“We're going to have to live together, aren't we Doll?” And just like that, the smile dried up like a puddle in heat. “We wanna make Ma and Pa Kettle happy, don't we?” For a second, it looked like Landon was going to take a step towards me. His aura seemed about to cross some invisible bridge. It was then that I heard a sinister chord from the untended piano. The sound made me jump, and I heard my purse land on the ground with a soft thud. Both our heads swiveled simultaneously, just in time to catch a careworn looking tabby cat leaping off the organ keys. I laughed with quick relief.
“Jesus, that scared me!”
“Aww, that's just Otis. He's the Parish cat.” This time, Landon really did bend down a bit, like he was whispering conspiratorially in my ear. “And word to the wise? Don't take His name in vain in here.”
Before I could check myself, I'd thrown a little half-assed punch in his direction—you know, the sisterly kind of punch—but Landon's athletic reflexes stopped me in my path. His palm opened to catch my fist, and I felt my fingers crumple limp against his sweaty palm. Then I looked up at him. I hadn't realized how close we'd gotten.
He was breathing hard. And he seemed about to say something that pained him. But instead of opening his mouth, I watched his fingers collapse over the top of my knuckles. His fingers were surprisingly soft. Like cool, light petals. He pressed his pads lightly on to the top of my hand, then just as quickly began to peel away. When it was just the tips of our nails touching, I let myself lean forward, rising up on tiptoe. I let my digits slide, oh-so-slowly, into the damp crevices his own knuckles made, until we were intertwined. Then I met his eyes. They were so open to me. I knew, in that moment, we could have done something very wrong.
“Hey troublemakers!” called a familiar voice from beyond the makeshift nave. It took a few seconds for me to recognize the voice as my dear sister's, but there she was. Smoking a Virginia Slim from a tapered holder, one knee kicked up against the outside door. Beyond her, I could see that the wedding crowd had begun to disperse. Our new family (and the new family member's dates) were headed to Pappadeaux's for the reception.
“Lady, your fella is looking for you,” Carson breezed. “And Landon, Missus Queen of the Damned has been screeching about you on the sidewalk for the past ten minutes.” I caught a flash of panic in his eyes, and realized we were both thinking the same thing. Ten minutes? Had we really been in here, doing and saying so little, for ten minutes?
“Oh, Jesus,” Landon said, breaking the spell. He took a step away from me, and I saw the door had closed again. Whatever freaky, forbidden thing came out between us when no one else was around could not sustain in the daylight, that much I could see. Oh well. It was like all the romantic comedies Anya and I liked to make fun of, or had liked to make fun of on the now long-gone lady movie nights of my youth: a body couldn't just wait around for some dude to come to his senses. There were too many things standing in the way.
Landon had already turned away from me when I remembered my purse on the ground, and at the same exact moment as I bent to retrieve it, I watched him turn on his heel and stoop. (Damn those gentlemanly reflexes.) Our heads almost knocked together on the ground, and laughing, I stood up to let him fetch my things. For a moment then, he was kneeling on the ground, looking up at me. The gaze and the smile flickered back across his face like a flame, as he gobbled up an eyeful of me from an angle where a scalawag could see up a lady's dress. I let him look, though. I let him linger all over me with his eyes, and I felt my heart race. I felt my panties grow hot.
“JESUS!” Carson yelled from the foyer. When I turned my head, she looked like a Cathy cartoon: all flailing arms, her long hair amplified by the humidity. Landon righted himself. The frown returned. He handed me my purse, then nodded curtly. I didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it all, or get mad again. For something to say, I whirled on my big sister.
“You can't say Jesus in a church,” I huffed.
Chapter Fifteen
Landon
September 1st
It took me to the second frickin’ week of school to wise up. I'd followed Clay Hoskins to a big Alpha Phi party on Frat Row, and there the pair of them were. Lip locked on the grass, in plain sight, for everybody to see. I was shocked that The Daily Texan hadn't been invited to this oh-so-public photo-op.
When we saw them, Clay put a steadying hand on my shoulder like he was afraid I'd pull out a glock or something. But what shocked me most was how vacant I felt, watching them gnawing away at one another's faces. I thought for a second about how we'd probably looked, the few times I'd ever gotten Zora to make out with me in public. (“What am I, a Kardashian?” she liked to say, whenever I so much as tried to nuzzle her on the shoulder in public. Which I never actually got, because as far as I could tell she aspired to be a Kardashian.) I didn't think she'd ever looked so focused while kissing me. Regardless—what they were doing didn't look too fun. Denny was pawing at her like a virgin on death row, his hands squeezing and pinching her flesh. And though Z looked 'into it,' I detected no joy in her body. She kissed like she was out to prove someone wrong.
“That's some shit, man,” Clay offered, shaking his heavy dreads back and forth. “Can't believe your girl would dog you like that.”
“I'm a little more surprised at my best friend,” I said. And as if on cue, there the bastard went again—swooping in for a hickey. A few freshmen girls in teetering party heels paused on the sidewalk to point and laugh at Mr. and Mrs. Billy Bob Thornton, who were now just about fucking in plain sight.
“I hate to say it, but I'm not,” Clay murmured. I smiled wryly at my buddy. He'd never made a secret of the fact that he wasn't Denny's biggest fan, but it was nice to hear some solidarity. I wondered why it'd taken three years of college for me to start hanging out with Hoskins. I mean, of all the jags I spent my time with, he was definitely one of the better dudes.
Denny, at long last, caught on to his audience. He pulled himself away from Zora with the suctioning sound of a plunger, and when he met my eyes I watched his face blanche with fear. Z took another second to realize what was happening, but when she saw me and Clay across the grass her eyes narrowed. She pulled a compact from the back of her jeans and started to primp.
“Landy,” Denny said, his voice coming out strangled-sounding. “I can explain, man. Z and I were just...”
“Save it, man.” I looked from best friend to girlfriend, then back again. It was strange, feeling nothing. I knew what I was supposed to feel—betrayal, fury, even sadness—but none of these would come. Seeing them together just struck me as...empty.
“He doesn't even care, Denny,” Zora piped up. I was surprised to hear a harsh edge to her voice—here when I'd been thinking she was as jagged-sounding as it was possible to get. “He hasn't paid any attention to me since we got back together. I could be fucking his step-sister, and he wouldn't care.” She sounded more bitter than any twenty-two year old had a right to be. But I felt something then—a slight little twinge of pity for Zora. She wasn't entirely wrong, after all. We'd never been a good match for each other, but I sure hadn't been holding up my end of the boyfriend deal.