I have never been so stoked for a football game!
I could barely concentrate all day long, and the teachers pretty much gave us all a pass. The football players and Boys’ Varsity cheerleaders wore their uniforms to school and the whole place felt different somehow. Alive. We even had a pep rally after lunch, and if you didn’t have school spirit before, you’d be hard-pressed not to have it now.
Although I’ve been looking forward to homecoming since the first day of school, I show up fashionably late. From the parking lot, I can hear the crowds yell and the band explode. Excitement rushes through me as I shut the car door.
“Five minutes,” I warn Momma again through the passenger window. She rolls her eyes in response and Dad laughs as they slowly move forward through the parking lot to look for a spot. She agreed to drop me off a few car lengths past the gate, and they promised to wait a few minutes before coming in themselves. As a freshman, I must protect my budding reputation.
I pay my five bucks and squeeze through the people gathered at the entrance. Everybody and their momma came out tonight, high school sports being major social events in a small town like mine and county rivalries really raising the stakes. I want to get down to the student section at the far end of the field before my family comes in and decides to start snapping pictures or something; but at the same time, I can’t very well sprint through this crowd or appear overly eager.
So I sashay around the track, weaving through the throngs of people in my cute skinny jeans tucked tightly into my tall brown boots. I scan the bleachers for my date as nonchalantly as possible, my cold hands tucked deep into the big pocket of my PCHS fitted hoodie. Today’s ensemble: Game wear. Casual, yet cute.
Near the far goalpost, I spot Wolf yelling from the bleachers and nearly lose my breath. He is standing in the glow of the enormous lights, bare-chested, with maroon and gold war paint smeared all over his skinny torso and face, pumping both hands into the air and high-fiving a crew of fellow fanatics.
I stop. And stare. And admire his cut-up abs and ribs as he cheers on the Stallions.
“Ericka!” he shouts. “Ericka! Aquí! Arriba!” I smile at him and scramble up the bleachers double-time so he’ll stop screaming my name and waving his arms, which is enough to both please and embarrass me at the same time. Although I don’t get to sit right beside him (his chest is the C in PCHS), I squeeze in with a few older girls who are in my same situation, dates of the other football-fan warriors.
“You’re Ericka?” a pretty brunette asks me. I nod and smile big. I totally recognize her. Donna Mays, student body president. “Cool. I’m Donna. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I say and force my eyes to the football field before my uncontrollable smile scares her away. I’m sitting beside the student body president, and she knows my name!
That’s yet another fantastic thing about being David Wolfenbaker’s date. Even though he’s a freshman—just like me—he runs with the upperclassmen. One, because of his older brother, and two, because he plays basketball with the big boys. I sit perched in the student section, happier than I’ve ever been and extremely nervous around this crowd. This is my first big game as a PCHS Stallion and I want to fit in.
So as Sarah and Mackenzie (who look totally amazing out on the field) lead us through chants and cheers with their squad, I’m right in the moment, hollering and stomping on the aluminum stands with all my might, while keeping it controlled and pretty. Seventeen’s “Homecoming Tips” said that guys like girls who are interested in sports, but that they still like girls, so keep your face soft and your voice girly but not screechy. I don’t understand football, so I pretty much follow Donna Mays’s every move, while constantly remaining aware of myself so I won’t come off as a stalker. The few times I do cheer of my own accord have nothing to do with the game of football and everything to do with my spunky friends on the sidelines. The way Sarah catapults herself into the air without a running start seems scientifically impossible. And Mackenzie’s bounce and pep are contagious, which fills me with both pride and sadness. But my favorite moments during the game, while cheering the home team on to victory, are when Wolf leans forward to check on me, smiling or reaching for a long high five.
“So I guess I’ll see you in a little while?” he asks as we make our way to the front gate, inching forward with the massive crowd.
“Yep,” I say, tongue-tied and embarrassed. “We’ll probably pick you up after Kimi.”
He flashes my favorite mischievous grin and cold chills pop up all over my body, as usual. Then his friends grab him and start a “P-C-H-S” chant. He goes crazy with them, obnoxiously ramming people as they cheer and pump their arms. I shake my head and giggle, then lose him in the crowd.
