Chapter 25Rayne

W

hen the doorbell rings, I’m already seated in the ladder-back chair beside the front door, peeping out the mosaic sidelight window. I’ve watched him park, get out, and walk up the front porch steps, and now he waits patiently on the other side. Meanwhile, I’ve blown that “lusting in my heart” thing all to hell. The feelings aren’t going away. They’re getting stronger, and this “ol’ buddy, ol’ pal” routine sucks. But it keeps him around, so I do my best.

I throw open the door and say through the screen, “No thanks, little boy. We don’t want any.”

“Well, if you don’t want any…” He shrugs and pretends to head for the steps.

“Oh all right. Get in here and give me your spiel.” I push open the screen door with my foot.

He grabs the door and swings it wide. “You’re gonna want what I’m selling.” Yeah I do. Gimme Gimme Gimme. The door’s pewter handle bumps him on the padded football pants as it tries to shut. Never has an inanimate object created such jealousy in me.

“You know what they say about the doorknob hitting you in
the—”

“I might’ve heard that one before,” he interrupts, nodding, and walks into the foyer. His eyes rove over me, up and down. “Damn girl, that dress…” He runs his hand down my arm and then interlaces his fingers with mine. “It’s… you’re beautiful.” His voice is at least half an octave lower in a rough whisper. It’s as if some invisible person is standing between us, slugging me repeatedly with a rubber mallet to the chest. My lungs don’t expand right when he touches me like this, like my body is caught somewhere between life and death, floating and rooted all at once.

I’m glad he notices the dress. It’d taken forever to select the perfect one and even more effort in convincing Mama to buy something she deemed “too revealing” and “immodest” because of its scandalous mid-thigh length and v-neckline. And it’s red—the devil’s color. When she said that in the store, I nearly choked on my gum and died right there. Even the saleslady had to walk away “to assist another customer,” but I saw her snickering behind the counter with the other associate. When I pointed out the school’s colors were red and black, and that she herself had worn a red dress to her own Hillcrest homecoming nearly thirty years earlier, her argument lost its legs. Now seeing that expression on Gage’s face—these are the spoils of victory.

“Thanks. You look good, too.” My voice barely registers a whisper. There’s something about the way he looks in those football pants that stirs semi-indecent daydreams like Gage tackling me in the turf or bending me in a pretzel like those pre-game loosening stretches. “Is it hot in here?” I pat sweat droplets from my hairline.

He smiles. “Nah, it’s just me.” Yes. Yes it is. He flips my hand palm-up and places the corsage box there. “For you. Hope you like it.”

The black box is knotted crossways with a white silken ribbon, which I untie and place on the foyer table. Inside rests a white orchid wrist corsage with a single fire-and-ice rose in the center. Gage lifts it out gingerly and slides it on my wrist. “It’s perfect. This corsage is totally me.”

“Not totally. It’s a little me, too.” He brushes away some baby’s breath on the wristband to reveal a small silver medallion with his jersey number, 67, engraved on it. I stroke the sunken numerals. “I hope it’s okay. The others are wearing huge numbers on their corsages, but I didn’t want you—or Preston—to feel awkward. This’ll be our little secret.”

Our secret. Quite a few of those hang in the air around us lately. He hid the charm in my flowers and covered it with baby’s breath. I hid the fact I’d fallen for him in my heart and covered it with dating his brother. One’s much more dangerous than the other.

Before I respond, Mama and Daddy walk in. She picks up my hand and studies the corsage. “Very pretty.” She grimaces as if slamming her thumb in the door. I hate that expression. This isn’t one of her good days, and she’s grappling to keep it together. Daddy walks up behind her, puts his hands on her shoulders and pulls her in tight to his chest. He’s walking Prozac to her, the one medicine that religiously calms her anxiety.

“Let’s get a picture.” Daddy waves his new Nikon DSLR around. “Been looking for an excuse to try this out.”

“How about the front porch?” I edge Gage out the screen door and away from Mama’s impending meltdown. Daddy sits Mama in the ladder-back chair and walks out behind Gage. I stop to say goodbye.

“Be careful. Drive safely. Watch out. Boys… expect things…” Her voice is quivering and choppy except for the word “boys,” which she spits out like soured lemon juice.

“Mama, he’s a good guy.” I nod toward the porch. “He won’t let anything happen to me. Remember, I’m spending the night at Jaycee’s. I’ll text you when I get there.” I kiss her on the cheek and look back once more. She’s staring at me, bottom lip trembling, as I carefully shut the screen door behind me.

