Don't Date Your Brother's Best Friend

“Anytime,” I said, putting my arm around her.

I gave her a squeeze, kissed the top of her head. Then I noticed that they’d all stopped chattering and were staring at us. I dropped my arm from around Sarah Jo instantly. I had slipped up in front of her friends, in the bar where dozens of people could see. Shit.

“So is that why we got free queso?” Layla crowed. Her friends hooted and laughed.

“No, nothing like that. It’s because I’m Ryan’s sister.”

“And for the record, ya’ll are some of our best queso customers. It was a free appetizer to thank you for your business.”

“Afraid we’re gonna go to Bryant’s for the chicken wings and cockroach special?” Layla said.

“It’s the queso and the clean tables that keep you coming back,” I returned.

They took off. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d screwed up, that we hadn’t covered well enough. I’d reached for her naturally, hugged her, kissed her head. I hadn’t been on guard, hadn’t been paying attention to how it looked. Acting on impulse wasn’t going to work. We had agreed to sneak around, keep our relationship from her dad and brother. Her dad didn’t need a health setback, and if Ryan went ranting and raving all over town about his sister and me, it’d affect her dad’s recovery. I couldn’t let her be hurt. Not because I was careless. She deserved better. I wanted to text her and say it wouldn’t happen again, that I’d be more careful, but I knew if her friends saw her get a text message from me it would add fuel to their suspicions. I was going to have to leave it alone and not make things worse. Even though I wanted to see her. Even though I missed her.

19

Sarah Jo

My dad was asleep in front of whatever was on the History Channel, his phone left in the kitchen where he hadn’t heard it. So he was fine, and he’d even taken the medicine from the evening slot of his pill organizer. I cleaned up the kitchen, put in some laundry, and tried to call Luke. I tried four times. I wanted to make sure he knew I wasn’t mad that he’d made a mistake and hugged me in front of my friends. We’d covered pretty well, and I thought they believed it. Layla was the only one who might still be suspicious, and if I had to, I could tell her the truth. She could be trusted not to gossip about it; she just liked to know everything. I tried to call him again. It went straight to voicemail.

“Hey, Luke, it’s me. I just wanted to make sure you were okay with what happened. I don’t think it was a big deal, so don’t worry about it, okay?” I said, and hung up.

I took a shower, leaned out twice to check my phone. No word from him, no calls or messages. I rinsed my hair under the wonderful hot water with great pressure since he had fixed the shower weeks ago. He had done that out of thoughtfulness and consideration for me. It meant so much to me that he’d taken care of it. I felt uncomfortable about the way I’d left things with him, about blowing off his hug and leaving without telling him goodbye. It was to hide my feelings for him and our relationship. Logically I knew that, but I couldn’t help thinking I might have upset him. If he’d just call me back, that would help. I could explain and find out if I needed to fix things with him, or if we were okay. I put on my pajamas and went to bed, stressing out about how this could screw up the best thing in my life. I made myself turn over on my side, pull my quilt up to my ear and shut my eyes. I had work in the morning. I couldn’t lie awake stewing over boy drama.

I counted backwards from a thousand. Tried to read a library book. Tried to list things I was grateful for, only to discover that a lot more of them were kinds of food than people. I needed to see Luke. I checked my phone again. No calls, voicemails, texts, emails, or Snaps. The clock read 1:14 in the morning. He wasn’t on call at the station, so he was probably asleep. I got up, resigned to going over there. I wasn’t going to get any sleep until I knew we weren’t going to bed angry, either of us. I threw on the same jeans I’d worn earlier, not worried about the ketchup stain on them from my cheeseburger. I pulled on a sweatshirt and brushed my still-wet hair into a ponytail. I didn’t even bother with makeup. His feelings were more important than mascara, which was saying something because even on my sleepiest morning, I still put on mascara before going into the lumberyard.