Finally able to relax, I move forward as if I’m floating. The band is still playing our school song and the buzz in the air is invigorating. As I head toward the front gate, stepping on confetti and basking in the bright lights of the field, I can see why “the big game” is so big. Homecoming is magic. I take a deep breath of the brisk autumn air and think about how worried I was on the first day of school about fitting in with my fellow PCHS Stallions. Moving along with the crowd, wearing their colors and knowing their chants, I finally feel like I’m one of them.
And now it is officially Friday night. The part of Friday night that required me to shave my legs, paint my nails Strawberry Explosion, and borrow Momma’s perfume. The part of Friday night that means Ericka Jo Winstead will be going to the homecoming dance with David fill-in-the-blank Wolfenbaker.
Sarah’s limo will be here any minute. I’m usually the kind of girl who runs late, but since I started my homecoming body prep at four o’clock this afternoon, the moment I got off the school bus, the only thing I have to do between the game and the dance is change clothes and fix my hair. I’m counting the seconds ’til she gets here, listening to the Rihanna playlist I made for my iPod. I pace around my room in my underwear and high heels, checking my hair every few minutes to make sure it hasn’t moved.
I ended up going with a Seventeen style after all, although not one as complicated as Kimi’s. They call it the half-pinned style and they swear it takes only forty-five seconds. I scrunched a little gel in my naturally wavy hair and then went to work on random pieces with a big curling iron. Then I parted it on the side and swept it up just above my left ear with a bobby pin. Last, I smoothed my bangs over to the right side and left the rest loose. Simple. And it only took thirty minutes.
I peek between the slats of my bedroom blinds, looking out the window for the millionth time. Still no limo. I’m waiting ’til the last possible minute to slip into my dress so that I don’t A) spill something on it or B) sweat through it in my nervousness.
I turn back to my room and admire the reddish-pink dress hanging from my closet door. It drapes off the shoulders and ends right above the knee, but what I really love about it is that, for the first time in my life, I look like I’ve got shape… an hourglass shape at that. The thick material is scrunchy and fits tightly across my chest and waist, then flares out dramatically at my hips like a Judy Jetson dress. This is exactly what that salesgirl from the mall, Rachel, meant about “dressing to your strengths and downplaying your weaknesses.” I’m still trying to decide if it’s too dressy to wear again to church on Sunday before my momma has to take it back to her friend.
“Ricki Jo!” my dad calls down the hall.
My heart stops.
“Your friends are here!”
I squeal, clap, twirl around, and jump—then collect myself, moving with lightning-quick speed while remaining acutely aware of maintaining the integrity of my hairstyle. I dab at my armpits one last time with a kitchen towel and then unhook my dress.
“Momma!” I shout at the same time that she knocks on my door.
She enters my room, smiling, and holds my dress open as I step into it. She pulls it up and I slip my arms through, feeling the smooth liner against my body. I smile wide and start to hyperventilate.
“Breathe,” Momma says gently. Before I need to warn her, she oh-so-carefully moves my hair to one side of my back while pulling up the zipper. Then she turns me around to face her and does the unbelievable: She produces makeup.
“Close your eyes,” she says, unwrapping a new vial of LashBlast mascara and sweeping the wand lightly over my eyelashes. “There,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Now pucker.” And, to my surprise, she twists the lid off of a brand-new tube of Berry Cherry lip gloss and slides it over my lips. She stands back and looks at me, fighting the hug I know she’s dying to give. “You look beautiful,” she says with a sigh.
I grin widely up at her and step in front of my full-length mirror. I feel beautiful.
We hear the doorbell ring and a shiver runs from my toes to the top of my head. I open my bedroom door and step out into the hall. I see my dad laughing and slapping his knee and have a small panic attack. He’s telling corny jokes. I just know he’s telling his corny jokes to Sarah.
“Dad,” I complain, clacking down the hallway in my new gold heels. And then I freeze, mortified, when I walk into the living room and see just who he’s telling his corny jokes to.
“Wow,” Wolf whispers.
Back at ya, I think to myself, taking him in. He looks more handsome than I ever thought possible. The black suit he’s wearing looks like it was cut just for him, from the three-button jacket and straight pants down to the cool black shoes that put my dad’s tasseled church loafers to shame. His black shirt underneath is smooth, with the collar turned down crisply over a sleek black and deep pink tie. And it’s not only what he’s wearing, but how he wears it. Like he’s comfortable. Like James Bond, sexy and smooth.