The parking lot is full when we get to school, but Gage finds a space on the last row and backs in under the pine trees. He insists on coming around to open my door, and as I wait on him, I run my fingers over the tattered arm rest, the yellow foam peeking through the tan vinyl. Gage had apologized he couldn’t bring me “in style” the way Preston could’ve, but I couldn’t care less. I love his old Scout. It’s his two-ton metal twin—rough around the edges but dependable.

But the high lift is impossible in a dress, especially when I’m trying to climb down without flashing the whole senior class.

“Grab hold.” Gage presses himself into the seat, slides his arms behind my back and under my knees and lifts me out princess-style. His arms fold around me, his biceps bulging under the silky dry-weave shirt.

“Selfie before you put me down!” I hold out my phone, and we squeeze close together in the frame, his freshly-shaved face butter-soft against mine.

Across the parking lot, Jaycee and Barrett stand by the double doors. When she catches me staring, she waves us over.

“Do we have to?” Gage whines through pouted lips.

“Just for a minute.” I grab his hand and haul him behind me like a toddler.

Jaycee runs to me, grabs my shoulders and spins me a full 360. “That dress is on fi-ah. You must’ve drugged your mama to get out of the house in that.”

“Nope. She let her walk out—with me.” The irritation seeps through Gage’s words. Aggression looks good on him, especially when he almost seems possessive.

“Hi, Gage.” Jaycee shakes her head and clicks her tongue in annoyance then plunges her finger between the 6 and 7 on his jersey. “Your old uniform? That’s the best you could do?”

“Kinda have to play the homecoming game.” He inches backwards and breaks contact.

Jaycee snatches her hand back and plants it on her hip. “Really Einstein? I hope you brought a change of clothes for after. Hopefully your brother lent you a nice suit, like he lent you his girlfriend.” She throws Preston casually into the conversation like a grenade, armed and ready to explode. Gage steels his jaw, his molars grinding against each other.

“Bitch much?” I grab hold of her arm and sink my nails in.

She jerks it loose and rubs the five little indentations with her opposite hand, frowning. “Geez. Take a joke.”

“You are a joke,” Gage mumbles beside me.

Jaycee stares at him, eyes narrowed. “You say something?”

“Not a thing,” he says, returning her stare. When she finally looks away, he turns to me. “I gotta get stretching. Wanna come watch?”

Jaycee, now in deep conversation with a small throng of followers, weighs in on some sophomore girl’s new butch haircut.

So. Not. Interested.

“Absolutely.” I lace my arm through his and we head to the field.

After the game, I walk alone to the gym where we’ve agreed to meet post-shower. It’s dark, the music from the cafeteria pumping through the walls with booming thuds. Staccato high-heel footsteps echo through the shadows as girls make their way to the dance while I wait in silence. I sit down on the wooden bleachers and check the time on my phone then flip through the photos from earlier. The selfie of Gage and me is perfect, smiling and happy. Definitely Facebook-worthy but I don’t post it. No point rubbing our good time in Preston’s face.

“Look at those hotties,” Gage whispers in my left ear. I scream and drop my phone on the hardwood. “My bad. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He reaches down to grab it.

“You scared me half-to-death!” I gasp, my heart still bouncing around in my stomach. Then I look at him, hair still damp, spiked up a little in the front, and wearing a crisp, black suit fitted to skim his muscular build. The top two buttons of the white shirt are open. No tie. And I thought the football pants were hot. “Wow. Gage… you look…” The right words escape me.

“Hot?” He spins around and huffs on his nails, which he then polishes on the coat sleeve. “I clean up pretty good. I’d do Preston proud.”

And then that—the pink elephant in the room. Realizing his mistake, Gage looks up, eyes wide. He reminds me of the little boy next door I’ve babysat who once had to confess to breaking his mama’s china vase. Guilty. Fearful. Anxious. A mix of all three. This evening is about forgetting Preston and focusing on Gage. Tonight may be my one-shot deal to share this closeness with him.

He clears his throat and jingles the car keys in the air. “Wanna blow this whole thing off and go somewhere else?” Yes! Yes! Yes! That’s what I want, but we can’t—not without a lot of questions.

“Not so fast. You promised me dancing, remember?”

His blue eyes sparkle in the glare of the overhead fluorescents. “I promised you a dance.”

“It’s like potato chips, Gage. You can’t just have one. How about five?”

