First Love (Winning at Love Book 2) Page 7

  I need to stop wallowing in my own issues, and make sure I haven’t upset Eastlyn with my suspicions.

  “I’m sorry if I’m right and Keaton knew. He deserves being ignored, maybe worse,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  Eastlyn remains silent for a few beats, processing. “I love you for always having my back. Thank you for telling me, I just wish you’d told me sooner. I would have ignored Keaton’s ass all week, too,” she harrumphs, all put out, and it makes me giggle. “There’s power in numbers, you know.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry, East. It’s been a busy week for both of us. I was going to tell you tonight when we met up for Yay-Report-Cards-Are-Done drinks,” I add. “I didn’t want to turn it into a huge deal, the way I had in my head. I think I’m also mad at Keat for other reasons and I’m projecting.” She gives me a knowing look. I might have tried to keep some things to myself during this conversation, but Eastlyn is no dummy.

  “It’s a big deal to me. My brother should have told me himself.”

  “I agree. Maybe Keaton felt like he was in a no-win situation, between a rock and a hard place, torn between his sister and best friend?” I offer, in an attempt to make her feel better. “I did want you to know so you could give Keat crap, too, so now you’re here and now you know.”

  “It’s fine. It’s true that it’s been a crazy week. I’ll tell you, though, that damn brother of mine is going to get an earful when I see him. Seeing McCoy unexpectedly like that at the store, I could have died from a coronary!”

  “Well, that might be a titch dramatic, don’tcha think?” I burst out laughing. “Although, the Ritz Tower did almost take you out. However, I agree. You’re Keat’s sister, and he knows how you feel about Coy.”

  She shakes her head, contemplating. “Keaton thinks I’m in love with the guy.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, simply because there isn’t much else to say on the subject. Keaton’s not wrong. Eastlyn has been in love with her brother’s best friend for as long as I can remember. A lot of shit has gone down between the two of them, that’s for sure, but I’d swear on my own grave that McCoy Graves has always had feelings for his best friend’s little sister, too. It’s too bad he doesn’t live in town anymore, so I guess we’ll never know where that could have gone.

  My phone pings.

  Keaton: Even if Eastlyn’s pissed at me now, it got you to text me, didn’t it? I am the master. Bow to me.

  Me: *eye roll* Sorry, I thought the name we were using for you now was DUD Muffin, wasn’t it?

  Keaton: Whatever, we both know I’m really a STUD. I’ll be at your place for 7 tomorrow morning. Be ready to feel the burn, baby.

  Me: I just gagged. Fine. I’ll run with you, you big baby.

  I can’t help smiling. It’s a good thing Eastlyn seems lost enough in her own thoughts not to have noticed.

  Keaton: That’s my girl. I knew you’d forgive me for whatever you think I did. I can’t comment on the gagging…

  Ignoring the gagging comment, I feel my cheeks flush at him calling me his girl. I wish. Wait…or do I?

  “You still want to go grab drinks?” I ask, tucking my phone inside my red Kate Spade purse before slinging it over my shoulder. “East?”

  She ignores me, head in her phone.

  “Hello, earth to Eastlyn?” I try again, walking towards the door, more than ready to start my weekend.

  Ping!

  I pull my phone back out.

  Keaton: Jesus, you two are too much effort to deal with. Tell my sister to answer me!!!

  I look up to see Eastlyn tapping away on her phone.

  “Eastlyn Hatfield!” I yell.

  Ping!

  “What? Yeah, sorry,” she winces.

  “Drink?” I nod towards the hallway.

  Ping!

  “God, yes. Many? Shall we have all the drinks?” she questions. I dig my phone back out of my purse.

  Ping!

  I laugh. “I could so use many. And it’s Friday, that means we can stay out past nine, eh?” I tease my heavily-regimented friend, who must be in bed by 9 p.m. sharp with her lunch made and clothes laid out for the next day, every day during the work week. I’m happy summer is almost here, so I’ll soon have my wingwoman back by my side in case I do ever get off the pot and meet a man who doesn’t drive me crazy with a bunch of does-he-or-doesn’t-he-like-me questions.