And I guess it’s not only that, but also the way he’s looking at me. The way his lips seem permanently turned up on the ends; how his eyes can’t seem to meet mine but never leave me, either; the surprising bashful quality he has when he finally steps toward me with my corsage. It’s all like my best dream coming true. When he’s next to me, opening the plastic box containing my small corsage (two white roses bound by a dark pink ribbon), I notice two small beads of sweat at his temple, very close to his hairline. He’s nervous. I hold out my hand and silently curse it for shaking. He slips the elastic over my hand and I look down at my wrist, unable to stop smiling.
A flash goes off in my peripheral vision, snapping me out of my love trance. My face flushes a deep red and I’m suddenly embarrassed and very aware that my parents are watching us like spectators at a zoo.
“You look…” Wolf pauses, searching for the right word. “Awesome.”
Awesome? I giggle. He took a while to find the right word and came up with awesome?
“It’s really me,” I joke lightly.
Everything is lighter with him tonight, better, like it always is when it’s just the two of us. I grab his boutonniere from the top of the sofa and concentrate on pinning it to his lapel without stabbing my finger. His cologne is overwhelming. I take a deep breath and bite my tongue because what I want to say is, You make me want to bathe in Abercrombie cologne, you look like you just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad, you are the only guy I know who can pull off a pink tie, you make a simple black suit look like a freaking tuxedo, and you absolutely take my breath away.
“Let’s you two get over by the fireplace for a quick picture,” Momma says, interrupting my visual feast and motioning us over.
We pose awkwardly, neither of us quite sure where to stand or put our hands. Then Momma sits me in her reading chair and positions Wolf behind me. When she tries to get us outside on the front porch, I draw the line.
“Momma, they’re waiting,” I say.
“Oh, all right, sweetie,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You kids have fun. You left me the limo driver’s number? And David’s cell phone number?”
I blush again. “Yes, on the counter,” I say.
She leans in and kisses me, while my dad and I just share an awkward wave. I head for the door, but Wolf shakes my dad’s hand and says, “I’ll take good care of her, Mr. Winstead. Good night, Mrs. Winstead.”
I grab the doorknob and suppress a laugh. The boy really knows how to work a room.
“Ericka, you look gorg!” Kimi says as I climb into the limo. Hip-hop is pumping over the speakers and the inside is lit up with white Christmas lights. I guess the limo pickup order got switched around, ’cause the car is already half full.
Kimi and Sarah are perched on either side of their QB hunk of meat, Jimmy James, at the far end of the car, with their backs to the driver. I feel like I’m a million miles away. For a brief second, I don’t know if I should shimmy up closer to sit sideways beside them and hope with all my might that I don’t get carsick, or just stay put back here. Luckily, Wolf climbs in behind me and pulls me back next to him, facing forward.
“Your dresses are stunning,” I say loudly, and I really mean it. The blue satin strapless dress Sarah’s wearing wraps around her like water, understated and perfect. Kimi’s, on the other hand, is a vibrant orange, which would totally wash me out, but she manages to pull it off. And there’s no surprise that it’s cut low and high for ample cleavage and thigh, respectively.
“What?” Sarah hollers. She literally flows down the leather seats to get closer to us, pulling Jimmy behind her. Then she pushes a red button and says into a small speaker, “We’re good.” On cue, the car rolls forward, down my driveway, and out onto the small country road.
“Stunning,” I repeat, pointing up and down at her and Kimi. Sarah smiles big and leans in to give me a kiss. I feel her gooey lip gloss on my cheek and smile, wiping it off quickly. I also smell the alcohol on her breath and my stomach flips.
“Want a drink?” she asks us mischievously.
“You know it,” Wolf says right away. I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at the eagerness in his voice. “You know, I wanted to wait until I’d talked to your parents, in case they could smell it on my breath or something.”
“Smooth operator!” Jimmy says, giving him props. Wolf half grins, beaming back at the upperclassman. I cock my head to one side, having one of those lightbulb-going-on-over-my-head moments. Is Wolf trying to fit in? Like he has to try!
Kimi opens a compartment and passes him a beer. Just the sight of it gives me the heebie-jeebies, a major full-body tremor. She looks at me with a question in her eyes, but I shake my head.
“Two words,” I say, holding up one finger and then two. “Cow. Poop.”
Everyone laughs heartily and I realize that, as disgusting as last Saturday night’s nightmare in the pasture might have been, I now have my “out” for drinking.
