Firsts Are Always Messy Bonus Chapter 2

I hate going home.

I hate the whole trip. The two-hour drive there. The charged silence when I’m with my mother. The tension every time Dad walks into the room.

She thinks I’m going to tell him.

I probably should.

He deserves to know.

I don’t know why I don’t.

The awkwardness of trying to co-exist together.

Then the two-hour drive home.

Like I said, I really hate going home.

But I hate being away from her more.

I walk into the house, no one’s home. You can’t really call it a home; looks more like a museum. Bright lights. Obscure paintings. Weird ass sculptures. I’ve never understood my mother’s taste in expensive shit. I’ve always preferred the Kearns’ house. The way it looks lived in. Like a family occupies the space. They’re not just putting on a show. They want to be together–they like being together.

I shut the front door, shove my hands into my pockets and tread lightly down the dirt pathway, worn with overuse, to the Kearns’.

I should probably knock, but I grip the door handle and head inside. They’ve always treated me like family. Said knocking’s for strangers. I quit knocking after that.

Lainey’s pouring herself a glass of wine. Three ice cubes. Sparkling pale yellow liquid.

“Little early for that,” I cock an eyebrow.

She chuckles, her hazel eyes murky, like the shallow end of the lake. “Been a long day. I had to let my oldest employee go. She’s a single mom. Sales dropped. Again.”

“Can she go on unemployment?” I ask as I cross my arms over my chest, lean against the wall.

She nods. “Yeah, but she was still upset.”

Lainey raises the glass to her lips, takes a long, slow sip.

“I need some business advice,” I tell her. “For a project I’m working on.”

We wander out onto the back porch, Lainey nursing the glass of wine. I ask her about business loans and accountants and marketing strategies. The ups and downs of owning your own business. The hiring and firing process. She’s a wealth of knowledge and I’m grateful she’s willing to help me whenever I need it.

My own mother wouldn’t.

I can feel her before I see her. Something shifts in the air, my whole body attuned to the quiet pad of her feet on the carpet, her fingers wrapping around the door slider. She yelled ‘Mom’, Lainey answered. But it was all a blur because my pulse quickens and my heart beats violently in my chest.

She’s the whole reason I come home.

The only reason.

She used to be brunette. Dark, silky locks that always fell across her cheeks when she played basketball. But now she’s blond, her hair still silky, but it doesn’t fall into her face anymore.

I try not to check her out as she barrels through the door in a tizzy, her chest bouncing slightly. It sends a jolt of excitement straight to my cock when I think about what’s hidden beneath her top. I shouldn’t think about her like that. But I’m always overtly-aware of everything she does. Like now, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The rigidity in her long torso. The way her foot steps restlessly against the wooden decking as she walks outside.

She’s mad.

Her blue eyes, clear like crystal, raging like a stormy sea, land on me.

She looks annoyed. Annoyed that I’m here. Annoyed that I have the audacity to look at her. I can’t help it. Everything she does is mesmerizing to me. The way she speaks her mind. The way she gives Matt a run for his money every time she plays basketball with him. The way she moves and laughs and gets angry.

I wish you’d let me love you.

For a split second her gaze lingers on me, just a little too long. Shoots hope like a friggin’ spark to my chest. It’s quickly doused when I greet her, manage to choke out, “Jenny,” without sounding like a lovesick teenager.

She ignores me, turns away from me, takes all of her fire with her, tells Lainey, “I need my driver’s license. I need it, like, yesterday.”

I suppress a chuckle. I’ve seen her drive, which she can’t do to save her life. It’s not surprising she’s failed so many times.

If she had a good teacher, someone who could be patient with her, I know she’d pass. Her parents are good to her; they just don’t understand how she thinks. How she needs to process everything a little longer than they do because she’s a deep well of emotions. She doesn’t shy away from them either.

“Don’t be rude,” Lainey chides her. “Say hello to Kyle.”

She ignores me. Which only ignites a small fire in my chest. If she didn’t feel something for me–even annoyance–she would be polite, greet me. The fact that she doesn’t makes my chest ache with fucking hope again.

“Mom, I need my own set of wheels. I can’t keep relying on everyone else to drive me around. Fallon made me pay her for gas because she has to drive six miles out of her way just to pick me up.”

“Why isn’t Matt driving you?” I blurt out. Smooth, Kyle. So fucking smooth.

“They’re fighting,” Lainey rolls her eyes. “Something about a kiss and–“

“Mom!” Jenny hisses. “Stop telling everyone everything!”

“Sorry,” Lainey lifts her hands up, trying to diffuse her daughter’s anger. “Didn’t realize it was such a big deal.”

“You know what,” Jenny exhales, “I’ll just ask Dad.”

She doesn’t give me one last look, nothing to keep the fire inside me burning as she leaves.

“Never thought having a teenage daughter would be so…difficult,” Lainey sighs as she takes another sip of her wine. “I can’t do anything right.”

Don’t worry, Lainey, neither can my mother.

