#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (17 page)

Chapter 49

Visiting the Pringles, even though it's across the street, requires a change of clothes. Since I'm lousy with dirty laundry, I cut up an old shirt, slicing up the back and tying the fringe together so it's badass and sexy. My choice of jeans is limited so I go with black skinnies. Since it's frigid from the storm, I add a scarf over my moto jacket. I find a knit hat, but it smells like Niko.

"I have your old winter jacket in the closet down here, surely it'll keep you warmer," my mother says.

"I don't need to be warm."

"No, but you need to be on your best behavior over at the Pringles'."

"Of course." I'm counting on a hot meal and Erin not being there—the Pringles' youngest daughter and my oldest friend; we were in diapers together. She's the daughter my mother wishes she had. I don't resent Erin for it, but our friendship consisted of a quiet competition and resulted in reminding me of my inadequacies—or at least how I could no longer walk the path my mother laid out for me.

I already regret leaving the house as I plod through the snow, cursing with every step. My mother reprimands me each time.

"Coralee," Mrs. Pringle squeals when she answers the door. She's nimble with dark brown hair. In the circle of neighbors, she's the soccer mom. Mrs. Quaid is the soft and lovable mama every child wishes she had, and Lizzy's mother was the glamorous, socialite they all admired. My mother is the over-achieving, helicoptering, perfectionist they take notes from to keep family life organized, but don't aspire to be.

I emerge from the shadows.

"And Josie." She folds me into a hug.

I receive another when Mrs. Quaid greets me.

"Come on in, so glad you could both come. Doesn't this remind you of old times; an impromptu get together, shelter from the storm, snacks and games. I love it. We should really make it a tradition, storms or fair weather, don't you think?" Mrs. Pringle says.

The women chatter as we pull off our winter gear and move into the kitchen.

"The guys are in the den with the game. Erin, Beth, Jesse, Mandy, Lizzy, and the others are in the basement with the pool table—don’t worry it's not the same musty basement you remember from when you were a kid. We had it finished off. Larry wanted a bar to entertain. Can you guess how many times he's used it? Maybe twice. The guys always end up in front whatever sports are on the television in the den. Go on, they'll all be so glad to see you. Why don't you bring these bowls of cheese curls and popcorn down while you're at it?" She passes them to me, but I can't bring myself to smile.

I pass the front door on my way to the basement and consider bolting, but I'll probably spill the snacks, leaving a trail to my whereabouts.

Like at my house, framed family photos fill a wall. I spot one of Erin and me, in matching bathing suits and sunglasses; our shoulders barely reached the patio table. We must have been about four. I wasn't as harsh with her in my departure as I was with JQ; we slowly drifted apart during high school, two ships sailing for opposite shores. Hers: a soccer scholarship and above average grades. Me: apparently nowhere after a detour with the Halos. But I should have been a better friend.

My boots are silent against the carpeted steps as familiar, but deeper and older voices rise and fall over a popular song on the radio and the clacking of pool balls. I don't have to steel myself often, but I take a deep breath and then walk casually through the room, depositing the bowls on the table between two leather sofas.

The room goes silent except for the refrain of a sassy popstar singing
I'll walk away when I'm ready and won't look back.
At least that's what I would say. If this were the old days, or a television show, the record player needle would scratch against the vinyl.

Expressions bounce between curiosity, contempt, and calm—the eldest Pringle is notoriously unruffled-able.

Erin steps toward me. We exchange a quick and uncertain hug. "It's been ages."

"Yeah."

"How are things?"

I shrug and in the honesty of her freckled face I say, "They could be better." I hope the others, who've resumed whatever they were doing, aren't listening.

"Meet Pete, my boyfriend from Emerson."

The three of us chat for a couple of minutes.

All the while JQ, standing across the room, is like a flashing light, begging for my attention, except he isn't. My eyes repeatedly trail to him while his remain fixed to the colorful balls on the pool table.