“We’ll let it slide for now,” Wolf says, putting his arm around my shoulders. I shiver. “But once we’re back in town and the whole gang’s here, you gotta at least do one toast. I mean, at least to this guy right here!”
He gets rowdy and Jimmy responds. They do some type of guttural man sound and pound fists across the car.
“Yeah, and I got a bottle of champagne, which tastes way better,” Sarah says, taking a swig of beer. “We can toast Jimmy’s big game!”
“Yeah! You scored, like, a million points,” Kimi gushes. Sarah shoots her a quick back-off glance and Kimi smiles at her like a total brat. I giggle.
As the stone fences rush together outside my window, I turn my attention to the sky, dazzling with a bajillion stars, and sigh. Everything is perfect. As we climb the hill before the Fosters’ house, I start feeling weird about making a stop here to pick up Paul instead of Luke. I don’t even know if Luke will come to the dance at this point, and I’m fighting with myself about whether I should go inside with Kimi.
But it’s a moot point, I realize, as Paul is waiting at the end of his driveway in a simple gray suit. The limo doesn’t pull in, but slows to a stop in the middle of the road. Paul climbs in, Kimi gravitates toward him, and we’re rolling again in less than twenty seconds. Guess Mrs. Foster isn’t as sentimental as Momma, ’cause she didn’t get to snap a single shot. And part of me hoped Luke would be hitching a ride, but I guess that option’s out now.
“Is Luke coming to the dance?” I ask Paul over the music.
He’s pretty focused on opening the bottle of beer Kimi just passed him, but after a big gulp he sighs, smiles, and shakes his head. “Don’t know.”
I want to ask more, but Paul’s lips are suddenly tangled up in Kimi’s, their bodies sending out Do Not Disturb signals.
“Get a room!” Wolf yells at the top of his lungs, and everyone laughs. Paul takes another swig and turns right back to the tongue tango, which seems to inspire Sarah and Jimmy. The hip-hop turns, right at that moment, to an R&B throwback, Usher’s “Nice & Slow,” and Wolf’s knee starts bouncing as he looks out his window. I’m looking out mine as well, awkwardness emanating from both of us.
I want a first kiss. I want it tonight. And I want it from Wolf.
But I don’t want it in front of my friends, ’cause I don’t have the practice and I don’t want to embarrass myself. I am über-aware of my hand, perched on my knee next to Wolf’s and tingling like crazy. I see his pinky finger flinch toward mine and almost gasp out loud. Is the “smooth operator” about to make a move?
“Jimmy!” Wolf yells suddenly, kicking him hard in the calf. He laughs and covers his head as Jimmy breaks angrily away from Sarah and lunges forward.
“Ow! What the hell, Wolfenbaker?” he yells.
“Dude, did you really make the Lincoln County quarterback cry today?”
If Wolf’s plan is to break up the kissing and get everybody back to normal, it works. Jimmy forgets all about making out as he talks about his real first love, reliving every moment of today’s game for the entire fifteen-minute drive to Mackenzie’s house. We laugh, make jokes, and get play-by-plays of the game. And although he might as well be speaking Chinese for all I know about football, I’m glad to be having fun again. I even get a good one in, making fun of Wolf when his voice cracks once, which prompts him to squeeze my knee until I melt into my seat from the warm tingles that run all the way up my thigh.
At the Watts’ McMansion, we pull up to see Mackenzie and Laura posing on the front steps with Mark and his date. I still haven’t caught my breath from flirting with Wolf and wonder if the whole night can sustain this electricity. I feel like I’m on fire. Wolf leans way over my legs to get a good look out the window at Mark’s date, unaware that his touch to the bare skin above my knee sends a shock wave through my system. I don’t move a muscle—I can’t breathe—but the seconds drag by endlessly while he’s draped across my body.
“Ah, she’s not even that cute,” he finally says to no one in particular before peeling his forehead from my window and settling into his seat again. I finally take a breath. He was really interested in Mark’s date, I think to myself, but then I push the thought out of my mind quickly. He chose me.
“Hey, y’all!” Mackenzie suddenly yells, throwing open the limousine door. I nearly fall out, not realizing how much of my weight was leaning on my elbow. She climbs over me without care and sits sideways next to Sarah. Laura, her clone, follows suit and comes inches from stepping on my foot before plopping herself down.