After she’s answered all of my questions, I tell Lainey I’m headed out for dinner. Alone. The way I like it. I know some people can’t sit alone in a restaurant, eat a meal in silence without company, but it’s the only way I eat my meals these days.

Less noise.

Less dealing with shit I can’t stomach.

Less people to disappoint you when the time comes.

I drive through the old neighborhood, down the hill, into town. It’s tourist season so I take my time, try not to rush through the streets. You never know when a drunk snowboarder might dart out in front of you.

Instead of taking the short route, down a few back streets no one really cares to venture on, I make my way through town. That’s when I see her. Blond hair. The long strides of her walk.

I don’t think; I honk the horn to get her attention. What’s she doing out here? Without a jacket?

I roll down the passenger window, lean over the seat.

“What do you want?” she snaps, her voice nasally and hoarse. “I’m not in the mood for your games right now.”

She’s crying.

I roll up the window, see an empty spot along the busy street to park in. So I do. I hop out, open the trunk, grab two sweatshirts. When she’s close enough, I toss her one.

“What’s this?” she asks as cradles it against her chest, trying to steal its warmth.

“You’re shivering,” I tell her.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, teary, hurt. There’s a mountain of hurt in them and I want to punch Matt for whatever he’s done to make her cry.

She loves him. I know she does. Everyone knows.

Even Matt.

She’s been in love with him for years.

And because I love her, for some reason I always have, I’ve stayed out of her life. Away from her. Given her space to love him.

They’ll probably get married. Live some boring, predictable life on this godforsaken mountain with a boatload of kids.

Except if she ever gave me the chance, I’d give her that life, too. If that’s what she really wants.

I close up the trunk, lock the car, stand back in front of her while shoving my hands into my pockets. “Why are you crying, Jenny?’

She lifts a hand to her face, feels the moisture coating her flushed cheeks. She didn’t know. And it feels like my heart might break in half as I watch her realize it.

She puts on my sweatshirt, tries to hide the pain she’s going through. I wish she wouldn’t. I wish she knew how I felt about her. How I’ve always felt about her.

And maybe it was a little fucked up, me being so much older. But the first moment I saw her, I swear something in my head screamed, “There she is. That’s the girl.”

I didn’t know at 13 what that meant. I don’t think I know what it means now. So, I’ve chalked it up to me loving her from afar for the rest of my life, occasionally sleeping with someone who doesn’t look anything like her because I’m lonely, empty. I want it to be her. Sometimes, I pretend it is. But it doesn’t do any good. Because once I’m done with whoever it is I’ve gone home with, they’re not her.

They never will be.

Then I’m lonely and empty all over again.

“Come on,” I tell her, motioning towards the coffee shop at the end of the street. She loves hot chocolate, extra whipped cream. Anything sugary and chocolatey and sweet.

“I hate coffee,” she laments, gets some of her fire back in her.

She’s so damn stubborn, makes me shake my head. I know she detests coffee. So, I ignore her, nod my head in the direction of the cafe anyway.

Let me take care of you.

I should say it, it’s on the tip of my tongue, but I shove the words back down.

I want to wrap her up in my arms, let her steal all the love and affection and emotion I have pouring out of me. It’s hers. Always has been. Always will be.

Silence. Dead silence. It fills the spaces between us and around us as she looks at me. She doesn’t trust me and I can’t say I blame her. I’ve been a dick in the past. But, sometimes, I need her to look at me. To say something to me. To acknowledge that I exist in some capacity in her world.

So, I tease her. Pick on her. Rile her up. Anything to get a reaction.

Not tonight. I’m not going to do that to her tonight.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Kyle?” she asks, her eyes begging me for the truth. The way I really feel.

She has no idea how beautiful she is. Her ocean blue eyes and her long blond hair. The gentle slope of her nose. Her pouty pink lips.

She’s not just physically beautiful to me; I love her heart. The way it’s blazing one minute, softening the next. Mine is a stone in my chest, cold and unmoving. But she jolts and jumps between her feelings, wearing her heart on her sleeve.

I want to be more like her.

I step in front of her, so we’re close enough to make out the tiny freckle beneath her left eye. “I think you’re beautiful, Jenny.”

I wish you’d let me show you.

She looks at me, expectantly. Wanting more. She can read me well, even if she doesn’t know it. She wants an explanation, a reason, for it to be a joke.

But I’m not joking. Not tonight.

She exhales, gives in, lets the truth of what I’ve said settle in her heart. I see her shift, the way her eyes light up, her lips part. “I don’t have any money so my hot chocolate is on you.”

Of course it is.

There’s the fire I’ve missed so much.

I laugh in relief as she brushes past me, her arm touching mine. I feel every nerve ending in my body explode. I want to touch her–need to–but she doesn’t see me that way.

I doubt she ever will.

In a daze, I hurry to catch up to her, to open the door for her, to take care of her for the first time.

When we walk inside, into the warmth of the coffee shop, she looks over her shoulder, gives me a small smile.

Just like that, fucking hope spews from every pore in my body and I don’t mind that the cold stone in my chest starts to melt. Just a little.

For her.