  “Har har.”

  “Gonna tell me why Keaton’s now blowing up my phone to get you to text him?” I show her my screen.

  Keaton: Why aren’t my damn messages to East going through? Pains in the ass, you two are.

  “I’ve decided to block his ass for a while,” she shrugs, tossing her dark chocolate hair over her shoulders as she leads us out of my classroom with a satisfied look on her face.

  “Of course you did.”

  No wonder we’re friends. We’re stuck together right now, somewhere between Denialville and Drama Town.

  9

  Sure, I’m a Virgin, but Am I a Masochist, Too?

  Kami

  When I came home after drinks with Eastlyn, I got ready for bed as soon as I closed the door behind me, exhausted from a long week. But forty-five minutes later, I’m wide awake. Rather than sleeping, I’m sitting up in bed, thinking about what I always think about when I’ve had too much to drink and can’t sleep—Keaton. I let out a long, frustrated noise—something between a sigh and a groan—annoyed at myself for allowing him to seep into my thoughts once again.

  The problem is that I unknowingly gave him my heart so long ago that I’m not sure I’d recognize it anymore if I were to try to take it back.

  Piss or get off the pot, I think, recalling Jane’s lame advice. “I must be a masochist,” I howl, reaching for my iPad and pulling up Google, despite knowing it’s best to avoid the evil blue light of my device when in bed. “But it’s Keaton,” I sulk, as if saying his name out loud will summon all the answers and sub-meanings I’m looking for.

  Keaton Hatfield was my hero from as far back as I could remember. I’d met him when I was in kindergarten and he was in the first grade. Keaton was always kind, protective, and—best of all—he was Eastlyn’s older brother, which allowed me to become almost as close with him as I was her. Back in the day, we were a real-life two-girl-one-guy version of The Three Musketeers. Our thick-as-thieves bond lasted for years, until things started to change like they inevitably do between girls and boys.

  For Keaton, it was meeting McCoy when their family moved to town during eighth grade, along with the appearance of facial hair, a new deeper voice, and a special touch of jerk-like behaviour that, regardless, made him so damn appealing to me—and to the gaggle of girls that seemed to come along with these changes. As for me, it was the whole boys-are-icky! stage, followed by the ohhh-boys! stage, then training bras, leg hair, and dear old Aunt Flow. Add high school, acne, dating, college, more dating, and then some exploratory sex into the mix, and there was no way our version of The Three Musketeers could have survived forever. So, as things changed, Eastlyn and I traded in our proverbial cavalier hats and adorned ourselves with a more Thelma and Louise vibe. Meanwhile, Keaton became this sort of beautiful bad boy, complete with tattoos, his own group of friends—including, despite Eastlyn’s protests, McCoy Graves, the new boy—along with a chip of “I-know-I’m-hot” on his shoulder.

  Yet, despite all the changes, pauses, and new additions in our lives, in the end our friendship managed to survive. Only it’s different. It’s not quite as carefree and full of fun as it once was. It’s chock full of emotions, and a fear of losing what we’ve built over the last few years since Keaton started to really put in an effort to rebuild the closeness he, his sister, and I once had. The fear has been mostly on my part. I worry my feelings won’t ever allow me to only be Keaton’s friend when I want so much more.

  Basically, the only things standing in the way from possibly being more are my coming out and admitting my feelings to Keaton once and for all, Keaton actua
lly reciprocating…oh, and then there’s the whole me-being-a-virgin thingy, too. ’Cause that’s not awkward. Nooo, not at all…

  Yeah, right.

  Virgin.

  Virgin!

  “Introducing Kami, the oldest virgin ever,” I mock myself.

  Virgin.

  Still a freakin’ virgin!!!

  The label rolls around in my head again and again.

