South of Sunshine (10 page)

Bren clasps my chin, forcing me to look at her. “You can stay here.” Her eyes penetrate me. “Okay?”

Everything around me stills. The idea of me staying here with her seems surreal. There’s no way her parents will allow it. If anyone ever found out, I’d be ruined.

But none of that matters to me right now, because I’ve never wanted anything so badly in all my life.

“Bren,” a soothing voice calls from the house. Her mother stands in the doorway. “Come, bring your friend inside.” Cheer brightens her voice.

“There’s no judgment here,” Bren whispers.

Her voice and touch are smooth as the Pied Piper’s. I follow Bren inside.

Chapter 12

My stomach flip flops like I’m driving over a hill too fast, fear mixed with thrill. I want to meet these amazing, worldly parents of Bren’s, but I’m not sure what they’ll think of a country girl like me.

Splashes of bold color enliven their living room. Spices in the air tempt my taste buds. Bren introduces me to her parents, Analena and Joe. They glance at each other with a knowing look—which does nothing to calm my nerves.

Mrs. Dawson’s face lights up. “Oh, Kaycee. We’re so happy to finally meet you.” Her graceful hand reaches for mine. I smile as I take it. Her skin is incredibly soft.

Bren’s father is indeed a handsome man. Tall and striking like his daughter, but he lacks the bronze skin. “Glad to have you. Hope you’re hungry.”

“I’ve made shrimp enchiladas verde if you are tempted to eat,” Bren’s mother says.

The vortex of Bren, her home, and her family spiral around me, and I try to speak intelligently. “Sounds … delicious.” I follow them into the dining room.

Candles light the glass table. Full dinner settings mark each place with the elegance of a fine restaurant. Do they eat this way every night? I sit in the chair next to Bren.

“Bren’s told us a lot about you.” Mrs. Dawson eyes Bren, controlling her smile. There is a connotation to her words I don’t miss. I realize they know I’m the
friend
-friend.

And
they seem cool with it.

The thought should be settling, but I can’t seem to relax.

“Bren was just about to tell us the importance of this float you guys have been working on. What’s the prize if you guys win?” her father asks. Mrs. Dawson fills my plate.

“Um, a day off from school before Thanksgiving break,” I say.

“Nice.” Her father nods. Mr. Dawson wipes his mouth with a colorful striped cloth napkin.

I go into the detail of the theme of the float and how we’ve interpreted it. Bren explains the importance of the votes and the role of the candy. Her parents laugh at our methods.

“Will there be a homecoming dance for you girls afterward?” Mrs. Dawson asks. I choke on my food.

I believe she means that as in us going together as a couple, but our school would never allow that. They would sooner cancel the dance altogether because if they permitted normal gay couples to attend, it would encourage this type of behavior all the time. That would disrupt their whole belief system that boy plus girl equals the only way to love.

“Bren is a very good dancer,” she adds.

I down some water to cool my spicy tongue. “No, no dance for me. And Bren’s got the moves all right.”

“She gets all her moves from her pops.” Her father jabs a confident thumb at himself. Bren and her mother burst out laughing in protest.

“Honey, I love you,” Mrs. Dawson leans in to kiss her husband, “but you are the worse dancer I’ve ever known. You should have seen him the night we met,” she says the last part to me.

“It was my macaw mating dance that won her heart.”

“He’s still in denial. It was more of … what do you say? The funky chicken. Terrible.” Mrs. Dawson closes her eyes and shivers as if the memory still haunts her. I laugh.

There’s a brief debate over whether she saved him from embarrassing himself or he lured her in. Bren’s father was working in Havana with the Cuban government to negotiate health options for their employees when he and Bren’s mother met. They retell the story of how they fell in love; her version is much more believable than his.

“Toyota is a big automotive company,” I say to Mr. Dawson. “Do you really think you can convince them to move their main factory here?” He cocks his head at me, curious. “I only ask because my mother owns a local business, and if people have to move to Memphis to get jobs, her shop might not make it.”

Mr. Dawson nods his head. “I’ve set the terms of the deal. Made the proper introductions. It’s up to Larry Beaudroux and his people to win them over with that southern charm.” If the Beaudrouxs have anything, it’s southern charm.

“Your mother owns a shop, what does your father do?” Mr. Dawson asks me, taking a bite of dessert.

“Um …” My fingers fumble with the edge of my napkin. I wonder how to say this without sounding like a loser. “I don’t really visit him anymore. He lives in Texas with his new family, and they kind of do their own thing.” Blank faces stare back at me. Telling people your dad doesn’t want anything to do with you is always a real showstopper. I fork the bits of rice on my plate. “These were the best enchiladas ever, Mrs. Dawson. Thank you.”

