Page 96 of My Grape Crush
But first, I need to dip my tongue into her center and slowly lick my way to the deviant pearls that got us into this mess in the first place.
“You have that glow,” JC says, “of a man getting serious action.”
“It’s called a tan.” I help myself to the grapes Mom’s housekeeper laid out for us, doing my best not to let my embarrassment show. JC can blab about sex like it's no big deal, but what happens between Dani and me under the sheets is our business.
JC munches on the banana he just peeled, his mouth twitching into that smile that is a free pass for almost everything—bottomless drinks, dates, forgiveness. It’s funny how he felt larger than life to me growing up. Now, under the soaring ceilings of my parents’ enormous kitchen, he looks normal-sized.
Or maybe the perception of myself has changed.
“If your drawing skills are any indication, she’s a definite keeper.”
I stare at him, inordinately proud of his mistimed humor. “Did you have to go there?”
He laughs, half-choking on the mouthful of banana. “Consider this a marketing coup. I don’t even like rosé, but I’m willing to try it now.”
I pelt a grape at him. Hard. “You’re an idiot.”
“Takes one to know one,” he teases and lunges for the remaining tower of fat green grapes at the same time I do.
We rip off clusters of ammunition and prepare for battle on either side of the kitchen island. Our favorite childhood pastime involved launching grapes at each other. The best kind of war, if such a thing exists. A well-thrown grape can sting like hell but leaves no real damage.
Other than a sticky floor that needed constant mopping.
JC launches his tried-and-true attack—a rapid-fire succession that kept me cowering for cover as a kid. But I’m stronger now. And he’s unprepared for the hurl of fruit pinging off his body.
“Dude!” he yelps. “Since when did you get all aggro?”
“Consider this making up for lost time,” I say, ducking his green bullets.
“Oh, yeah?” He winds up his arm to launch a handful in my direction.
I duck, the buckshot spray of grapes whizzing over my head to connect with the impenetrable wall of muscle that enters the kitchen at the exact wrong time. Seeing JC’s look of surprise, I turn, and there stands Sawyer, wearing a suit and his eternal frown.
Arms crossed. Eyebrows slashed into knives.
Like clockwork, time spinning backward, JC and I snap into our poses of obedience, waiting for the reprimand.
Sawyer flicks a piece of grape from his lapel and arches one dark brow. Despite his stiff exterior, his eyes are soft. Not quite welcoming, but that might have more to do with me.
“Not much has changed here, huh?”
No, but also, yes.
When Dani and I walked through the front door earlier and all the ghosts I’d been dreading didn’t swarm me, it dawned on me that everything can change.
For the better.
Mom and I talked it out before Sawyer arrived, and she’s (sort of) come to terms with the reality of what happened—made palatable by my promise never to let Dani out of my sight. And now I have to set aside my bruised ego, follow Dani’s advice, and make things right with Sawyer.
I clear my throat. “Listen,” I start, my voice sounding as awkward as I feel. “I didn’t mean half the shit I said yesterday.”
A flicker of profound uncertainty passes over his face. “And the other half?”
I fall quiet for a moment, recalling the endless messes JC and I created that Sawyer was tasked with cleaning up. Always looking out for us.
Like that long-ago night at the Commodore Ballroom, Vancouver’s famous concert hall. JC was giving ‘er on stage with his band, and me, smuggled in as an underage roadie, prowling in the dark corners so the bouncers wouldn’t nab me.
When I came out of the john, I saw Sawyer hunched against the back wall by the bar, doing everything he could to stick out like a sore thumb in his blazer and dress shoes. He stood in the shadows, arms crossed, acting like it was a crime to smile. Eyes on the dude selling merch, because cash was king in those days, and it tended to disappear.