  I can’t explain that one even if I try. It just sort of…happened. I’d never felt that any one of the guys I dated over the years ever deserved what I’d subconsciously convinced my stupid teenage heart years ago was meant to be Keaton’s. Even when I witnessed the chances of Keaton actually taking what I’d deemed to be his dwindling away to none with each new girlfriend, girl who was “just a friend”, group date companion, or straight-up one-night stand. (Yeah, I admit, I was off to one side, watching, paying close attention to these things.) I just couldn’t bind myself to someone who wasn’t my Keaton, not enough to lose my virginity to anyone else. So, I’ve held on to this bitch for twenty-six years.

  “Jesus, still a virgin. Me being a masochist is the only possible explanation for that.”

  I shake my head, and tap the word “masochist” into the search engine, needing to confirm that I’m not the actual poster child for the word on Wikipedia, and to read the definition before succumbing into misery at how well I fit both labels.

  “Masochist /'masəkɪst/

  noun

  1. a person who derives sexual gratification from their own pain or humiliation.

  ‘the roles of masochist and mistress’

  2. (in general use) a person who enjoys an activity that appears to be painful or tedious.”

  “Well, there you have it, I guess.” I exit the page and toss my iPad beside me on the bed.

  Reaching now for my phone, I pull up my photos. I scroll through the camera roll, smiling at pictures of me and East before stopping on one of Keaton and me at a trivia night. His arm is draped over my shoulders and we’re smiling at each other, our heads tucked in close as if we’re conspiring, creating a great big evil plan for World Trivia Domination. What catches my eye, though, is the way our bodies are so close—touching one another like we’re connected by an invisible thread or charge, a natural attraction pulling our bodies together, each migrating towards the other, a raw impulse trying to fuse us together. That’s what I see, and focus on. That’s how I interpret what I see when I look at pictures of us.

  This is most definitely not how you play and win the Moving On game, Kami.

  “This, right here,” I pull the phone up close to my face and speak into the photograph, “is why drinking and cellular devices do not mix, Kamilla!” I scold.

  Over the years, I’ve tried to pinpoint the exact moment my feelings for Keaton evolved from friendship to a crush to thinking of him as my ending. When did I stop seeing him as my buddy and as Eastlyn’s brother, and start seeing him as this gorgeous boy I was suddenly longing for? When did I start imagining how it would feel to have his lips pushed up against mine? Wondering how his hand would feel linked with mine, and if I’d be able to feel his touch down to my toes? When did I realize that I had the best secret: that Keaton was mine?

  There were simply too many good memories to sort through, so to identify the single moment when it all changed was impossible. My favourite memory of them all, though, is that day on the school bus when a bunch of Grade Eights were giving me a hard time, and I found out that I was “a virgin!”—and also exactly what that meant, which according to Keaton was a really good thing.

  “Yeah, Kam, you are a virgin. It’s a good thing. Don’t listen to those jerks…it’s special. It will bind you to someone one day…it means something.”

  He had whispered that reassuringly, for only me to hear, from the bus seat beside me, making me feel better, even with his vagueness. I was left so curious as to why my virginity was special and binding. I’d gone home that night and begged Jane to explain everything, which she did.

  Keaton did such a stellar job convincing me my virginity was a good thing back then, that I’ve held onto it for twenty-six years now. Waiting to give it to the one person I want to be bound to in the most special way I know how, showing him how not only does he mean something to me, he means everything.

  I finally force myself to exit the photo roll and pull up the Messages app instead.

  Like I’d secretly planned to do all along when I first picked up my phone.

  10

  Help! Someone Save Me from Myself

  Kami

  I’m a little tipsier from those after-school-and-into-the-night drinks than I thought.

  After looking back over of the evolution of mine and Keaton’s friendship, I decide I’m too emotional right now, and should probably bail on the plans to go running that I’d scheduled for oh dark thirty. The idea of sleeping off my potential hangover wins.

  Opening my text thread with Keaton, I get to work thinking of an excuse to get out of not only running, but also seeing him. I need some me time. I’m too much of a mixed bag of thoughts and emotions where he’s concerned right now. And—as it seems I’m currently functioning in pathetic mode—it’s hard to think of an excuse he won’t see through as total BS. Simply saying, “something’s come up” won’t work with Keaton.