She takes my empty plate. “You’re welcome. You’ll love the sorbet. The flavors pop in your mouth.” She kisses her fingertips.

Bren’s parents talk about her being born in Cuba and their visits there. The story of Bren beating up her cousin at her aunt’s wedding comes up, and it is way more hilarious when her dad tells it. Humiliation reddens her mother’s face, but she laughs. If I ever embarrassed my mother that way, she’d probably disown me if I ever brought it up again.

After dessert, I volunteer us for dish duty. Bren and I clear them into the kitchen. Mrs. Dawson appears in the doorway. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Kaycee. I hope we’ll see you more often, no?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’d like that. Nice meeting you both too.” I rinse the plates.

Bren kisses her mother’s cheek and hugs her father. I’m stunned when her mom says they’ll head upstairs for the night to read. The one and only time I have ever had a boy at my house, my mother practically smothered us by sitting between us on the couch.

Bren’s parents head for the stairs, and I hear Bren stop them in the hallway. “If it’s cool with you, Kaycee is going to sleep over,” Bren tells her parents. I go ghostly white and stiffen. There’s a brief pause, and I don’t have the nerve to turn around and see what’s happening. “I’ll sleep in the guest room,” Bren adds, nonchalant.

“That’s fine with us,” her dad says. “Might want to clear my papers off the spare bed. Goodnight, girls.” Her parents vanish upstairs.

Bren pops her head back in the kitchen. “Let me go clear my dad’s stuff. I’ll be back.”

I nod with a half-smile on my face. Bren disappears.

Rinse and scrub, I tell my brain. Her parent’s approval floors me. I can’t even imagine how my mother would handle me having a boy sleep over. Ha, wouldn’t happen. Not that she has anything to worry about. I wonder if she’d let Bren sleep over now—which could be dangerous. Bren in my bed … I can’t even let myself go there. Oh, wait. If Bren is sleeping in the guest room … then I’ll be sleeping in her bed. Yes, glorious yes.

Water sprinkles my face. “What are you smiling about?” Bren asks, drying her hand off and passing me the dishtowel.

“I … was thinking that I don’t have a nightshirt or a toothbrush. I sleep over at Sarabeth’s so much that I always have stuff over there.”

“No problem. Hold up.” She goes into a room down the hall. From the small glimpse I get, I see a Chinese lantern hanging in the corner. She returns with a large T-shirt; 10K sponsors dot the back of it. “Try this. Let me see if we have a spare toothbrush.” She flips on the bathroom light in the hall. Drawers open and close, and I hear her dig through them. I bring her T-shirt to my nose and inhale deep. It’s covered with that Bren-spice I can’t identify and the cool breeze smell from the beach. It’s pure heaven.

“Here’s this—” Bren steps out of the bathroom with a packaged toothbrush in her hand.

My face burns beet red. I pull the shirt away from my nose.

“That’s my dad’s shirt,” Bren says flatly.

My mouth could trap flies with it hanging open like this.

“I’m just kidding.” She chuckles.

“You are so mean.” I snatch the toothbrush from her and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, hoping the heat in my face dies down soon. “Dora toothbrush. Really, Bren? You’ve totally shattered my fantasy of you now.”

“My mom buys this stuff for my nieces and nephews. I swear.”

“Mmm-hmm. I’m sure.” Cannot believe I got busted sniffing her shirt.

Bren grabs my free hand, and our fingers interlock. We both stare at our joined hands.

“How’s your hand?” I crack open our joined palms to inspect it. She still has my bandage on it.

“It’s perfect. Had a good nurse.” Her crooked smile broadens mine. “You want to watch a movie or something?”
Or something
, my heart thuds.

My body goes loosey-goosey under her touch, and I do that stupid slow-bounce on my heels thing. “Sure,” I say, breathily.

She pivots toward her bedroom, drawing me tight against her back with our clasped hands. I follow close behind her. I’m sure she can feel the thump, thump, thump pounding from my chest.

Vintage movie posters plaster her room. On the bare brick wall,
Casablanca, Attack of the 50 Foot Woman,
and
Dr. No
are framed, the prizes of the bunch. Sunny yellow curtains hang over the windows. Citrus-colored triangles spiral out in a sunburst pattern on her a tribal quilt. Tangerine sheets tuck underneath—her bed is actually made. I set the toothbrush and T-shirt at the foot.

“These photos are amazing.” A clothesline of magazine-quality snapshots hangs above her aqua metal desk. In one photo, she’s wearing a heavily embroidered tunic in the desert. In another, she’s huddled arm in arm with her basketball team.

