Can't Always Get What You Want (9 page)

Brett whistles. “Did you do it all yourself?”

“I wish I could take credit for it, but sadly, no. My only contributions have been new cushions for the patio furniture.”

“It’s incredible. I bet you spend a lot of time out here.”

“I do; it takes a lot of upkeep. But, I also enjoy reading books out here. It’s probably my favorite thing to do in the summer.”

I look up at him, and see that same strange, unreadable expression churning in his eyes.

He is so different from…

“Who needs a drink?” I ask.

—

WHEEEE! Wine is
gooooood.

We are sitting around the patio table, waiting for the grill to warm up. Brett gets up to fetch another beer.

“Doesn’t he have the hottest ass you’ve ever seen? I’d just like to bite it!” I whisper to Samira, and then growl like a dog.

I pour more wine into my glass. “Anyone else want a top-up?”

Silence.

Samira finally pipes up. “Sure, I’ll have a little.” I’ve just leaned over to fill her glass when she subtly shifts her arm, and some wine spills on her shirt.

“Oh nooo,” I say. I shake my finger at the wine bottle. “Bad alcohol, bad!”

“Oh, damn. Sophie, can you lend me a shirt?”

“Sure thing, sistaah!”

Why don’t I drink more often? I feel grrreat!

“Okay then, let’s go find that shirt,” Samira says. She leads me by the elbow toward the house. I stumble after a few steps.

“Stupid uneven paving stones,” I mumble.

Samira walks me toward my bedroom and sits down beside me on the bed.

“What the hell is wrong with you tonight?”

“Nothing! I’m just enjoying a few drinks with friends. You should try it sometime. You’re way too uptight.”

“How many glasses of wine have you had anyway?”

Hmm. Good question. “I don’t remember. I lost count after four. How much have
you
had to drink? You’re the one with wine all over her shirt, not me.”

Ha. Take that.

“I did that on purpose so I could get a moment alone with you.”

What?

Her voice is quieter, gentler this time.

“Sophie, are you okay? What happened?”

My lower lip quivers. “I took care of a young man today in the ER. He was involved in that big accident on Highway Two.”

I cover my face with my hands.

“He looked so much like Aaron. He could have been his twin.”

My voice cracks when I say his name.

Samira wraps me in her arms, and I sob quietly. After a while, I sit up and roughly wipe at my eyes.

“I had a bit of a breakdown in the hallway, and tried to switch assignments. But Margo wouldn’t let me, it was so busy and she didn’t have the time…”

I clear my throat. “Touching him was torture. It brought back all of these memories.”

Samira’s arms tighten around me.

“It’s no wonder you’ve been acting weird. I’m so sorry, honey.”

“Yeah,” I say, fresh tears falling from my eyes.

“Do you want us to go home? We can always do this another time.”

“No, don’t do that. I can pull myself together.”

We’re quiet for a moment.

“What was with the kiss Brett gave you?” Sam asks.

I shake my head, and blow my nose.

“I have no idea. Yesterday he said he was ‘interested,’ and agreed to be friends and see where it goes. But you don’t just randomly kiss friends, right?”

Samira nods and offers me a new tissue.

“I really, really like him, Sam. I was starting to get all giddy and hopeful, and now I feel so confused. It’s like someone’s put my head in a blender.”

How long have we been in here? I sit up, and am reminded that Samira’s top is soaked with wine.

“We should head back. Here, let me get you a shirt.”

I shakily stand and evaluate my wardrobe. What do I have in here that’s going to fit Sam? She’s tall and lanky, while I’m short and curvy. Sometimes I think she and Narayan are going to have really tall, storklike children. You know, in a good way.

“Here you go,” I say, offering her a plain black T-shirt.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I don’t think—”

I cut her off. “I’ll be fine. I just need to drink some water and eat something. I promise I’ll behave from now on.”

She eyes me speculatively. “Well, all right. You might want to fix yourself up a bit though, sweets.”

I turn to look in my mirror.

Oh dear Lord…

“Okay…and thanks, Sam. For listening.”

She nods, then exits the room, leaving my door slightly open.

