Authors: N. E. Henderson
17 YEARS LATER…
“What’s one word that best describes you? Don’t think about it. Just say the first thing that pops into your head.”
Is he for real?
I want to roll my eyes. Instead I smile and force my eyes to widen as I bring the glass of Pinot Grigio that I’m clutching to my lips. I’m attempting to buy myself more time to answer his annoying question. The cool liquid slides down my throat in a smooth swallow. I hate it. I’m not a wine girl. I’m a beer and tequila girl. This crap sucks and I’ll never acquire a taste for it.
Oh yeah, his question. Hmmm, let me think.
“Honest,” I respond making my voice sound soft and sweet.
Liar!
I don’t intend on telling this joke-of-a-date the truth. He would cringe. I am many things, but honest is not one of them. Lies spill out of my mouth quicker and smoother than the truth ever has. Most of the time I don’t realize I’ve told a fib until it’s already been said. I’ve been lying and keeping secrets since before I learned how to write my own name. It’s the only way to survive in my family. At least for me that is.
“What about you,” I ask, turning his question around on him. I don’t care what his answer is. I’m bored. I lost interest in him half an hour ago. There goes another lie. I never was interested in him. He should have kept his mouth shut and maybe I would have suggested sex in lieu of dinner. Okay, not really, after all that would certainly get back to my parents and the last thing I need them to think is their daughter is a whore. I’m not a whore.
That is not a lie. I mean, maybe in some people’s eyes I might be considered one. I’m sure if my mother knew I had casual sex every now and again I would be the worst daughter in the history of all daughters. I would be an actual embarrassment to her, instead of the one she runs her mouth about me being. I’m a twenty-one year old college senior, of course I’m going to have a little sex here and there. Sorry, but I don’t see that being so much of a big deal or even a sin. There are plenty of real bad people in this world to count as sinners.
Tonight, unfortunately, I will not be engaging in casual sex. Tonight I plan on being the good little girl everyone thinks I am, the girl everyone expects me to be. Well, everyone except Jared, and maybe even Mase. I’m not so sure my best friend, Matt, knows the real me anymore.
I have a sudden urge to puke. That goody-two-shoes role damn near everyone I know puts me in, is exhausting.
“Well, I can’t say honest. You’ve already stolen that one. Let me think.” He taps his index finger against his lips as I glance up to meet his blue-gray eyes. How long before this is over? “Athletic.”
I give him a once over again. Well, as much as I can. The lower half of his body is blocked by the tabletop. I guess his and my idea of athletic are totally different. Sure he’s slender and in shape. I doubt there is much fat on his body, if any, but he’s scrawny. I don’t do scrawny. I mean, he’d do for a Tuesday night romp in the sack, but that’s all it would be and if I’m honest with myself, which is rare in its self, I’m not into quickies. Quickies suck and don’t get me off.
My idea of athletic is a tall, muscular man with abs so cut they will make you lose count adding how many packs he’s sporting. Calf muscles so defined you’ll trip over your own feet as you walk behind him. And arms, God his damn arms are so big just the thought of those beasts wrapped around you will have you drooling. Tattoos, what woman doesn’t like an inked man? Shoot, just thinking about him has me all hot and bothered, not to mention wet. Yep, wet and there is zero I can do about it. Mr. Wannabe Lawyer guy here isn’t going to cut it tonight or any night.
Really, I’m not a whore, people. I promise.
“Hello,” I peer up to a set of fingers snapping rapidly in front of my face.
That’s not annoying at all.
“Did I lose you, Tara?”
“It’s Taralynn,” I say with a bit more bite than I normally do when people decide they have a right to shorten my name. “And I’m sorry,” I follow trying to be as apologetic as I possibly can in my bored, please stab me in the head with a dart, state.
“What? No one has ever nicknamed you, Tara?”
“Sure they have, but my name isn’t Tara, its Taralynn. It’s Taralynn on my driver’s license. It’s Taralynn on my birth certificate. It’s Taralynn on my social security card. It’—”
“I get it.” He so rudely interrupts me. “You don’t like being called Tara. So then I guess it’s my turn to apologize to you. I’m sorry, Taralynn.” He says my name in a patronizing way that make me want to ram the heel of my shoe into his balls. I wonder what mommy dearest would say if I ever did something like that?
