Filed to story: Kissing the Wrong Brother
She hitches a thumb over her shoulder at a table of rowdy newcomers, one of whom spots her and shouts her name.
Realization dawns. “Ah. You didn’t come here as the third wheel with your sister, did you?”
She smiles. “A couple of my high school friends are back in town. Kylie and Ben just gave me a ride.”
I sigh and slide her money back across the bar at her. “Keep it. Your bastardized gin and tonics are on the house.”
Aria grins. “Why, because you feel bad for assuming I’m a friendless loser? Orrrr”-she wiggles her eyebrows-“because of that crush?”
I don’t bother to respond, but when she flounces away, chestnut curls streaming behind her … damn it …
I’m smiling.
Aria’s POV
Barf alert.
I’ve been watching Kylie and Beefcake at their “tennis lesson” for nearly twenty minutes and I don’t know whether I’m shocked or just plain disgusted.
I mean, for starters, Kylie doesn’t even actually need tennis lessons. She plays in college, for God’s sake. Surely we can stop with the theatrics.
And, sure, she needs someone to play with over the summer to keep her sharp, or whatevs.
But someone to help her with her serve?
Please.
The only reason Kylie signed up for these lessons in the first place was because Jackie Zender told her the new tennis pro was hot and “into her,” and Kylie can’t stand for five minutes that a hot guy would be into anyone but her.
I’d almost feel sorry for Ben, but if the guy hasn’t figured out by now that Kylie likes male admirers more than I like Snickers, then he’s beyond help.
I turn my attention back to my own court and swing at a ball so hard I nearly fall.
People do this for fun?
For the hundredth time, I try to remember what I’m doing, disguised in a hat (shudder) and trying to make contact with balls shooting out of a machine on a semi-regular basis.
Why am I pretending to be athletic in eighty-something-degree heat?
Because I’m worried about Beefcake. Of all things.
The guy may have lady-killer written all over his sulky gaze, but I saw his expression when he’d locked eyes on all of the sweet perfection that is fakey Kylie.
I know that look. I know what she does to guys.
It has always been this way.
When I was in tenth grade, my lab partner-along with the rest of the school-had a killer crush on Kylie. I’d asked him what it was about her, and poor smitten Bobby had explained it to me:
She’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and you know you have no chance. … But then she looks at you for the first time, and there’s this surprise on her face, like she’s been waiting for you.
Uh-huh.
Did I mention Bobby Burns wanted to grow up and be a poet?
I sure hope he succeeded, because he sure as hell wasn’t any good at helping me dissect that frog in honors bio.
But, anyway, the point is I think Bobby had a point.
As far as I know, Kylie has never cheated on Ben. She knows they’re the perfect couple, and she wouldn’t risk that for anything.
But she’s pretty damn good at letting other guys think she might cheat on Ben.
At least that’s what I’m seeing happening with Beefcake. There’s more accidental touching than an eighth-grade coed birthday party.
Kylie gives a pathetic excuse for a backhand and giggles nervously as Miles wraps his arms around her to fix her pretend-bad form.
“Ouch,” I mutter as I swing and something in my shoulder pops. I have this ball machine set to the slowest setting, but it still has absolutely no respect for the fine art of spying on one’s sibling. That, and hand-eye coordination’s never really been the shining star on my r?sum?.
I needn’t have bothered with the hat. Neither of them have looked over once to see the inept chubby girl chasing balls around the court.
Talk about hiding in plain sight.
Plus, it’s not like it would occur to either one that I’d be willingly active.
I watch as Beefcake’s hand moves toward Kylie’s hair, plucking what I’m sure is an imaginary something-or-other from her ponytail. Yeah, right. Like anything could actually get stuck in all that glossy silk.
I bet he’d never manhandle her hair into a ponytail. Kylie’s hair doesn’t have an impressive track record for breaking rubber bands whenever it’s threatened with containment.
Finally, finally, their handsy session is over, and they linger over their water bottles for too long before Kylie heads back up toward the clubhouse. I don’t miss the little over-the-shoulder glance she gives Beefcake, although she makes it fast, as though she’s embarrassed to be caught looking back at him.
I’m about 89 percent sure that whole impression is manufactured.
I’m pretty sure it all is. Everything about her rings fake to me.
It’s an awful thing to say you don’t like your sister, huh?
I mean … I would never say that out loud.
And I love Kylie; I really, totally, do. I’d jump in front of a train for her, I’d give her a kidney, and I’d hold her hair while she puked up J?ger shots. And, actually, that last one’s not a hypothetical.
But sometimes I also feel like I’m the only one who really sees her.
She came out of the womb looking like a freaking Gerber baby, and with the exception of all things academic, she sort of just floats through life easily.
I don’t even blame my parents for keeping her up on that well-deserved pedestal, and I don’t blame Ben for choosing to see her sweet and funny side instead of her manipulative and caustic side.
But for some messed-up reason, I do blame Miles St. Claire for making a move on what is clearly someone else’s girl.
I mean, sure, am I trying to get my shit together and lose the cellulite so that Ben will notice me?
Yes.
But my crush is old enough to have its own driver’s license. As na?ve as it sounds, I want to give Ben a chance to see that he’s with the wrong sister, because I believe in my heart that he is.
But unlike skeevy Beefcake, I’ll never make an actual move.
I promise myself that. The ball will always be in Ben’s court.
To punctuate that thought, I take a decisive swing at the next ball that comes my way, and for once I hit the ball squarely, only I hit it too hard and it sails toward the back fence instead of landing neatly within the lines.
“You want some pointers?”
Great. Just great.
Beefcake’s recognized me.
I tilt my head back toward the sky in exasperation, which is idiotic, because the next ball comes and thwacks me in the boobs.
“Son of a-“
I throw my arm across my chest, leaping out of the way, and very seriously considering launching my tennis racket at a laughing Miles St. Claire, only I’m pretty sure I’d miss and make him laugh harder.
Instead, I go to turn off the ball machine, rubbing my throbbing boob as I move past him, chin held high, although I’m not sure if the snub is embarrassment that he witnessed my mishap, or disappointment that he’s the latest in a long string of dudes to fall into my sister’s web.
“Hey, Aria, come on!”
I keep walking.
I swear I’ve only walked five more steps when he jogs up beside me. “What’s up your tennis skirt?”
“Please. Like I’d wear that glorified version of underwear,” I say, stopping to face him, forcing myself not to continue rubbing my boob in his presence.
He sucks in his cheeks a little, and a lock of dark hair falls over his forehead. He’s sweaty, but not in the gross, midlife crisis way, but in the hot, active guy way. “Yeah, I noticed the, uh, shorts,” he says. “Are those men’s?”
Maybe.
I tuck a frizzy curl behind my ear, but it pops right back in my face. “You said I had two days off, right? You get to criticize me from seven to eight on weekdays, and that’s it. Today is off-limits.”
I hadn’t planned on coming anywhere near the club today, since it’s Saturday, but Kylie had announced to my parents that she “needed” to schedule an extra tennis lesson for weekends.
