NIGHT CAP

"Goodnight!" I shout at Trix and Travis, the last two left in the great room.

"Night babes!" Trix says.

Brooks leads me away by hand.

"Night kids." I hear Travis's muffled voice from the hallway.

Brooks pulls me into our cozy room. I'm glad I stopped drinking because I can already tell I'll have a hangover tomorrow. Brooks pulls off his shirt the second the door closes behind us. I can't help but laugh into his chest. I look down and see the glitter on my hands. I can almost taste the hairspray that's engulfing my body.

Damnit, Trix. Had to be '80s.

"We should shower."

"You read my mind," Brooks smirks.

"Separately," I insist. "I have to clean my hair for days."

"Tease," Brooks groans, dropping his hands from my waist.

"You love it," I quip.

Brooks rolls his eyes. "I'll go first."

"Thank you."

I spin on my heels and take in our room. It's like a battlefield, littered with the casualties of a 1980s piñata. I pick up the unworn neon colored tights and spandex crop top and shove them into my suitcase. I throw the legwarmers on top. My feet find Brooks's tracksuit hoodie and I toss it into his corner.

OK. Bedroom clean enough.

I unclip the side of my hair and try to comb through the hairspray and gel. Just as I start, I hear the shower turn off. Brooks comes into the room, towel around his waist.

"Quick enough?" He asks.

"Every girl's dream," I quip. I cross the floor and rest my hands on the hem of his towel. I plant tiny kisses along his collarbone. Maybe it's the buzz. Maybe it's the fact I'm losing the buzz. Maybe it's the towel. Fuck, do I want him.

"Em," Brooks groans above me.

"Jay," I answer, reaching up to kiss his neck.

"Shower."

Brooks moves out of my personal space and I find myself deflated. I'm not sure why I expect him to always be in the mood for me. Maybe because he was 10 minutes ago.

"Fine."

I undress in front of him, everything but my jewelry. He rolls his eyes at me, smirking from across the room. I leave the bathroom door open behind me so he can watch me shower.

I lose myself to the steam.

My whole shower I thought about the night. It was no roaring 20s party, but damn if there's not something about the glam of the 80s. The music, the movies, the almost tangible nostalgia. The actual tangible outfits. Kudos, Trix.

I brush out my hair and spray my coconut vanilla perfume. Still trying to mask the smell of rouge and glitter. I throw on an oversized sweater that just barely covers my black panties. The door is closed, no doubt Brooks shut it to curb his temptation. I push it open and see that Brooks is already dressed in gym shorts and a hoodie. Honestly, I'm surprised he put on clothes.

"Done," I announce myself, stepping into the room.

"An hour later," he teases.

"Record time, I thought," I joke.

The fire is already crackling in its crate. I pull the blankets onto the floor and sit with my back propped against the bed. Brooks sits down next to me, holding an old shoebox in his hands. He puts it on his lap and looks at me, smirking.

"I only have questions," I laugh.

"Don't hate me, but," Brooks starts, opening the lid of the shoebox just enough that I still cannot see inside. "I've been collecting shit. At my mom's. Saving stuff."

"Saving stuff?" I ask. My hands, getting nervous, trace the cable knit lines on the blanket.

"Us stuff. You and me stuff." Brooks removes the lid and moves the box to the spot in front of the blanket.

The flickering glow of the fire dances on the top polaroid. The first of many photos. Everything in the box is orangey in this light. Eerie almost. Brooks picks up the top photo and, grinning, holds it out to me.

"Jesus Christ," I yelp.

I'm staring at a photo of the first day of sixth grade –staring at the oversized backpacks Trix and I are wearing –staring at Brooks and his mom next to us. Mini Brooks and his cheesy grin are staring up at me from the photo.

"Bad, I know." Brooks laughs next to me. He's already fishing another item from the box.

"Then there's this," he says, wincing.

I take the photo and laugh at out. Yes, I lol in real life.

Brooks, Nate, and Alex are maybe eight years old, all wearing pinnie jerseys. Nate is holding a soccer ball and Alex has an orange peel wedged in his mouth.

"These are amazing!" I laugh. I reach for the box, drawing it away from the fire and closer to me. I need to get a better look at the loot inside.

"How on EARTH do you have this?" I almost scream, giggling like a schoolgirl. Like the girl I am in the photo I'm holding.

"Your 9th grade photo? Why on EARTH wouldn't I have it?" Brooks laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"I'm scarred, like for life." I shake my head, staring at the braces and the terribly flat-ironed hair. I will never forgive myself for the homemade headband I decided to wear on picture-day.

"This one's my favorite," Brooks says, picking out another polaroid.

I lean over for it but he lifts it high above his head, out of my reach. I move into his lap and straddle him, lifting my arm for the picture. He laughs and tosses me off but drops the picture in my lap.

I flip it over and a butterfly swarms somewhere inside me. My stomach, maybe. Or maybe my heart.

The snapshot shows three girls, visibly plastered, laughing in the light of a bonfire. I'm wearing denim shorts and a scoop neck tank. My sunglasses still perched on my wavy hair even though it's nighttime. I would recognize outfit #18 anywhere.

This photo was taken the first day I saw Brooks. Well, re-saw him after 9 years.

"What? Not what you were expecting?" Brooks asks.

"I don't even remember taking it. Who had a camera that night?" I ask, smiling at the piece of paper.

"Better question is who could even operate a camera that night?" Brooks laughs.

"Seriously." I stare at me in the middle, at each one of my arms flung around Meg and Trix's shoulder. I feel Brooks watching me and I turn to look at him. "Why's it your favorite?"

"It's my favorite, because," Brooks pauses. He leans into me and tucks my loose hair behind my ear. He's soul-gazing again. "It's the day you became someone I know and not just someone I remembered."

His. Words. Though. He says these things to me and I swear he's not a real human. Yes, back to the demi-god theory.

I just look at him. He's golden in front of the fireplace. He's golden in front of me. What a fucking view.

I lean in and part his lips with mine. I drop the polaroid from my hand and run my fingers through his hair.

"Thank you," I whisper against him.

"For?"

"Being someone I know now," I answer.

Brooks smiles and shakes his head before looking back at the box. He's digging again and I can tell he's looking for something specific. It makes me wonder how well he knows the contents of this old shoebox. It makes me wonder how many times, if any, over the last six months he spent looking at them.

Finally, his hand withdraws from the box. A smile dances onto his lips when he looks at it. He turns to me and holds it up in the space between us.

"These kids aren't so bad to remember, though," Brooks says, his voice almost shaky.

Prom. As in THE prom. As in the moment I didn't know then was the beginning of the rest of my life.