“Did you like that?” Mackenzie giggles. “My new accent? Y’all?” As tired as the I’m-the-new-girl-from-Minnesoooota act is getting, this actually gets a few chuckles from the group. Wolf reaches for a beer and passes it toward her. “No thanks,” she says perkily. He shrugs and passes it to Paul, who’s always ready for another beer.
I gape. “No thanks,” and that’s it? Meanwhile, I have to say “cow poop”?
Wolf suddenly puts one arm around me and reaches over again to lower the back window. “Later, Watts!” he says, leaning forward and gripping my shoulders. Mark barely waves as he opens the door for his date, totally focused on her, a really gorgeous sophomore who’s on Girls’ Varsity. I smile weakly, glad to know I was right about Mark not pining over me but hoping Wolf won’t realize it, too, and trade me back for Mackenzie.
“Oh, that’s my jam!” Kimi cries as Justin Timberlake croons from the speakers. “Turn that up!”
Sarah willingly obliges and the limo begins to resemble a party wagon again. Mackenzie looks drop-dead gorgeous as usual in the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a real-life Miss America pageant dress. Laura looks nice, too, but her simple black dress is nothing compared to the heavenly white masterpiece Mackenzie has on. It’s floor length, satin, and bejeweled. Plus, her hair is perfect. She definitely brought someone in from out of town to get that done, ’cause Aunt Edna’s Beauty Shop never could’ve pulled that off. She flashes me a brilliant smile and I wilt into my seat, effectively intimidated.
Wolf’s eyes are glued to that white dress.
Mackenzie starts snapping pictures of the group, classic photographer that she is, singing along to the pop music and dancing as well as I’ve ever seen anyone dance sitting down. Jimmy and Sarah have their hands up and are rocking back and forth to the music, and Kimi astounds us all by doing sitting body rolls against Paul’s chest.
I’m so proud of myself for listening to Top 40 jams all week in preparation for the dance that I join in, fighting for the attention of my date. I bump shoulders with Wolf and pull faces, knowing that attitude is everything. Basically, I am working it.
“We decided to go stag!” Mackenzie yells over the music, aiming another one of her obnoxious comments my way. “When you go stag, you can have your way with all the boys, right, Laura?”
They crack up and fall into each other on the leather seats. I feel my smile falter but try to shake them off. I’m on my way to the homecoming dance with David Wolfenbaker, haters be damned.
It’s all exactly how I imagined it. The football booster moms transformed the cafeteria into an enchanting ballroom, conjuring a celestial theme complete with glittery spray-painted cardboard moons and suns, and more silver and blue balloons than I’ve ever seen in one place in my entire life. I’m in a beautiful dress and in the arms of David Wolfenbaker as we rock back and forth to Leona Lewis’s “Bleeding Love.” The girls on the sidelines, including upperclassmen, are watching me with a mixture of awe and jealousy. His breath is close, his lips right at the side of my face, and every time he speaks it feels like butterfly kisses on my cheek. Yes, it’s all exactly how I imagined it, except one hundred million times better.
“You having fun?” he asks me.
I pull back and look up into his face. Oh my gosh, it’s so close. I try to speak. Can’t. Nod.
“Good,” he says and squeezes my sides.
The song comes to an end and our bodies separate as an undanceable rock number starts blaring over the speakers. I take a breath. He looks down at me and smiles. “Take a break?” he asks.
I’ll do anything you want me to do, I think, but instead resort to Old Faithful, the smile and nod. He smiles back and does something that stops my heart completely: He grabs my hand.
David Wolfenbaker is holding my hand.
He leads me off the dance floor and over to the table our group claimed when we first got here. I follow, but I can’t stop looking down at our hands. That’s mine. And that’s his. And there they are, pressed together, his long, skinny fingers intertwined between each of mine. My whole arm is tingling and my face is on fire as we weave through the crowd.
It takes us only half a minute or so to work our way over to the table, but it feels like an eternity in heaven. When we reach our group he gives my hand a squeeze and lets go, reaching across a sour-faced Mackenzie for his bottle of water. I briefly catch her eye, but we both look away quickly. I don’t know whether she saw him finally make his move, and I don’t want anything to ruin the euphoria of it all.
It seems weird that the prettiest girl in our whole freshman class has been sitting over here by herself most of the night. I look around for her shadow, Laura, and when I finally spot her springy curls, I’m a little surprised to see her grinding on the dance floor with that guy Trevor from my old school. I mean, he was in her top five and everything, but last weekend at my house she acted like Luke was the be-all and end-all.