Oh, thank God for makeup. I’m nearly done making myself look human again when I hear voices in the hallway.

Brett’s deep baritone echoes softly. “Is she okay?”

“Umm…”

Please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything…

“Does she normally drink that much?”

“She just had a rough day at work.”

Their voices continue down the hallway and out toward the backyard.

—

Heading to the kitchen, I resolve to drink my body weight in water. It won’t completely sober me up, but it’s a start.

The pie (thankfully) looks fantastic. At least something is going right tonight.

Brett is already standing by the grill, prepping it for our cook-off. Can I cook drunk? Only one way to find out, I guess.

“Looks like you’ve made yourself at home,” I remark with a cheeky grin. I watch him closely, looking for any clue as to what he might be thinking.

Well, I watch him as closely as my eyes will let me. They’re not focusing right. But his expression isn’t giving anything away. He’s cool, calm, confident Brett.

I wish I could be like that.

“Prepare to be schooled.” He laughs.

He rummages around in the cooler he brought, and brings out a Ziploc bag filled with yellow liquid and grilling steaks. I bet it’s the pineapple juice.

What a rookie mistake. The enzymes in pineapple juice will overtenderize the meat, making it mushy and spongy. I’ve
sooo
got this.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Oh, nothing…just thinking.”

He eyes me cautiously. “You look like the cat who ate the canary.”

I make a zipper motion over my lips.

“To make things fair, we should have Narayan and Samira judge. Because obviously, we’ll choose our own.”

“Obviously.”

We cook in companionable silence, and I find the events of this afternoon slowly retreating to the recesses of my mind.

Wow, he actually looks like he knows what he’s doing. His steaks even have those fancy crisscross grill marks on them.

Brett moves to his cooler and brings out skewers with small, curled chunks of meat. It looks like the jumbo shrimp he bought yesterday.

“What, no mice on those skewers?” I tease.

“That’s what you think.”

“Eww!” I screech, and bump my hip into his. He bumps me back, and I peek up at him. His face is in profile, and his hair is hanging slightly into his eyes. It looks like he’s trying to concentrate on cooking, but is failing. A smile plays on his lips.

“No fraternizing with the competition,” he growls.

Twenty minutes later, we sit down at the patio table. My stomach lets out a loud grumble. No wonder that alcohol hit me like a ton of bricks.

We purposely don’t tell Samira and Narayan who cooked what. I’m not concerned, though. I’ve got this in the bag.

We quickly tuck into our food. Brett’s steak is surprisingly delicious. And tender. My confidence is beginning to waver.

“I don’t know, it’s a close call, Sammy,” Narayan says, while thoughtfully touching his chin.

“I’ll say. Although I lean more toward the pineapple marinade.”

Noooo!

“It was good, but the teriyaki one was better.”

Yes!

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a tie,” Samira says.

Brett shoots me a good-natured smile and shrugs. I can’t help but smile back.

—

After a couple hours of chatting and eating, we’re sufficiently stuffed, sated, and sober.

Well, at least I’m sober.

I’m not so sure about Narayan. Despite all the food he’s consumed (for a skinny guy, he can sure put it away), he’s acting pretty tipsy. His voice is getting louder, and Samira shushes him in between giggles.

“Well, folks, I should head home,” Samira says, consulting her watch. “Day shift tomorrow.”

I squeeze her in a tight hug, silently thanking her for helping me pull myself together earlier tonight. She squeezes back.

Is Brett leaving too? I hope not.

Samira retrieves her and Narayan’s coats from my bedroom. So Brett is staying?

“Is it all right if I hang out here for a bit?” he asks.

“Sure.” What will it be like being with him alone, without our friends serving as buffers?

I can think of a thing or two I’d like to do with him on the couch…

Nope, nope, can’t go there. Don’t even think about it.

We say our goodbyes, and I start to clean up. Brett wordlessly cleans up with me. I love that he’s such a gentleman.

I throw dishes into the sink and begin to fill it.

“No dishwasher?”

“Nope. I don’t mind, though. It’s only me here, so there usually isn’t much to clean.”

He rolls up his sleeves and bumps me out of the way with his hip.

