Homecoming Queen?

Jack, October

Bree is beautiful tonight in a long gold gown that reflects the light like sun glint on water. I'm standing next to her as her friends gather around taking selfies outside the dance entrance.

"Get one of me and Chap!" She calls to Cookie. We stand together under the balloon arch in the outdoor photo station while her friends snap pictures with their phones. She turns to me and adjusts my boutonniere.

"It keeps falling sideways," she says, twisting her mouth up. "I probably did it wrong."

"I like things sideways," I say looking down at my lapel as she tries to re-pin the damn flower.

Bree shakes her head like she's annoyed. She is a bit of a diva at times.

She rushes over to her friends to examine the pictures for flaws, to see if we need to retake them.

The gravelly growl of a motorcycle echoing through the night gets my attention. One bike with two riders rolls into the parking lot. I have to squint in the partial dark to see that the girl on back is showing a lot of leg, tanned and muscular. The driver dismounts and extends a hand to help her. The hem of her silver dress skims along her upper thighs as she reaches up and removes the helmet from her head.

My heart skips a beat when I realize who it is.

Peyton's hair shimmers like a silver halo in the light of the streetlamps. She hands her helmet to Lowrey and scans our group gathered by the building. She smiles when she recognizes me.

It takes my breath away.

In my mind, she was going to show up to this dance in a pair of Levi's and a t-shirt. That says a lot about the limits of my imagination. Now that I see her in that low-cut dress that falls loosely over her body and stops abruptly at mid-thigh, I can't unsee it. And I can't stop imagining what she's wearing underneath, and how her skin would feel soft and electric as I peel the dress up and over her head.

Lord help me.

Bree grabs my arm and drags me along with her into the gym.

It's a whole ordeal when we're announced as king and queen and have to do our first dance. "Homecoming Queen?" is the song they picked. Interesting lyrics—very fitting for Bree, almost like she wrote it herself. We sway to the music a bit before the DJ cuts in with something a little more upbeat, and for the first time in my life, I'm relieved to hear Justin Timberlake. Bree walks off the dance floor when they start playing "Can't Stop the Feeling," but I keep dancing. She's probably going to take some more shots in the bathroom.

I scan the floor looking for Peyton and spy her sitting with Lowery at a table. He stands up, grabs her hand, and leads her to the bar. Then they walk out the gym doors. Are they leaving already? I'm so laser focused on them that I don't notice Bree standing there.

"You okay?" She asks with her eyebrows stitched together.

I nod. Then I nod some more.

"Okay, I need to go out to my car. Ran out of supplies." She looks at me with her eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, alright. I'll walk you out."

We're heading across the parking lot when she starts laughing. "Holy hell!" she shouts. "I guess she's not a lesbian after all!"

My eyes follow to where her finger points. Lowery has Peyton backed up against a tree. I swear to God it's like my guts turn to liquid. I feel sick, dizzy, full of rage. He's kissing her. Kissing her! And she...she has her hands in his hair like she's totally into it.

It's as if someone just punched me in the face. I don't know whether to strike back or walk away. 

Logan Lowery? He's so not good enough for her.

Peyton must have heard Bree because she stops, pulls away from him, and looks over his shoulder at us. Her eyes come to rest on my face, and coward that I am, I turn away. I turn to Bree and say, "Got enough supplies for me?"

As we sit in her car trading shots from the bottle, I just keep getting more and more irate. I'm not even sure if I'm mad at her or him. Mostly him.

She's never even been on a date. I'm pretty sure she's never been kissed. Until tonight. And Logan Lowery is the one who gets to kiss her first? It's such bullshit. I take another swig of Fireball. It's sweet and hot and feels so right.

The more I drink, the less I care about any of it. It feels good not to care. It feels okay.

When we go back into the dance, I spot them sitting at a table. The little bastard is looking bored, playing with a candle. Idiot. Dance with her!

Bree excuses herself—again—and leaves me there watching them alone.

I decide, right then and there, to screw it. Screw everything. She should be asked to dance. I make my way through the people and tables until I reach them.

Logan doesn't even look up when I ask Peyton. She glances at him for a second then stands and says, "sure, let's dance."

Then it's like everything is in slow motion. We walk side by side to the dance floor, my heart thudding, my stomach doing flips. I take her hand and that spark shoots up my arm like always. When I wrap my arm around her, it feels like coming home. Her skin underneath the thin silk is warm, pulsing with energy. Her waist is hard beneath my fingertips, the muscle flexing as she moves. She smells like fire and vanilla, warm spices and earth. I just want to breathe her in, bury her inside me, and never let her go.

We sway to "Distance," by Christina Perri for a while. When she pulls away a bit, I almost startle.

"Where's Bree?" She asks.

Bree? Who's Bree. Oh yeah...I don't want to think about her. "She's most likely throwing up in the bathroom," I finally answer.

She just nods, so I explain that Bree drinks too much. Then we continue to move to the music. 

"What do you see in Lowery?" I ask, not really wanting to hear her answer.

"I don't know. He's pretty cool."

I squeeze her, a reflex I guess. Then turn her in another direction. "He's a shithead," I say under my breath.

She lowers her head, but I can still see her smile. "You're just saying that because he's not super social. Not everyone can be homecoming king, Chaplin."

She's such a smartass. "You wear me out, girl."

"I know," is all she says back.

"Well, judging by the passion with which he was trying to suck your face off, I'd say he likes you."

She's silent for a few beats, then she pulls me closer to her and looks up into my eyes. "Nah," she says, "he only likes the idea of me."

I can't help but smile as I remember saying the same thing to her about Bree. The music starts to wind down, and I know I'm running out of time. "Girl looks good on you, Thomas," I finally say. Pretty stupid thing to say.

"Yeah, I clean up all right."

I step back, holding her away from me, and look at her standing there with dark mascara on her lashes making her eyes shimmer silver, and lips raw and pink from the kiss she shared with another. Her dress that clings to curves I didn't realize she had, her legs strong and lean that taper into those little ankle boots.

She glows like the moon on a dark winter night, silvery white and full of mystery. I pull her back to me and whisper in her ear. "You're very pretty. I don't know if you know that, but you are. Even without the make-up. Even in football pads." Especially in football pads.

She stares at the floor for a couple of beats, swallows, and then looks back up at me. "Thanks."

Then the little pissant taps her on the shoulder. I really might kill him.

"You ready to go?" he asks, shooting me a dirty look.

She nods and they walk off together into the night. And I stand there wondering where they're going on his Harley. Imagining him taking her to some secret place under the moonlight and stripping off her dress, trailing kisses from her jaw down to her neck and down further...stop! Ugh, make it stop.

I need to find Bree and get another drink.