All I wanted was football and neon green duct tape, and I always got the feeling that my parents looked at me and saw nothing but a way to ensure their financial security and status for the rest of their lives. Football was the only life they wanted me to live.
But enough about my parents.
Bree is an incredible cook, but I also know she hates cooking, which is why I feel bad watching her try to make up for what happened last night. Although, I’ll admit, she doesn’t look like she’s hating it currently with the way she’s swaying her hips to the music.
She doesn’t see me yet, so with a smile, I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe as I watch Bree lean over the island to drop a few dashes of parmesan in a salad bowl with a shimmy. Her hair bounces around her shoulders like it’s just as peppy as she is.
Suddenly, she becomes aware of me and her head flies up. Her cheeks only turn pink for a fraction of a second before her dancing becomes even more dramatic.
“You’re such a twerp standing there watching me!” she shouts over the loud music as she starts dancing her way over. She’s throwing out a fishing line and reeling me in. She’s taking me to the car wash. We’re grocery shopping.
I don’t say anything, just smile as Bree wiggles her arms like ocean waves all the way to stand in front of me. Bree is the most incredible ballerina, and to see her dance is truly magic, but oh boy, she’s an adorably atrocious modern dancer. Her hair is twisting and twirling around her, and she’s wearing a dark burgundy leotard with teeny tiny crisscross straps all over the place. I don’t know how she got into that thing. The back dips low, showing off a lot of skin as well as her black sports bra. Baggy grey joggers with the elastic band rolled down sit low on her hips. It shows off each of her curves and athletic form, and I’m hoping my tongue is not hanging out the side of my mouth.
Bree has stepped straight out of my dreams, the sensation only increasing as her dance moves turn more modern and she twerks in front of me like we’re in a club instead of listening to phrases like if the music is groovy. She’s trying to make me laugh, and I’m just trying not to stare like a perv.
I can’t hold it in anymore when she turns to face me, wiggling her hips dramatically and pretending to run her hands all over my body without touching me. Her expression is so over the top: scrunched nose, biting lip, and the most innocent song playing in the background. A laugh finally cracks from my chest, and I look to the side instead of letting myself put my hands on her hips and pull her up close to me so we can really touch.
Practically incest.
My expression must have changed because Bree stops dancing, a little out of breath, and reaches in her pocket to pull out the remote for the speakers. She cuts the music and the cheery sounds die. I realize my arms are crossed tightly.
She looks up at me and her smile fades. “Are you mad at me…for what I said in the video?”
Her face tears my heart in half. She thinks I’m mad about what she said?! I’m mad that it’s not true! No, I’m not even mad. I’m just pouting. I’m being a big pouty baby and I need to get over it. The way she feels about me is not breaking news. It’s always been this way.
I force my face to soften and form a smile. “Not mad in the least.” I step forward, taking a deep breath as I pull her into my chest. She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes.
Smashed up against my chest, she looks up to catch my eyes. Hers are the color of coffee with a splash of cream. Just the way I take mine. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. How could I be mad knowing you were just trying to make everyone aware that my ding-a-ling is no one’s business?”
She groans and buries her face in my shirt, gripping it dramatically like she wants to claw her way inside it and die. “I did call it that, didn’t I? Pleeeease forget you ever heard that word come out of my mouth.”