“It’s fine.” It’s not, but whatever. No one calls me Tara. Well, no one except the one person that can’t stand me. “It’s a common mistake.” That’s the problem with having a double first name. People take it upon themselves to shorten it. It’s not that I don’t like it, when in reality I’d prefer it. I mean, whose bright idea was it to start giving their children two, first names? A stupid person, obviously, insert, my parents.
“So I was saying, before you spaced out, your mother tells me you’re in school at Ole Miss. What are you studying? I graduated from there two years ago.”
Of course he did. Did he really think University of Mississippi Alumni, Jacob Evans, prestigious lawyer to the rich, would sanction his daughter going on a date with someone who graduated from State or even Southern Miss? Hell no. Effin snob. Don’t even bring up a junior college graduate and certainly not a man without a degree.
“English.” I’m certain I can predict the next thing he will say to me. You would be surprised how many people hear you’re going for a degree in English and assume you want to be a teacher. I am certainly not teacher material. It takes a certain person to do that job. I, for one, do not possess the skill to teach another person.
“A teacher? You plan to teach?” His eyes practically peak up and his ear hone inward.
Told ya!
Schmuck.
“Not at all.” I snort a laugh. “I’m a writer, actually. My mother didn’t mention it?”
“No, she did not,” he tells me, taken back. No, literally he leans back in his chair as if he wasn’t expecting this to be my choice of career, or attempts at a career. It’s more of dream at the moment.
It doesn’t surprise me, what he’s confirmed about my mother that is. Katherine Evans is the epitome of a southern lady or what she thinks a southern lady should be and act like.
“I’m sure it was an oversight.” It wasn’t. A daughter who’s a wannabe romance novelist doesn’t fit into her proper little world. In fact, it’s embarrassing to her. She has been vocal about that since I was in high school. Sharing my hopes and dreams with my parents was a big mistake on my part.
“Fiction or non-fiction? I personally love non-fiction. Give me an autobiography and I’ll be thoroughly entertained for hours.” Loser. Okay, I shouldn’t be so judgmental. Just because autobiographies, biographies, tell-all books and the like aren’t my cup of tea doesn’t mean they are crap. They are just crap to me. I couldn’t care less about some political figure that was in office 50 years ago. I don’t give two craps about the lives of the latest washed up celebrity.
“Fiction. I write romantic stories.” I lean forward, grabbing the large wine glass next to the plate of food I polished off twenty minutes ago, downing the remains. When is our waiter going to bring the darn check so we can leave? Please, God, have mercy on me already.
“Oh.” Shocker...not. Like everyone, he’s thinking smut. Not that that isn’t accurate. It’s just not the whole picture. I say romance book, people think sex book. Just because sex, however much there is, is in a book, doesn’t mean it’s a sex book. That’s just plain rude. It is romance people, in many different shapes and forms as the human body. About the same time as Princeton, oh I mean, Preston, here is trying to find something to say, my phone chimes telling me I have an incoming text message.
I quickly retrieve it from the table, welcoming the distraction. When I see it’s my brother, Trent, my face lights up like Christmas. He always has that effect on me. Trent is the one and only person I’m related to that I actually like and get along with. He gets me, always has, when no one else did. And being the big brother he his, Trent always shows up when I need him the most, just like now, even if it is via text message.
Trent: Hey you. What’s up?
Me: Boredom, clad in a cheap suit from TJ Maxx thinking he’s a big shot. You?
Trent: Judgmental for someone whose favorite store is Target.
Me: Touché.
Trent: Mom said you were on a date. Figured I’d see if you needed an excuse to leave. Ky’s on her way home and should be heading through Oxford in the next few minutes.
Me: It’s practically over. Just waiting on the check. Is she stopping or heading straight to Tupelo?
Trent: Tupelo, unless you need her.
Me: I’m ok, just ready to get out of here.
Trent: Still coming down in a few weeks?
Me: Of course, I’m ready to party in Jack-town.
Trent: You seem to think there’s shit to do down here. I assure you, there is not.
Me: Whatever...it’s where you are. That’s all that matters.
