Possessive Best Friend

“Will you?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Who knows. Maybe I can open a dealership in Texas.”

“That would be a good way out.”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m just saying. Don’t kick yourself for not having a clear path. Feeling lost might be better than feeling trapped.”

I give him a look and shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He laughs and throws an arm around me. I’m surprised at how good it feels when he pulls me against him. “I’m bringing the mood down. It’s a party, right?”

“Right.” I grin up at his face.

He hops down off the truck and helps me down after him. “You know how to play cornhole, or do they not let you play our peasant games up in the manor?”

“They definitely don’t, but I still know how to play.” I grin at him and push up against him. “You want to be on my team or against me?”

“Team,” he says. “I’m not stupid enough to go up against Lora Lofthouse.”

I grin at him and we head over to the cornhole set. We take over and play for a while, and the night dissolves into a blur of laughter, joking, and reminiscing around the fire.

Exactly three hours after I got dropped off, I get a text.Johnson: All good?

Me: All good.

Johnson: I’m standing down by the road for when you’re ready.

Me: You didn’t have to do that!

Johnson: Oh, I know. I’m just off. But don’t rush on my account.I shake my head and put my phone away. “What?” Dean asks.

“I gotta get going.”

“So soon?”

“Sorry.” I give in to my urge and put my hand on his chest. Sure enough, it’s pure muscle. He smirks and tilts his head. “Our security guy is here to get me.”

“Really?” he asks.

I let my hand drop. “Really. I think he feels bad for me.”

“Rough.”

“I know. But he’s a nice guy.”

“Well, hey. It was good to see you again.”

“Yeah. Good to see you, too.”

I stand there and stare at him, and I remember the way I felt back behind the school all those years ago, waiting for my ride. I was so nervous and afraid, and I knew he didn’t know what I wanted, but I still wanted it anyway. I realize with a start that I still want it, I’ve been wanting it for years.

“Give me your number,” he says. “I got a new one for work a few years ago and stopped using the other one.”

I rattle it off and he sends me a text. I smile and nod. “Got it.”

“I’ll see you again soon then, Lora Lofthouse.”

“Bye, Dean.”

I linger then turn and walk away as fast as I can. I feel his eyes on me until I slip back up through the woods and head along the dirt road.

Johnson’s parked a little ways up. I climb into the family sedan and he turns to look at me. “Had fun?” he asks.

I nod once. “More than I expected.”

He smiles. “Good to hear. You should have some fun while you’re at home.” He turns the car on and heads back home.

I stare out the window, surprised at my own melancholy.2DeanI stare at Lora Lofthouse’s Facebook page for a full two minutes.

I’m exhausted, but fortunately not hungover. If I had kept drinking, I’d be a wreck today, but I’m not stupid. I know my dad isn’t about to go easy just because it was my birthday the night before.

I didn’t know half the people there. I have plenty of friends, sure, but now that my dad’s on the town council, I’ve found a lot of friends I didn’t even know about are suddenly coming out of the woodworks. It’s not so bad, and anyway, he’s just the councilor for a small town. It’s not like we have any power to do anything.

It’s not like I’m a Lofthouse.

“There you are.”

I looked up at my dad standing in the doorway of my office. I expected this visit. I click out of Lora’s page as quickly as I can as he comes over and sits down in the chair in front of my desk.

He looks tired, but he always does. He says it’s from working so hard. His thinning hair is going gray and his skin is wrinkled. He smells like cigarettes, even though he quit a couple years ago. He’s wearing a blue short-sleeve polo shirt tucked into khaki pants and looks like he’s about to go play golf or something.

“How’s it going, Councilor?” I say.

He grins. “Not bad, not bad. You have a good time last night?”

“I did,” I say. “But not too much.”

“Good boy. Work comes first.”

I nod. That’s always been his motto. Work comes first.

Even when my mother was sick and dying. Even when I was growing up. Work comes first.

“What can I do for you?” I ask him.

“Just checking in.” He tilts his head. “Your old man can’t come say hello?”