Faith

 

Of all the things that could’ve come out of Bryant’s mouth, “marry me” was not even in the top thousand—the top million—I’d have imagined.

“I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Get out of my sight.”

“You broke my heart, and I can never forgive you.”

Any of those, yes. Asking me to become his wife? No way.

My mouth drops open, my body stuck in place as I stare at him, half expecting a second head to sprout out of his neck. All rational and logical thought escapes me.

I snap my jaw closed and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping when I open them again, I’ll wake up from this mind-bending dream and have one of those Groundhog Day moments where I can walk into the room again and start over. Not that I’d do anything differently.

The Bryant I know—knew—was always wise. He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, even as an eight-year-old boy with scruffy brown hair and a dimpled grin that made me feel funny inside. He was the quieter, more studious, less-extroverted-but-more-focused half of the Cook twins.

My brother, Ezra, became best friends with his brother Jamie, who my sister, Delilah, had an instant crush on. That left me, the nerdy bookworm, in all my lanky, late-to-grow into-her-legs glory, and my instant—somewhat consuming—fascination with the less-assuming twin. But from the first day we met, my romantic mind was stuck on him and only him. Years of what I assumed was unrequited crushing later, Bryant Cook made his move in the hidden depths of my backyard, in the hammock we’d made as part of a sustainability assignment in the ninth grade. We knocked our heads together as I tried to wrestle my way out of the swing. I stumbled, and in a swoon-worthy move for the ages, he caught me. It was one of those slow-motion movie moments, Goo Goo Dolls playing in the background, our eyes locked, and before I could even blink, he leaned forward, opened his mouth, and tried to suck the life out of me—through my face.

I shake off the memory, thankful for Bryant being a quick study in kissing, and all other departments.

He stands there watching me, his analytical gaze waiting for my answer. My attention drops to his lips, and I remember just how good he used to be with his mouth. Especially since I was never sure I’d get another chance to find out.

A plan formulates in my head. If he’s trying to call my bluff, two can play at that game. He doubts my sincerity, that unbreakable trust we had as best friends and lovers, broken. That’s on me. I did that. But I came back knowing I’d need to work my ass off to win him back, and I’m not about to blink at the first standoff.

I stare back at him, determined to stand my ground. He expects me to run again. Well, that’s not going to happen, even if there is a big part of me that needs a time-out to rehash this bizarre conversation. I need to hide away and let my brain ruminate over his… proposal? Order? What was it exactly? That’s right—it sounded an awful lot like an ultimatum.

If he’s pulling out the big guns, two can play at this game.

I pull my shoulders back and answer him with a challenge of my own. “Kiss me.”

His head jerks back. He looks like he’s been slapped with a wet fish then punched in the balls. Of course, I could back out and walk away, give myself a chance to formulate a new plan of attack. That would put me at a disadvantage though. I’d rather know now if this has no chance in hell—then I can move on, whichever way the cards fall. Bryant is my what-if guy. All women have at least one, and I’ll never know what might have been if I stand down now.

“Kiss me,” I say again. When I repeat my own demand, a flash of confusion crosses his features that morphs into a look of resolute determination.

I forgot one of Bryant’s most dominant personality traits—he never shies away from a challenge. Ever.

“You want me to kiss you?” He moves toward me, one slow, predatory step at a time. His gaze darkens, his eyes darting down to my mouth and back up again. I lick my lips instinctively, part nerves, part fear, part ‘I’m in deep over my head, and I can’t see a way out.’

“Okay,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I’ll kiss you, and if you can tell me that you feel absolutely nothing, I’ll rescind my proposal and walk out of this room. Then we’ll know, once and for all. Won’t we?”

He stops in front of me, my breasts almost touching his chest. I tilt my head to keep eye contact, not willing to back down now. Stubbornness, my most honored flaw.

“But if you feel anything,” he whispers, leaning down so his mouth hovers over mine, His warm breath fans over me, causing goosebumps all over my skin. “Then you’ll meet me at City Hall on Monday.”

God, he smells good. I inhale to get another hit like a crack addict with an itch that won’t go away, Bryant’s cologne—the same he’s always worn—was the one vice I let myself have over the years. I’d go to a local department store in Sydney and spray it on a card so I could smell it whenever I felt lonely, sad, or just plain homesick.

He arches his brow. His eyes search mine. My tiny nod is all the permission he needs because barely a second later, he’s cupping my jaw and his lips are crushed to mine. I open for him, an offer he does not miss as his tongue sweeps inside, touching mine in demanding licks and strokes. My hands ache to grab hold of him. I want to slide my fingers into that soft brown hair and grip it tight, but I clench my fists by my side. I have to protect a little part of myself just in case this is another test.

A moan escapes me before I can stop it. He growls and tilts his head, deepening the kiss but still only touching my jaw and nothing else. This kiss is like being adrift without an anchor. It’s like being in rough seas with one arm tied behind your back and a blindfold on. The entire situation is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, but it’s our clusterfuck. I came back for him, and I’ll walk over hot coals if that’s what it takes to prove myself to him.

He slowly ends the kiss, his eyes hooded and hazy, his gaze heated and torn as he pulls away from me.

We’re both in this now. I can’t lie for shit, and even without looking at myself in the mirror, I know I look far from unaffected. We stand there staring at one another, our breathing fast and deep. I can see the struggle written all over his face—the desire, the hurt, and perhaps a sliver of surprise that I haven’t gone running for the hills—or the airport—again.

The question now is whether we can navigate all of this without driving one another—or ourselves—crazy. Will we still be standing by the end of this, whatever it is?

“Gonna lie now and say you felt nothing?” he challenges.

I square my shoulders, meeting him head-on. “I’ve never lied to you, Bry, so I’m not about to start now.”

He quirks a brow. He hasn’t stepped back and having him this close is muddling my head. Needing space to breathe, I move, and his shutters come down. The moment has obviously broken, despite the effects of our kiss still lingering throughout my body.

The silence is deafening, but I know I can’t be the one to break.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Bry, Mom wants a photo of all us kids,” Jax says from outside the room. I’d know his voice anywhere because it’s almost identical to the man in front of me.

“Yeah, Jax. I’ll be right there,” Bry calls out, not looking away. “Unless you tell me otherwise by the end of the night, I’ll assume you’re agreeing to my suggestion and accepting my proposal. But babycakes…” His tone softens with his pet name for me. “Unless you tell me otherwise—and to my face—I’ll pick you up Monday morning, and we’ll go to City Hall to get things underway. We need to get the marriage license twenty-four hours before the ceremony.” His voice belies the enormity of what he’s literally proposing.

Finally, I find my voice. “Don’t you think we should talk about this a little more? What you’re suggesting is crazy. We can’t get married. We haven’t spoken in years. We’re—”

“Twelve years, to be exact,” he deadpans.

“We’re different, Bry. We’ve grown up. We might not be—”

His hardened stare burns through me. “Anything worth talking about can be discussed after you prove you really want this,” he says, sounding like this is a business transaction rather than a life-altering decision.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Of all the times for words to escape me.

When I don’t say anything further, he shrugs in a ‘suit yourself’ gesture. “Right. I’ve gotta go.” He doesn’t give me a kiss on the cheek, or a gentle squeeze on my arm. There’s absolutely no sign of affection or even a friendly gesture. He just nods, turns around and walks to the door, disappearing from view. He leaves me standing here dumbfounded, confused, turned on, torn and finally—and stupidly—hopeful.

I’m not sure who’s the bigger fool—him for suggesting it, or me for considering it.

I guess we’ll both find out Monday morning.