Trent: Awww...my little sister misses me. Shucks, I’m touched.
Me: Shut it, butthead.
Trent: Get home safe. TTYL Sis.
Me: K, love you!!
Trent: Love you more, brat.
That isn’t possible.
I place my cell phone back down on the black linen tablecloth before looking up to see a set of eyes masking a shade of irritation. When our eyes meet, he casts his to the side, looking out into the restaurant, briefly. What the fudge is his problem? I am not about to apologize for having a quick conversation with my brother. With Trent in his second year of residency at the medical center in Jackson, I don’t get much time with him. I’ll take what I can get when I can get it. My brother comes first to me and I don’t see that changing any time soon. Not for this bloke anyway. Bloke...ha, I love that word. I crack myself up. Why couldn’t I have been born British? They have the coolest slang words.
He speaks, bringing me out of my inner thoughts.
“I paid the check while you were on the phone.” Yep, that’s the source of his sour attitude. He tips his wine glass back, polishing off the rest of his drink. I don’t respond. I don’t care to. He stands so I stand too, then we make our exit from the restaurant.
The ride home is quiet which is more than okay with me. I have zero in common with this guy except the status of our parents. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t go that far. I mean, it’s not like I know his parents. Maybe they’re not, ‘I’m so better than you, snobby douchebags’, but...they probably are.
Within ten minutes we arrive at my house. I say my house, but in reality I just live there and have for the past three and half years. It’s Shawn’s house, well actually it’s his grandparents, but they retired and moved to Florida close to fifteen years ago. They kept the house because they are die-hard Ole Miss Rebel fans and hoped their only two grandchildren would attend the University. Shane did along with my brother. They both lived in the house about six years ago. Shawn only attended for the first semester then decided college wasn’t for him, but he still lives here along with me and our other two roommates, Mason and Matt. Matt and I have been best friends since ninth grade. Shawn and Mase, well they’ve been thicker than thieves since we were little kids. Mason’s family moved into our neighborhood about a year after my family did when I was five years old.
“Nice house,” Preston comments as he shuts off the engine. I’d have to agree with him. This place is pretty stellar, especially for a group of college kids living here rent-free. It’s a four-bedroom, three-bath house and being the only female, I somehow lucked into getting the master bedroom. I’m still not sure why Shawn let me have it, but I’m not complaining and certainly not going to rock the boat to inquire.
There’s a nice size backyard with a pool and an amazing kitchen on the backside of the house. I love to cook, and next to reading it’s one of my favorite things to do. It’s relaxing and a way for me to unwind. In all honesty, it’s probably the reason Shawn allowed me to live here. His mom taught me everything I know about cooking. I’m not a jealous person, at least I don’t think I am, but when it comes to Shawn and Shane’s parents, I’m a little envious. They are nothing short of amazing.
Lucky bastards.
“It is.” I finally agree after unbuckling my seat belt. He does the same and I’m guessing he’s expecting me to invite him in. There is after all a party going on inside. There’s always a party happening on the weekends at the house. It’s a Friday night and at just past ten this place is just getting started. I’d be rude not to invite him in. Hell, maybe he might find a girl better suited for him than me. There is someone for everyone, or so Mrs. Braden is always telling me. I’m just not convinced that person exists for me. Well, at least not the one I want.
If you can’t have the one you want, then what’s the point?
“Wanna come inside?” I’m surprised to find myself actually not annoyed by this idea. I’m sure this guy isn’t as bad as I have imagined. So what if his parents are friends with mine. Does that mean he’s self-centered like they are? No, of course not, and I’m being unfair to the guy. I should at least give him a chance, right?
But this isn’t the first time my mother has swindled me into going out with a guy.
As I’m thinking this I hear him respond with a, “Sure.” I look him over once more before opening the car door and climbing out of his yellow corvette. Reality is, I’m simply not attracted to him. No amount of spending additional time with this guy is going to change that. Now, I’m regretting the invite. Oh well, too late. As I round the car, he’s waiting for me to the lead the way, so I do just that. The moment he places his palm on the small of my back, my body stiffens. I speed up slightly, trying to give him the hint that I don’t like him touching me. To my dismay, he does the same then places his hand back in the same spot.