I texted one of the counselors, said something came up when I grabbed the Benadryl. I didn’t want to—I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay on your own.”
“Oh.” A fist squeezes my heart. Nick bailed on his responsibilities for me. But when our eyes meet, he’s not annoyed or bothered. If anything, he’s nervous. “Thanks for doing that for me. I’m glad you’re here.”
He smiles, another one I want to catalogue. A secret smile, like he’s trying, and failing, to hide it.
We continue through the fair as Willow makes horribly inappropriate jokes about bingo and O69. I can’t help but smile, though it might be more because of Nick than my sister’s vulgar humor.
He keeps his hand on me the whole time, sliding it down my arm to rub soothing circles, or bringing it up to play with the small hairs at the nape of my neck.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from purring and rubbing myself all over him like a cat.
He slides his fingers into my hair, massaging the tight muscles in my neck. No, not just a cat. I’m a cat in heat .
We grab seats in the bingo tent. The fold-up chair legs sink into the grass beneath the tables as I sit, rocking unevenly from side to side.
Nick puts his arm back around my waist, and his thumb slips beneath the hem of my shirt.
That small brush leaves a trail of fire in its wake as I squeeze my thighs together.
He’s touched my waist a few times, but always over my shirt. The feel of his skin on mine, somewhere new, somewhere hidden, is enough for blood to roar in my ears.
Challenge accepted.
Fighting a smirk, I slide my uninjured hand into Nick’s lap and score my nails up the fabric of his blue shorts.