Bren props herself up against the pile of pillows lining her headboard. “Thanks. My mom has a great eye for photography.” She flips on the television to Netflix. One arm tucks behind her head.

Indian style, I sit on the opposite side of the bed, stiff-backed. “Wait a minute, I thought your family didn’t own a television.”

“Ha. Yeah, well we didn’t until about week ago. One of my stipulations for moving here. Basic cable and Netflix only, though.” Bren reaches out, hooks her arm around my waist and snuggles me up right next to her. “I promise I won’t bite,” she says. My body tightens for a moment. Muscle by muscle I allow myself to relax into the pillows, into her. Her fingers softly trace circles on my arm as she searches for a movie.

Her boldness thrills me. Every time she touches me, it’s with a sureness and confidence I’ve yet to find in myself. I wonder how many girls she dated to build up that confidence.

“What?” She taps my leg. “You’re thinking again. I can tell because you’re scowling. Is it about what Sarabeth said?”

I tug at the frayed threads on my cut-offs. “That? Well, she was just being a real jerk tonight. I didn’t like some of the stuff she had to say about you, and I don’t know what she would think about me being … you know.”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Nope. Does that bother you?” I look into Bren’s eyes. “You know I don’t live in the same world as you. Your parents are amazing. They seemed almost … giddy I was here to see you. They didn’t even put flour on the floor.”

“Flour?”

“Yeah.” I laugh. “When my mom was a teenager, an ice storm forced her boyfriend to stay the night. My grandmother sprinkled flour on the carpet in the hall so she could see footprints on the floor in case they snuck out of their rooms in the middle of the night.”

She laughs. “That’s pretty smart. I guess my parents trust me. I’ve never given them a reason not to. But does it bother me you have to hide the greatest part of you?” We both watch her finger draw on my knee. “I wish it were different, but I’ve been in this situation before. It’s not impossible.”

I’d never before thought of my being gay as the best part of me, actually the opposite. I fiddle with her watchband. “So, you’ve dated other girls before.” I hold my breath, daring a peek from the corner of my eyes.

“Yes. Don’t tell me you haven’t dated before. Chelsea told me how lovesick you were over Dave.”

I punch her arm. “Ugh. I abhor Dave.” Her body shakes from laughing. “I think Chelsea just told you that because she wanted you for herself.”

“Probably.
Chesty
Hannigan is not subtle. She wanted me all right.” Bren grins a bit too smugly for me.

“That’s it.” I stand up like I’m going to leave.

Bren catches my arm and yanks me back, and I collapse onto her bed. “You’re not going anywhere.” She settles herself closer until our bodies lie parallel, a fist’s width apart. “I’m with the one I want, and it’s not her.” She smiles. Her face is so close, so beautiful. I fight the urge to smooth my fingers over her perfect brow. Out of habit, I glance around the room.

“Nobody’s here to see us, Kaycee.” Her hand grazes my arm and rests on my hip. Her touch sends tingles across my skin. “You’re free to be you. Do what you want.” The last part feels more like an offer instead of a suggestion.

What I want is for Bren to press her lips against mine. To see if kissing her is different than kissing the boys I’ve been with. For once I want to feed the thing inside of me that I’ve been fighting and let it feast on what it wants.

If the electricity charging inside me is any indication, I will not be disappointed.

But as much as I want this, I’m terrified. Scared I won’t live up to her expectations. Scared I won’t live up to my own. Scared that once I go there, there will be no turning back to the girl I was before. Too much energy builds between us. I need air. I start to roll myself away from her—

Bren’s hand clinches my hip. “Don’t run away.”

One look into her eyes and I know. “I don’t want to run away.”

“Then don’t.” Her gaze drops to my lips.

“I don’t know if I’m any good at this.” My voice sounds soft and frail. I don’t know if I’m talking about kissing or being gay. For the first time, I witness Bren’s cool demeanor slip away and her breathing grows heavy. My words are an admission to my willingness to make the next step. It’s mine to make, not hers.

“Kiss me, Kaycee.” Her whisper-quiet words tickle my insides, imploring me.

I lean forward, erasing the gap between us, and press my mouth to hers. Her lips are just as soft as they were the first time. Gentle pushes from her mouth urge more from me. I concede and open up my mouth to hers. Sorbet flavors tang my tongue. The taste awakens a need in me.

Urgently, like I’ve been starved for years, I kiss her harder and lose myself in everything that Bren offers. She responds to my need, and then some. Her grip on my hip tightens, and I feel the slight nudge backward. Suddenly it’s not enough that I’m kissing her. I don’t just want to taste her, I want to feel her, all of her. I let myself tip back from her leaning pressure. The magnetic pull between us brings her body down on mine. The weight of her grounds me, anchors me to my true self.