Page 5 of Mess With Me

“I wouldn’t do that.” I pour a glass of water from the icy jug on the side table. Jude reaches for an apple from a plate full of fruit. But of course he pulls one from the bottom so they all go rolling everywhere. I have to catch a couple before they roll off the table.

“Sure you would,” Jude says, not even noticing. “You kicked mine.”

I set the apples back in the dish. I did kick his ass last Christmas, sort of. He was being an oblivious tool about his now girlfriend. “Well, I wouldn’t do it on his wedding day.”

“Would you two quit talking about kicking my ass?” Eli says.

“You wanna role play?” Jude asks him. He snatches the paper Eli’s pulled out of his pocket from him.

“Hey, those are my vows!”

“Exactly!” Jude says. “Reese!” He makes his voice all passionate-sounding and claps his hand over his heart. “I knew you were the one for me the first time we had a clandestine affair after my messy-ass divorce!”

“Jesus, Jude,” I say, shoving at his shoulder. He stumbles sideways, and the apple goes flying. I swipe it out of the air and toss it directly into the trash.

“Hey!” Jude cries while Eli shakes his head.

“Don’t talk to our brother like that on his wedding day.”

“It’s not far from what I was going to say anyway,” Eli says. “Honestly I’m just surprised he knows what clandestine means.”

“You wouldn’t know clandestine if it whooped you in the ass,” Jude says. The two of them start their usual friendly bickering.

While they’re occupied, I wander back to the entrance, peering through the tent flap. Those two will still be going at it in the seniors home over the backgammon table.

It takes me a minute to spot her. Everyone’s wearing bright clothes for the summer wedding, so the pink of her’s doesn’t immediately stand out, and we’re behind and slightly to the left of all the chairs, so everyone has their backs to us. But when I do, I frown. She’s sitting next to my dad, chatting easily, her hands gesticulating wildly.

I can see her profile—she looks perfectly fine now. Like a regular social butterfly.

Then she turns, looking over her shoulder, almost directly at me.

I suck in a breath, nearly dropping the flap, even though I know she can’t see me in the dark of the tent. Those high cheekbones complement a pointed nose and chin, and her pink lips, glossed to a sheen, are full and smile so easily, like it’s the way her face would prefer to rest. There’s a familiarity to her I didn’t notice before. Is she a movie star or something? There are a few of those around.

I don’t think so. I hate that I keep telling myself to look away, and I keep fucking staring. Pretty doesn’t interest me. Interesting interests me. Strength interests me. The women I gravitate to are almost always either tough-as-shit professional law-enforcement types who know the no-strings-attached drill, or curvy diner waitresses who look at me for a bit of short-lived fun, knowing there’s no staying over. This woman looks like she coined the term high maintenance. Her whole existence screams never worked a real job and “ew, dirt!”

But then Dad starts saying something, and she turns back to him. The smile, while still there, loses just a bit of its luster. Sure, he can be a bore and a half, but I can tell it’s not him. There’s a stiffness in the way she holds herself, like she’s prepared for a surprise, and her eyes dart over her shoulder every so often, like she’s expecting someone.

Someone she doesn’t want to see.

That’s all I’m interested in. Whatever deeper thing is going on.

Then Dad says something that makes her laugh.

She throws her head back, exposing her neck. Her perfectly manicured hand comes up to her chest. My stomach lurches as Dad grins, pleased as hell with himself.

I actually grumble out loud. “The fuck, Dad?” I want to storm right out of this tent and demand he sit six rows back. Better yet, I want to pick him up and reseat him myself.

Then I give my head a shake. When in the flying fuck have I ever been jealous of my father? Or anyone, for that matter? The feeling is as foreign as a knife in my side.

I’m about to turn away, but she reaches over Dad’s lap, and I feel steam rising up so fast I swear it’s going to shoot out my ears. But she’s just lifting a hand up to high-five Jude’s nine-year-old son. Cap blushes as she tucks his dark hair behind his ear. I don’t blame him.

“She’s pretty, right?” Jude says, appearing beside me. His mouth is full of a bite from a new apple.

Heat rises in my neck. I don’t ever let people sneak up on me like that.

I was caught out.

Pretty doesn’t begin to cover it. I grunt. “I hadn’t noticed.”

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