Forgotten First Kiss

First photo. Jeremy?

Next photo. Jeremy Hotston and me?

It went on. Jeremy smiling.

Me, smiling while Jeremy and I hugged—closely. Like he owned me. Or vice versa. Like I wanted to own him.

I scrolled faster. All of the pictures looked like they were happening in a parallel universe. This had to be my evil twin, Bizarro Danica, who’d taken over my life and kept me drugged in a basement while she did terrible things with my name and reputation. Argh!

Photos, photos, all with Jeremy.

Finally, cooking pictures. Jeremy at the stove.

Me at the stove, wearing a man’s shirt—that looked like the one Jeremy had been wearing in the previous photo.

I choked on the back of my tongue. Me, in Jeremy’s shirt? Say it wasn’t so! I wasn’t wearing Jeremy’s clothes because I’d … No! I wasn’t that kind of girl. I was a good girl. With morals. A girl who not only didn’t sleep with Jeremy Hotston, one who didn’t sleep around at all. One who was saving that part of life for the Real Deal. The big M-word.

The hyperventilation resurged. I shoved my phone between the couch cushions and ran for the back door. Even autumn air couldn’t stop these dramatic gulps of horror. No, please say I’m not living that life!

How could I be sure? No way was I contacting Jeremy Hotston. Never. Not a chance in heck. Even if I did and if I asked him point blank whether … anything had happened between us, what incentive would a guy like that have to tell me the truth? I’d never be able to trust his answer, one way or another.

Oh, this was the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to me in my life. Beyond it. More than if I’d sold the gym and moved to the city.

My head pounded. I went back inside, grabbed my purse, and then locked up my house and headed to my car for a drive. To my mother’s house.

I know! Brainstorm! I got my best ideas while driving. I’ll book an appointment with a gynecologist. She can tell whether I’ve … you know.

I couldn’t even think the term, for the horror of it. Surely I hadn’t betrayed myself to that degree while I was suffering. But if Jeremy Hotston compromised me while I was in a compromised state, I’d compromise him right into his grave.

Okay, killing him would be extreme, but there would be consequences. I’d think of some punishment that fit the crime. Prison time, shame-fame, public scorning, a big payout.

No, I couldn’t go to Mom’s. I wasn’t even allowed to drive. Sitting in my car, like a fool, I pulled out my phone again.

More, more, more photos. Even one selfie-video of me wrapped around him, wearing my tennis skirt as we spun.

I looked happy, elated even. In love. Jeremy just looked semi-bored mixed with bewildered. Not besotted. Not even particularly pleased.

What twist had taken place in the space-time continuum to make Jeremy look at me that way? Disinterested. Uninvolved. Not in love with me.

My head throbbed again. I didn’t want to examine it too closely, but I’d known for ages that Jeremy had a thing for me. Always, in fact. I’d brushed it off. He was Jeremy Hotston. Goofball. Class bozo. I indulged it, didn’t encourage it, but I was never cruel, never told him to buzz off. In fact, I’d defended him when my parents and sister had gossiped about that shirtless, painted-blue thing at the football game.

Well, until Angelica’s wedding when the jerk decided to prank our family and took it too far, that was.

Pranks. Argh, but I hated pranks. So much. And pranksters by correlation. The minute Jeremy crossed from the clown act to get everyone’s attention to play-tricks-on-people-to-make-them-look-bad territory, I washed my hands of him. Instantly.

You don’t just go and pull a prank on my older sister’s wedding. Not when a prank is what had caused her life’s biggest pain in the first place.

Enough of this. Enough of all of this. Whatever had happened while I was brainless, I didn’t need it now. I swiped through the pictures, deleting them all as I went.

Well, except the one of the meal with the chicken and the strawberry dessert. I needed that one for reference. But the others went straight to the trash. Where they belonged.

Like Jeremy Hotston himself.

Oh, and there was another one with food. What was that, fish? That was me, cleaning a fish. A rainbow trout! What, really? I’d cleaned a fish? I loved fish. Loved fishing. Was there any way I’d caught it? And then, there in the pan, the fish sizzled, covered in a flour dusting. Mmm. The skin probably got crispy and the meat probably was flaky and divine, and …

Um, that was a photo of my arms, turning the fish in the pan. Wait, wait, wait. I’d cooked something? Something good?

Flip, flip, flip. I looked back through to find any other cooking shots. Sure enough, interspersed, there were several of food—with hints of my involvement in its preparation. A hand here, a sweater or t-shirt in the background there.

I can cook?

I flopped back against the driver’s seat. This went beyond unbelievable. Like Tennille said, I was Drive-Through Danica, cooker of nothing. My mom didn’t like cooking, was never taught to cook, was too busy being Angelica’s caregiver to learn or to teach me. I just had no fundamentals. Oh, but I had always wished I could cook.

Had Jeremy Hotston taught me to cook?