“Three and then we go do something else.”

“Deal.” I slide my hand in his and pull him toward the cafeteria.

The music pumps so loud it reverberates in my chest. Strings of Edison light bulbs crisscross the ceiling above our heads and large panels of translucent black fabric drape the walls, backlit by hundreds of mini twinkle lights. We’re on our way to the refreshments table when Jaycee grabs my arm from behind.

“Hey!” she scream-talks over the music, eyes darting back and forth between Gage and me. “I’m sorry about earlier. We’re at the far table.” She points across the room to a round table where several couples have gathered. “Y’all come over.”

Gage shrugs his shoulders, giving me leeway in the decision. “All right. For a minute,” I scream back. She smiles and claps her hands as we follow her.

Everyone stops mid-action and stares at us like petri dish specimens. Gage wraps his arm around my shoulders, tugging me in closer. Bad idea. No sooner does he touch me than the crowd exchanges I-told-you-so expressions, complete with rolling eyes and duck lips. Jaycee, now beside Barrett at the back of the table, picks up her cell phone.

“Give Facebook a rest for one night, Jaycee,” I say. She’s addicted, always texting, posting, or updating her blog.

“Not Facebook—Twitter. See?” She holds out the phone, screen toward me. “We’re tweeting under #HHSHomecoming. We all have our own, too. I’ll make y’all one.” She stares at the screen, way too excited about social media.

“We’re good,” I insist.

“Wait a minute.” She holds up her finger without lifting her eyes. “Now look over here and smile.” A quick blinding flash and the tap-tap of a few phone buttons before my phone buzzes with a Twitter notification. I tap the icon to find our happy faces bursting on the screen, tagged #RayneGage.

“RayneGage?”

“Isn’t that funny? Even your names go together like those famous Hollywood couples. Brangelina. Bennifer. TomKat. RayneGage.”

“Except they aren’t a couple,” Barrett pipes up before holding his fingertip over the opening of his straw and sucking Coke from the opposite end.

“Aren’t they?” Jaycee looks up at us with a sneer. “Could’ve fooled me.” Gage’s fingers press into my shoulder. She’d lured us over with lies of her sudden attack of conscious. I want to hit her, slap her right across the face and knock her backwards out of her chair. Gage stares at the floor, his cheeks enflamed, the muscle in his jaw going in and out.

“I’ve had enough of you tonight,” I yell through clenched teeth then look at Gage. “Let’s dance then get the hell outta here.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor, refusing to look at anyone at the table.

I glance back at Jaycee as we walk away. She shrugs her shoulders, palms up. “Chill guys! I’m just kidding. Why so touchy?” Her yowling-cat laugh fades to background noise by the time we reach the center of the dance floor. We stand there a minute, other couples dancing around us.

Gage grabs my shoulders, bending to my eye-level. “Three dances and we split, right?”

“How ‘bout two? That’ll give us some time before I have to be at her house.”

“If I were you, I’d go anywhere except her house.” He says her with the venom of a copperhead.

“It’s tradition. The cheerleaders always spend the night at Jaycee’s house after homecoming.” I sigh, defeated before he even makes a case for his argument.

“Break tradition. Do your own thing.”

I shake my head. If there’s one thing I’m perpetually not, it’s a rule-breaker. Mama’s raised me believing that coloring outside the lines leads to bad things, dark and sinful. Good girls follow the rules and do what they have to do, not what they want to do. It’s very “Southern belle” to give yourself to the good of society, to see the bigger picture instead of being selfish. I always do what I’m supposed to, even when I don’t like it, and that might very well be the reason why I’ll never truly get to love Gage, even though he makes me want to throw all the rules right out the window.

“Jaycee’s harmless. She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

He glares at her, still plugging away in the Twitterverse. “That’s what worries me. It doesn’t take brain power to be destructive.”

“Forget her. Dance with me.” I skim my hand down his arm and pull him toward me. We barely begin swaying with the bass before the deejay changes it up. A slow song. A hold-you-close song.

With the first notes of a rock ballad, Gage grabs my elbows and tugs me in close as he hums along with the tune. I rest my head on his chest, his arms around my shoulders, mine circling his waist. Chills run laps down my spine as our bodies sway in rhythm, every ounce of strength mobilized to fight the urge to press my lips to his. The wanting scares me. I shouldn’t feel this way. If the others knew, I’d forever be labeled a slut, even if my love for Gage is innocent. Not loving Preston is sinful enough.

