Whether he reads my hesitation or not, he backs off. My head clears, and I realize how close we were to doing something irreversible.
I start walking before either one of us changes their mind.
It takes a full block before my heart stops beating like a sledgehammer and a second block before I rationalize that the almost-kiss was entirely in my head. Maybe. Probably. No. Definitely in my head.
By the time I’m feeling somewhat normal again, we’re walking up Catherine Street, and I can see my house.
“Thank you for walking me home. This is me.” I point at the front porch, which is completely dark.
Dax gives the house an assessing look. “I remember. Seems like a nice place.”
I shrug. “Frank and I like it.”
His eyes cloud. “Who’s Frank?”
“My spider. We share a shower. I live in the basement. My entrance is around the back.”
Dax eyes my yard. “Right. Down that creepy dark pathway.”
“It’s not creepy,” I say defensively. Then I give it a second look. “I guess it’s a little creepy.”
He nods and settles into an awkward silence that stretches longer than a beat. “Text me when you get inside,” he finally says.
“I can do that.”
Again, he points to the path. “I’d walk you, but…” His voice trails off.
“But what?”
Now I want to know what he’s thinking.
It takes so long for him to answer that I almost think he isn’t going to.
“You told me earlier you make terrible decisions when you’re drunk, so it’s probably better that I stay out here on this sidewalk, and we leave it at that.”
There are many ways I could take that statement. And the most obvious one has dangerous implications.
“Goodnight, Daxon McGuire.”
“Goodnight, Gemma McGuire.”
“It’s Gemma Wilde, you drunk.”
He shrugs, smiling. “Slip of the tongue.”
I turn and leave before I change my mind and do something stupid. When I get to the gate, he calls out, “Hey, Gemma, care to make one bad decision tonight?”
I turn, ready to agree to whatever he suggests.
“Always.”
“Friday. Dougie and Brandon are having a party. You should come.”
I nod. “I’ll let Frank know not to wait up.”
Chapter 12
I have been to enough Dougie-and-Brandon parties in my timeline to suspect I’m walking into a frat-boy-style kegger with fancier cups.
The text message that flashes across my home screen on Wednesday confirms this theory.
Dax: Hey there hot stuff!!! Party on Friday is hero/villain-themed. Come dressed to kill. Handcuffs encouraged （seven kissy-face emojis）。
It’s immediately followed up with a second message.
Dax: In case it wasn’t clear. Dougie stole my phone, but looking forward to friday…hot stuff （single winking emoji）。
Last year, in my timeline, Dougie and Brandon held a hero/villain party. I invited Stuart, but he wasn’t into crowded places and held strong opinions on wearing costumes past middle school, so I skipped our standing Friday night date and instead went with Dax. We spent two full weeks scouring the thrift shops on James Street until we found replica costumes of Batman and Robin of the Adam West era. They looked just homemade enough to be amazing. We were the hit of the party.
For some reason, I can’t let the memory of that night go. And although I don’t have weeks to source the perfect pieces for my costume, I manage to find a pair of beige tights and a red sweater vest and to borrow a yellow cape and black mask from my nephew Riley. Not amazing, but good enough to do Burt Ward justice.
The party is only a twenty-minute walk from my basement address. I can hear Beyoncé blasting before I reach Dougie and Brandon’s block. Already there are costume-clad partygoers on the lawn with fancy rose-gold-trimmed plastic cups in hand, playing what looks to be croquet.
The music is so bumping that I can feel the bass reverberate in my chest as I climb the steps to the porch and push open the brightly painted blue door. It opens into Dougie and Brandon’s living room and dining room, both of which are packed with sweaty bodies clad in a rainbow array of vividly colored spandex.
My gaze pans the crowd, looking for a familiar face. A very particular familiar face. But instead of finding Dax, I spot Sunny, standing alone in the corner, bopping her shoulders off-time to the music, completely unaware that she’s being ogled by half of the Y chromosomes in the room.
She’s dressed as Wonder Woman. A DC version that skips the skimpy bodysuit, favoring more modest blue leggings. However, Sunny is all legs, and butt, and boobs. All of which look incredible in spandex and make me very aware that on top of my tights, I’m wearing a pair of cotton Hanes green underpants.