  I’d better test out a few practice messages before settling on a winner.

  A tipsy wine laugh escapes my lips as my fingers fly across the screen, typing messages I wish I could actually send.

  Me: sorry I can’t c u for our run, I think I love you. I stayed up all night thinking of you, what we’d be like as a couple. Convinced myself maybe you feel something, too. Do you? Do you ever think about me? About my lips, about how I’d feel…

  Ha! Imagine if I actually sent this? Too bad you have inverted lady balls, Kami Sutherland. I’d need balls of steel to press send on that one!

  Delete.

  Delete.

  Delete.

  Next, I tap out the excuse that will probably be closest to the truth by the time I actually fall asleep tonight.

  Me: Sry, Keat, I have to cancel running. I broke myself with my vibrator trying to pop my own cherry. After spending way too long thinking of the pros and cons of admitting my feelings 4 u while looking at pictures, and being an angry virgin for being a virgin, I decided to try a little DIY. It failed miserably.

  I burst out in a fit of giggles before deleting every word.

  “A little too honest, and a little too long, I think,” I mutter. Clearly, I’m still way too fuzzy for this. I decide to go with the obvious, and hit send.

  Me: Can’t run tomorrow. I have scheduled an appointment with my hangover.

  Bubbles start and stop almost immediately. I’m a bit surprised that, on a Friday night, Keaton is so quick to reply.

  “He must be with a lesser member of the KHH who can’t hold his attention,” I grumble, in no way jealous at all. Nope, not at all.

  Keaton: Shit, Kam. Tell me you didn’t drive home.

  I smirk, knowing I’m close to falling off that pot I’ve been teetering on. I’ll blame the alcohol in the morning when regret rears its ugly head, and I see what I’ve done. But for right now? I’m going to stay on top of that pot and piss a little!

  Me: Of course not. A guy we met—Jett—brought me home an hour ago. He just left, actually. Was super nice. So fun. Hot 2.

  Lies, lies, lies…

  Perhaps I’ll miss the pot entirely, and virtually piss all over the floor?

  I predict that Keaton will react in one of two ways: as an overprotective faux-brother, or as something more boyfriend-like.

  I feel myself trembling with excitement as I press send, and throw this silent Hail Mary pass into the void. I blearily watch the tiny grey bubbles surface then disappear and resurface far too many times for a girl in my drunken state to handle. The room starts to spin a little.

  “Please be a ‘something else’ reaction. Please be a ‘so
mething else’ reaction. Please be a ‘something else’ reaction…” I beg.

  Ping!

  Finally. I can’t keep a devious smile from crawling over my lips as I read his reply.

  Keaton: Christ, Kami. Don’t tell me shit like that.

  Me: Why not?

  Keaton: That shit’s never happening, Kami. I’m not okay with that whatsoever!

  My smile disappears. I start to get angry.

  Huh, maybe East is right. Maybe I am an emotional drunk.

  Me: Why the hell not? Are you saying it’s OK for u to have meaningless sex but not me? OK for u to tell me “shit like that” but not the other way around?

  Keaton: No. Yes. No. I don’t know. Fuck. I don’t know anymore, all I know is thinking about it is making me pissed.

  My heart is in my throat. I read it again, and answer.

  Me: Me 2. Sometimes IDK anymore either…

  …I lie. Again.

  I’m pretty sure I do know. The thought of him with another woman not only pisses me off, it hurts my heart.

  I’m just not so sure that Keaton knowing this is in my best interest. And—as I pretty much expected, after the way I replied—my phone goes silent after that.

  I decide I’m too tipsy for this—whatever it is—to make sense. Like always, when Keat and I drift off into uncharted territory, one of us bails. Tonight, it was both of us. I start to panic, immediately typing out the universal SOS call we use when one of us does this, because, unfortunately, this isn’t a first for either of us.

  The one I’d used first.

  Me: Pretend this didn’t happen.

  Even now, two years after I’d sworn I’d stop, we text, we flirt, we become almost too honest. And like always, one of us takes it back, and the other silently accepts.