I close my eyes, flushing the thoughts away. The noise dies as everything beyond us evaporates, swallowed up into some black void. Gage rests his chin on my head, singing in his gravelly tone that lulls me into sweet oblivion. That’s when I forget. I forget to care what the others think about us dancing so closely. I forget to hide. The light from the Edison bulbs washes over us, and my heart flutters.

When the song ends, I peel myself from his arms. “Ready to go?”

He smiles, not saying a word, grabs my hand and leads me out the door.

We change clothes, hit the Chick-Fil-A drive through, and head to Cedar Falls, a cozy park on the Reedy River. I’ve never been, but other kids at school have. Ainsley once told us that’s where a lot of kids go to hook-up, so when Gage confidently tells me I’ll love it, I begin wondering how many times he’s been there.

And with whom.

But that’s really none of my business.

Still…

“You come here a lot?” Sometimes you ask a question hoping the answer won’t blow up in your face, changing everything you think you know. Sometimes you nearly pass out from holding your breath waiting on that answer.

“A few times. It’s been a while.”

I nod and chew the inside of my jaw. Well that’s vague.

“You and the guys?” I prod.

“Nah.” He strums his fingers on the steering wheel like that’s an acceptable answer and turns down the twisted drive through the metal gates and pulls off into the grass on the river bank. The keys dangle in the ignition, the radio still on. He hops out and grabs our food bags and a blanket from the back, then juts his head in my partially rolled-down window.

“Coming?”

I slide out and slam the door, the anger coiling in my belly. Gage isn’t my boyfriend, so he can come here with anyone he likes. I just don’t want him to. Ever. I hate everyone he’s brought here before.

The darkness is thick, cut only by the moonlight reflecting off the water. No outdoor lights. Not another soul. Tonight, it’s only us. He unfurls the blanket, spreads it wide and motions me over. I sit down at the fringed edge, afraid to get too close and push the limits of the torture I can feasibly withstand. That, and I’m still standoffish because of his lackluster responses to my questions.

Gage crams a spicy chicken sandwich in his mouth. I open up mine and peel off a couple dill pickles and hold them up between my fingers. “You want these?”

He leans over and bites them from my grip. His lips brush my fingers, causing me to retract my hand and look down at the chicken sandwich lying on the blanket beside me. Eating would be torture. My stomach aches from the idea of him, at some point in the past, sitting on this very spot with another girl. I wonder who she is. Is she smarter? Prettier? I bet she didn’t sit around like a lump, flipping out about toeing some sort of imaginary line. No, she would’ve been free to curl up beside him, put her arms around his neck, pull him in close, and…

Oh God. I’m gonna hurl.

I jump up, run to the edge of the parking area near the trashcans, and squat down beside the split-rail fence. Gage is on my heels. He pulls my hair back.

“You okay?”

“Felt a little sick. It’ll pass.” I use the wooden post as a crutch to steady myself. It’s hard to stand when the Earth’s morphed into quicksand. Gage grabs my arm for extra support.

“Dad brought me and Preston down here a few times a couple years ago—that’s when I found out about this place.” The knots in my stomach untie at his admission. Gage’s eyes fix on a spot near the bank. “He was adamant about father/son time and brought us here to fish. We set up right over there.” He points to the spot he’d been watching.

“Sounds nice,” I say, though I’m surprised. Jackson Howard doesn’t strike me as the outdoorsman.

He snorts. “While it lasted. Then he went back to how it was before. Ignoring me.”

I don’t know what to say but figure we should be sitting down to have a conversation this heavy. “I’m better. Wanna sit?” I nod toward the blanket, and we saunter back.

He lies down, rolls up his letterman jacket and slides it under his head like a pillow. I sit cross-legged beside him and alternate between picking at my uneaten sandwich and leaning over him absentmindedly fingering the small buttons on his plaid shirt. “What do you want to do?”

“Anything but go home,” he says. “Mom’s the only one there, and she’s always riding me about something. I’m sick of arguing with her.”

It’s understandable. Being trapped in a house alone with Charlotte sounds like pure torture. He picks up a rock from the ground and flips it over and over in his hand. “Mom loves Preston. I’ll never live up to him. He’s got perfect grades, perfect football record, the perfect girlfriend…”

Wait. Did he just refer to me as the perfect girlfriend?

He throws the rock down. “I’m the black sheep.”

I nudge his arm playfully. “One badass black sheep.”