“You wanna dance?” I hear Wolf ask. I swing my head back toward him with a big smile on my face. Of course I want to dance—want to be close to him, breathe in his scent, sway my hips with his, keep my mouth positioned alertly in first-kiss mode.
But then I realize that Mackenzie is scootching back in her chair and standing up… that Mackenzie is flashing her dazzling smile and nodding up at Wolf… that Mackenzie is the girl he’s talking to. “You don’t mind, right, Ericka?” he asks me, grinning.
Like, one second ago, I put my heart in this boy’s hands, and now he’s holding that same hand out for a girl who’s eight million times prettier than I am, richer than I am, and cooler than I am. A girl he almost asked to the dance. A girl who has stated, on the record, that she likes him… like that.
And he wants to know if I mind?
Sure that my eyes have already given me away, I pull my shoulders back anyway and look up defiantly at the two most perfect-looking human beings I’ve ever met. “I don’t even like this song,” I say with a shrug, summoning up all the nonchalance I can muster.
He flashes a big smile and gives me a nod before pulling her along. She flashes me a similar smile and I want to scratch her eyes out. Or yell, “He’s still my date!” or “He still chose me!” But instead I cross my arms and watch her float off after him, her soft white dress a vision under the lights. Pouting, I flop down grumpily into a seat at our table and crane my neck to keep an eye on them. At least it’s a Michael Jackson song. Hard to get too romantic or bump-and-grindy to “Billie Jean.”
“I’m having the best time!” Laura gushes from out of nowhere, plopping down beside me at the table and completely startling me. Her face is so close to mine and so exuberant that she effectively diverts my attention from my Wolf-Mackenzie stakeout. She has a silly smile splashed across her face and her eyes are dancing as she grabs my hands. “This is the greatest night of my life.”
I roll my eyes. I felt the same way about five minutes ago.
She fishes for a tissue in her purse and launches into an enthusiastic monologue about Trevor and how she’s liked him all year and how Mackenzie dared her to ask him to dance and how now they’re practically already in love. I listen in awe, shocked that she’s even speaking to me. Then again, she could have been sent as a diversionary tactic for Mackenzie. I narrow my eyes at her as she raves about Trevor’s adorable dimples while still keeping tabs on the dance of betrayal going on behind us.
“Isn’t he the cutest?” Laura squeals, clutching my forearm. She pulls me up and we walk toward the window next to our table.
“Totally,” I say, playing along as best I can.
She cranks the window open and I feel a gust of cool air blow through. Wow. I hadn’t realized how hot it is in here. I touch the sides of my hair and discover that it’s soaking wet. Gross. I stand up on tiptoe and see that every one of Mackenzie’s hairs is in place, which only makes me want to rip them all out. I realize how tightly my fists are clenched at my sides, how tense my jaw is.
As Michael Jackson finally brings things to a close (yeah, we get it—she’s not your lover), I impatiently tap my foot double-time and Laura dabs at the sweat on her face with a tissue in one hand while fanning herself like crazy with the other. I grab my new lip gloss from my purse and prepare for Wolf’s return. So he’s done the nice-guy thing, dancing with somebody who was obviously not having a good time, and now he’ll come back to me, sheepish, hoping I’m not upset. I’ll pretend I’m hurt, he’ll hug me tight, we’ll forget his moment of temporary insanity, and he’ll dance only with me the rest of the night. I sigh, feeling better.
But when other couples break up to regroup and Ne-Yo’s crooning voice comes over the speakers, Wolf closes the space between them and brings Mackenzie’s hands up behind his neck. Then he wraps his own arms around her waist and they start to sway back and forth, their eyes locked.
I watch this happen in shock and awe. It’s like they’re the only couple on the dance floor, moving in slow motion. I don’t want to look, but I can’t pull my eyes away. Their bodies move as if they were made for each other. He says something in her ear and she laughs, throws her head back, and turns around. He puts his hands on her stomach and pulls her up against him. And as if I’m watching a horror movie made especially for me, he starts to grind against her, his hips thrusting forward against her butt. She pulls away quickly, spins back around, and laughs up at him, then glances over at me, a guilty look on her face. I look away, feeling sick.
Laura prattles on, but I can’t hear anything but my own thoughts telling me what a loser I am—telling me how stupid I must be to think that Wolf would really like me over Mackenzie.