“Here, I’ll wash. You dry.”

“You like getting your hands dirty?”

Geez, Sophie, where did that little comment come from?

He flashes me a flirtatious smile, but says nothing. For the second time tonight, it occurs to me how much I like working alongside him. I can easily picture us old together, standing side by side, doing daily rituals like cooking supper and washing dishes. How odd. I’ve known him for such a short time, and yet…there’s just something about him.

You felt that way about Aaron too.

My mind is a little calmer than it was earlier this evening, so I tenderly pick up the memories. I turn them over, inspect them, looking for barbs. They’re everywhere, but right now they don’t hurt as much. It must be the residual effects of the alcohol.

“You all right, Soph?”

“Hmm? Sorry?”

“You’ve been staring out the window and drying the same plate for about three minutes.”

“Oops! Well, I’m sure it’s dry now,” I say, laughing nervously.

Brett wears a bemused expression, and returns his attention to the sinkful of dishes.

Crap. I have to save this, or else he’s going to think I’m a loon who spaces out all the time.

“Thanks for coming over tonight. And helping me clean up. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. It’s my pleasure.”

“I have one question, though…”

“What’s that?”

“The pineapple juice. How did you manage to get such a great, tender steak with it?”

He taps the side of his nose. “Ancient Chinese secret.”

He’s evading the answer by quoting from
Wayne’s World
? Oh, two can play at that game.

“Stop torturing yourself, man. Live in the now! Live in the
now
!”

He laughs at this. I really do love the way his eyes crinkle up when he smiles.

“Seriously! The pineapple enzymes should have made the outside mushy and the inside tough,” I say.

“You’d end it there?! I expected you to say, ‘
It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine
.’ ”

I laugh, and playfully throw my dish towel at him.

“I haven’t seen that movie for years,” he says wistfully.

“I own it.”

“You do? Want to watch it?”

“Sure. But only if you tell me about the pineapple juice.”

Brett chuckles. “You can use pineapple juice in a marinade if the meat sits in it for twenty minutes or less.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Huh. Go figure.”

You learn something new every day.

“Okay, since we’re sharing recipe secrets…” he says.

Oh, I already know where he’s going with this.

“…what was the secret ingredient in your apple pie?”

Samira had advertised that there was a secret ingredient in the apple pie that she and her mom have been trying to get out of me for years.

“Can’t tell you. Family recipe.”

“Will you tell me someday?”

I tilt my head downward and peek up at him, hoping for a coy expression.

“Maybe.”

“Okay, dishes are done. It’s
Wayne’s World,
Wayne’s World,
party time, excellent…”

“Wooo wooo woo woo woo!”

We grin at each other like idiots.

It’s not every day you find someone who can quote the same movies as you. And loves the same bands you do. And loves to barbecue like you do. And to freak out cashiers like you do.

I am having
so
much fun. In all the drama that’s gone on today, I forgot to ask Samira about Brett and his “reputation” for being shy in social situations. Save for the moment in Safeway yesterday where I caught him looking serious and guarded, I have yet to see him act that way around me.

I start searching for the DVD while Brett settles into the couch.

“You don’t have to get up early tomorrow?” he asks.

“Nah, I have a couple days off. What about you?” I find it, and put it into the player.

“I’ve survived many late nights before, I’m sure I can do it again.”

I turn around, and see that he’s seated himself in the middle of the couch. Either side I choose, I’ll end up sitting beside him.

Choosing the right side (because that’s normally where I’d sit anyway), I plop myself down. I feel a sort of giddy tension in the air, like we’re teenagers watching a movie after Mom and Dad have gone to bed.

The opening credits are dancing on the screen when I hear him say, “So, you think I have a hot ass, hmm?”

The hazy memory comes rushing back to me. Did I really say that out loud? My body contracts into a fetal position, and I cover my face.

“Yeah. Not my finest moment. Sorry about that.”

I feel his shoulders quake with laughter. Ass.

“I could tell you were half cut. Was nice to hear, though.”

He takes a long draw on his beer. Well, at least now he knows how I feel about him. And his behind.