He smiles as a brisk breeze kicks up, bristling the hairs on my arms. I rub them up and down.

“Cold?” Gage springs up, unfurls his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. His fingers linger on the collar then sweep underneath to free a few trapped strands of hair. Our noses hover an inch or so apart. “Better?”

“Much,” I whisper, the magnetic attraction stronger than ever. His lips are close, too close. So close I want to—

“Want to dance?” A mischievous glint, highlighted by the moonlight, reflects in his eyes. He stands and pulls me to my feet onto the flat-topped boulder at the river’s edge. The water laps the muddy bank, and the music flows soft and mellow. He yanks me to him, the way he did earlier in the cafeteria, but no one’s watching us now. I wrap my arms tightly around him, squeezing out any remaining space. A part of me longs to cross that line. No one will ever know, but there’s a fight with the good-girl logic that refuses to step out of line. The resistance falters as he weakens all my defenses.

We turn slowly on the rock. Gage’s hands massage my back, and I relax my head onto his chest. The muscles in his arms tense as I slip my hands down his back and into the back pockets of his jeans, my hands warm, nestled intimately close to the curve of him. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting on him to push me away, tell me I should save it for Preston.

He doesn’t.

His hands grasp my hips, tugging me in closer. Every muscle, every ripple, every bulge of his body presses into me, the contact points like subdermal flames.

He wants me, too.

His touch isn’t friendly. It’s hungry. It piques my longing for him even more, a vicious but completely exhilarating cycle. Neither of us speak because as long as we’re quiet, reality outside this moment doesn’t exist.

We only have tonight, so with hands roaming and hearts pounding, we blur the lines.

“Can I ask you a question?” His breathy voice caresses my ear.

It’s hard to get a decent breath when your stomach’s relocated to your chest. “Sure.”

“Does Preston make you happy?” Direct and to the point. The question. The big one I’m afraid to answer out loud, because the truth brings consequences.

“I… I don’t know…” I stammer. “He’s great, but…”

“But…”

“I’m here with you, not him.” I can’t believe what’s coming from my own lips.

“Yes. You are.” His fingertips glide up my arms to either side of my chin, pulling my face up toward his. The way he looks at me sets me on fire, crackly and consuming, as if someone has lit a handful of sparklers in my body. He moves closer, and his lips part ever-so-slightly, awaiting mine. We are crossing the line, not slightly but full steam ahead, and whatever consequences come tomorrow, it isn’t worth worrying about tonight.

I lick my lips and ready myself for him.

A loud buzzing slices through our moment, and my cell phone lights up on the blanket. “Don’t answer it,” his lips so close they brush against my skin. “Please.”

The buzzing is relentless, a nagging voice of reason saying we couldn’t live with ourselves for doing this. I pull away from Gage, holding tight to his hand until I can no longer reach his fingers. I never break eye contact.

My heart slams my ribs as a familiar name registers on the caller ID. I glance up and take a deep breath. “Hi Preston.”

Gage turns away and stares out over the falls. He runs his hand through his hair, down to his neck, and lets it rest there, keeping his back turned to me, shoulders slumped forward.

“Gage’s here. I’ll put you on speaker.” I press the button and hold the phone out. “Can you hear me?”

“I hear you. How was tonight?” He’s cheerful. Happy. Blissfully unaware his call plucked his girlfriend and brother from the point of no return.

I snap my fingers at Gage, who looks back at me over his shoulder, and motion for him to come closer. “Great. Fun.”

“How about the game? Y’all win?”

Gage walks closer to the phone and squats down across from me. “Sure did. Tonight was our night.” The way he’s looking at me makes it hard to keep control. I want to push the end call button, lunge at him and fall to the ground in a hot, muddied mess.

“Rayne?” Preston calls out.

“Yeah?” I fumble over my thoughts, caught in my fantasy.

“I asked if y’all were still at the dance?”

“Well, actually we—” I start but Gage silences me by holding up his fingers across his lips.

“I’m about to take her to Jaycee’s slumber party,” he interjects.

“Sounds like fun. See y’all tomorrow when I get home.” The phone clicks, and the silence envelopes us. Again, no words. We just stare at each other.

Gage looks at his watch. “We need to get you to Jaycee’s.” He pulls me up, then wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head.

“Gage…” I begin but he squeezes me tighter and gently shakes his head. It’s easy to get caught up in each other out here alone, but once the truth rushes in, the fantasy comes crashing down. We can’t hurt Preston this way.