Filed to story: Kissing the Wrong Brother
No, I’m not.
Ben pulls me off the bench into a bear hug, and I sniff his neck. Just a little, while glancing at Kylie to make sure she doesn’t notice. But she’s just smiling her usual pretty smile, completely confident that chubby Aria could never be a threat.
She’s right.
My eyes skip over to Beefcake, and, interestingly, he seems to have noticed that the smell of Ben’s cologne is making me flush and that I cling to Ben just a little more tightly than is appropriate.
This Miles St. Claire guy lifts a knowing eyebrow, and I jerk my gaze away before pushing back from Ben’s big-brother hug.
“Congrats on graduating,” I say, giving him a friendly-yet-dorky punch on the shoulder.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beefcake roll his eyes.
I ignore him.
A couple weeks ago, Ben graduated from UCLA. I didn’t fly out to the ceremony, of course. That was a right reserved for his family and girlfriend, but I’d been proud from afar. Ben is Kylie’s age-a year older than me-but, unlike Kylie, he managed to graduate on time.
Mostly I am just glad to have him back in the state of Texas. And, according to Kylie, he’s here for good, planning to work at his father’s company.
I secretly wonder what happened to his long-ago dreams of an East Coast law school, but I guess he has the right to change his mind. God knows he’s smart and charming enough to do whatever he wants with his life. Ben may have been the quintessential Texas quarterback in high school, but he was also the valedictorian.
You’re seeing why it’s impossible not to love him, right?
The thing is, I loved him before everyone else did.
I loved him when he was a wimpy fourth grader to my chubby third grader and we’d exchanged chapter books on the playground before dashing off to our respective classes.
I loved Ben Carson back before he was cool.
Before he hit that eighth-grade growth spurt, before the expensive dermatologist figured out how to get rid of the acne, before the braces turned his crooked grin into a toothpaste commercial.
“Thanks, Ari,” he says with a grin. “You’re looking great!”
“I don’t look that great,” I say in response to his too-generous compliment. I lost four pounds over finals, but I know I’m well on my way to gaining it back and then some.
On a good day I’m curvy.
On a bad one, I’m plump.
Most of the days are bad ones.
But Ben’s never seemed to notice. Of course, he’s never exactly wanted me, either.
“You do,” he insists.
But before I can bask in the compliment and maybe fish for another one, he’s moved on. “Hey, Kylie and I are headed up to the clubhouse to get a beer. You wanna come?”
Um, no.
I hate beer. I learned that in a big way on my twenty-first birthday a few months ago.
But more than that, I hate the thought of Ben throwing out the pity invitation. And even if I wanted to go watch him and Kylie stroke each other’s palms on the patio (I don’t), my sister is giving me the look.
The one that says I want to be alone with my boyfriend for a little while.
And even though Kylie sometimes makes me crazy, and even though I’m secretly in love with her boyfriend … she’s still my sister.
I know my place.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say with a smile up at Ben. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”
“Sorry to cut the lesson short,” Kylie says with an apologetic smile to Miles.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says gruffly. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”
I watch as Kylie and Ben walk hand in hand toward the clubhouse before tearing my gaze away and going to retrieve my book. At least now that I don’t have to pretend to be soaking up Kylie’s athleticism through osmosis, I can go read in the AC.
I feel eyes on me and resist the urge to fidget when I see Miles staring at me with a dark unreadable look as he puts his stuff back into his duffel.
“It’s never going to work out the way you want it to. You and your sister’s guy.” His voice is almost bored, as if he’s discussing the weather and not the love life of a girl he doesn’t even know.
“What do you know of it?” I mutter, pulling my hair off my neck and into a messy bun on top of my head. I’m too hot and cranky to play dumb.
“More than you think.” He slings the strap up over his shoulder and continues to watch me.
“Yeah, I’m sure you have all sorts of problems with the ladies. I mean, your body is just repulsive,” I say with a general wave over his sculpted perfection. “And I bet the women just hate that keep away I’m dangerous vibe you’ve got going on.”
“You’d be surprised. It’s not always about looks.”
I give him an oh, come on look over my shoulder before I start to head in the direction of the clubhouse.
It’s always about looks. Only gorgeous people say that it isn’t.
There’s a comfy chair by the fireplace that has my name all over it. Nobody even notices that corner of the clubhouse during the summer, when it’s all about the pool and the patio. It’s is the perfect place to hide from the world.
And by world, I mean my sister, mother, and father, who like to coax me into things like family rounds of golf when Kylie and I are home for the summer.
“You’re not even going to try?” Beefcake’s voice stops me before I can retreat to my reading cave.
I stamp down a surge of irritation and turn to face him. “Try what?”
“To get the guy.”
“Listen, Beefcake,” I say, with an exaggerated sigh. “I appreciate you trying to help the little fat girl, but quit messing with me, okay? You’ve assessed the situation for about sixteen seconds. I’ve been assessing it for sixteen years. And guys like that do not fall for girls like this.” I gesture down at myself.
“It’s not about looks,” he repeats.
“Okay, don’t start that delusion again.”
“It’s about confidence.” He comes to stand in front of me. “You act like you’ve got tons of it with the smart-ass routine, but inside you’re terrified.”
I feel a little tingle of nervousness rush down my spine.
“I’m fine with how I am,” I snap.
“I’m sure you are. But you’re what, twenty?”
“Twenty-one.”
He shifts the bag. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re too young not to be fit.”
Hurt rolls over me. I know I’m not thin, but it stings, and I start to give him a piece of my mind.
But before I can lay into him, a big hand closes over my mouth, our eyes locking as he physically stifles my retort. “Note, I didn’t say thin or skinny. I said fit. Healthy. It’s not what’s on the scale; it’s about what’s up here. It’s about getting in control of your life.”
He sets his index finger to my temple briefly before letting his arm drop, and I feel oddly out of breath, although I don’t know if it’s because I’m outraged at him for so brazenly crossing the lines of appropriateness or because it’s been a long, long time since someone’s touched me.
It annoys me that I’m not immune to his calculated man-whore routine.
But what bugs me even more is that he knows. He knows what I’ve never told anyone.
That I don’t feel in control of my own life.
“Back off, Yoda,” I say.
He shrugs and turns away, and then damn me and my always-yapping mouth, because the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them:
“Hypothetically, if I wanted your advice …”
He turns back, and he’s unsmiling but I don’t miss the little surge of victory in his eyes.
Whatever.
I’ll let him have his triumph if he can help me find this confidence he speaks of.
Most of the time, I like me just the way I am.
I’m proud of the fact that I’m smart and funny and stand up for what I believe in. But I wouldn’t mind finding an outlet for stress and heartache other than chocolate. Just for those emergency situations, ya know? Those moments you realize that the rest of the world doesn’t prize the good qualities the way your heart tells you they’re supposed to?
“What are you doing weekdays at seven?” he asks.
