The Cheat Sheet

My lungs deflate, and I turn my back to the meeting I should be in. “Are we talking about the video?”

“Yes. And Nathan, I’m so sorry! You know how I get when I drink tequila. Drunk Bree is a territorial hussy, and I said a lot of crap about you having feelings for me and me stain-removing other women from your life, but it was the drink talking. It was all tequila’s fault.”

I can’t speak, because I don’t know what to say. A tumbleweed rolls across my thoughts.

I let myself dream too much this morning. I should have known better. Bree has been telling me for six years that she’d never want to date me. Why, after one drunken speech, did I think her feelings had changed?

“Right.” I force a small chuckle because I will not get weird and lose her over this. “I thought so. Don’t worry about it. It’s forgotten.”

“A-are you sure? Do we need to talk more about this? Do you need more convincing? Because we’re such good friends it would practically be incest if we dated! Can you even imagine?!” She laughs weakly.

My hand clenches at my side because, yes, I can imagine. And it looks nothing like incest to me.

I feel like I just stepped on a rusty nail while barefoot. I take in a deep breath and rub the back of my neck. “Seriously, we’re good, Bree. I believe you. But I’ve got to get into this meeting.”

“Oh right! Sure! So sorry to bug you. We can talk later.”

“Definitely.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, I’ll text you when practice is over. Probably around 6:30.”

“Great!” she says in an overly peppy voice that grates on my shriveled nerves. “I’ll make veggie lasagna.”

I sigh at her obvious attempts to neutralize the situation. I’m so tired of neutral. I’m ready to provoke the hell out of something. “You don’t have to do that. We can just order takeout and I’ll pick it up on my way home.”

“No! I want to! It’s the least I can do after all of this. I’ll make lasagna and we’ll play Mario like normal and everything will be great!”

Yep. Completely normal.

Everything will be great.

I get home after practice to the smell of Bree’s amazing veggie lasagna and the sight of her buzzing around my kitchen and dancing to “Do You Believe in Magic?” Bree worked in the kitchen of a little diner after school from the time we met until she graduated high school. I tried to get a job there to spend more time with her, but my parents found out and made me quit. They didn’t want me focusing on anything besides my game, and since my parents were pretty well off, I never actually needed a job.

Bree’s parents, however, worked hard for every dime they made, and so did Bree. I don’t know how she did it all—school, dance, and work—but she did. Part of me was envious of her and the way she was able to work and save up to buy her own car. Oh man was it a beater, but it was hers. Everything was handed to me and even then usually spoon-fed. I drove a forty-thousand-dollar truck at age sixteen. Bree’s bumper was held on with neon green duct tape.

I can’t complain too much because my parents got me to where I am now, but something in me apparently hasn’t completely forgiven them for how hard they drove me to success since any time I see one of their names on my caller ID, I have to take a deep breath before answering.

All I wanted was football and neon green duct tape, and I always got the feeling that my parents looked at me and saw nothing but a way to ensure their financial security and status for the rest of their lives. Football was the only life they wanted me to live.

But enough about my parents.

Bree is an incredible cook, but I also know she hates cooking, which is why I feel bad watching her try to make up for what happened last night. Although, I’ll admit, she doesn’t look like she’s hating it currently with the way she’s swaying her hips to the music.

She doesn’t see me yet, so with a smile, I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe as I watch Bree lean over the island to drop a few dashes of parmesan in a salad bowl with a shimmy. Her hair bounces around her shoulders like it’s just as peppy as she is.

Suddenly, she becomes aware of me and her head flies up. Her cheeks only turn pink for a fraction of a second before her dancing becomes even more dramatic.

“You’re such a twerp standing there watching me!” she shouts over the loud music as she starts dancing her way over. She’s throwing out a fishing line and reeling me in. She’s taking me to the car wash. We’re grocery shopping.

I don’t say anything, just smile as Bree wiggles her arms like ocean waves all the way to stand in front of me. Bree is the most incredible ballerina, and to see her dance is truly magic, but oh boy, she’s an adorably atrocious modern dancer. Her hair is twisting and twirling around her, and she’s wearing a dark burgundy leotard with teeny tiny crisscross straps all over the place. I don’t know how she got into that thing. The back dips low, showing off a lot of skin as well as her black sports bra. Baggy grey joggers with the elastic band rolled down sit low on her hips. It shows off each of her curves and athletic form, and I’m hoping my tongue is not hanging out the side of my mouth.

Bree has stepped straight out of my dreams, the sensation only increasing as her dance moves turn more modern and she twerks in front of me like we’re in a club instead of listening to phrases like if the music is groovy. She’s trying to make me laugh, and I’m just trying not to stare like a perv.

I can’t hold it in anymore when she turns to face me, wiggling her hips dramatically and pretending to run her hands all over my body without touching me. Her expression is so over the top: scrunched nose, biting lip, and the most innocent song playing in the background. A laugh finally cracks from my chest, and I look to the side instead of letting myself put my hands on her hips and pull her up close to me so we can really touch.

Practically incest.