I can't ignore how good he looks: tousled, sandy hair, chiseled jaw, and those blue eyes. He wears a T-shirt that hugs his cut biceps and fitted jeans over long legs. His boyishness has given way to a masculinity that makes my heart race. He's strong, confident, and powerful. It's hard to glance away. I have to add #Sexy to my mental list of all things JQ.

The older Pringles and a few of the Quaid siblings involve themselves in a serious conversation about politics over a bottle of wine. The younger ones goof off with a nerf ball and trampoline on the other side of the room.

Mrs. Pringle calls Erin upstairs to get some more snacks, relieving me from the effort of small talk. Without her to distract me, once more, my eyes flick to JQ. He doesn't spare me a glance.

I wander to the fully stocked, polished wooden bar and around to the other side. What would it take to shake things up and get everyone drunk? Then maybe they could ask the questions on their lips that they're too polite to say sober. They being, Erin and JQ. The questions being, why did you ditch our friendships and turn into a bitch?

I mix vodka with cranberry juice and soda, and plop myself in the corner of the couch. I scroll my social medias, blinking my eyes at the number of notifications. Whoa. Penny wasn't kidding. I text her.

Trapped in the neighbor's basement. You've been appointed tech guru. What do I do about all these notifications?

Trapped? I'm a ninja, you know. Or should I call the police?
she asks.

No. It's a stupid get together my mother dragged me to. Have I ever mentioned JQ?

Phew. Not really, but you dated in high school, right?

Dated? No, we were friends. Not anymore. He won't look at me. Won't say hi. Nothing, except save my life.

She writes
??? We need to talk
.

Probably
.

Her speech bubble pulses for a while so I down enough of my drink for the sharp edges of the room to blur ever so slightly.

My phone beeps.
I'm not as tech savvy as I'd like, but I'm climbing the learning curve fast and working on getting a few of the vids back online—the site keeps crashing. Also, I've received emails from talent agents, celebrity bloggers, local news media, and several offers for product endorsements. We need to have a meeting for real.

I'm in. Tomorrow? I don't have anything else to do.

I have to walk the dogs until 9. Then go to the coffee shop. I'm covering a shift so I'll be there until eight tomorrow night.

That's fine. I'm getting drunk by myself, so probably by the time I get up they'll have the roads cleared
. I should add #KiddingNotKidding

I go to the bar to refill my drink and pretend there's no judgment about how far I've strayed from the road to success they're all traveling. They've all grown up, yet I still inhabit the same confused state I did three years ago. I strut back to the couch, because a strut signifies confidence and confidence doesn't crack under scrutiny. I feel like cracking, but then the vodka might spill on the new carpet.

Henry, one of JQ's brothers, apparently helping himself to cans of beer from the fridge, calls, "Hashtag kissing."

I raise an eyebrow. "It's cultural commentary," I say smartly.

"It's gone viral is what it is," Mandy adds.

JQ's attention snaps to me and just as quickly, he disappears into ignoring me again.

With a concerned and apologetic expression, Erin tries to change the conversation. "I'm so glad to be home for Thanksgiving break. We should all get together again. Maybe we could see a movie or—"

Lizzy appears from the stairs. I vaguely recall Mrs. Pringle mentioning she was here, but it didn’t quite register. Maybe her mother flew in from the tropics and forgave her. Lizzy's eyes flutter to JQ. "I think viewing the internet will suffice. Has everyone seen Josie's debut?"

The older siblings turn in mild attention.

Lizzy trails her hand along the banister. "The gang is all here. Should I invite the parents down? I'm sure they'd love to see your various accomplishments since you've been home, Josie."

I raise my glass in a tipsy, careless toast. "I don't know why you bother."

"Are you drunk?" she asks.

"The better question is when am I not? There's no reason to be sober, not that I can tell. It makes it easier to kiss people when it doesn't matter." My eyes cut to JQ. "If anyone wants a five-second spotlight on hashtag kissing dot com, form a line. I'll get another drink."

Erin places her hand on top of mine. "You probably shouldn't."

I tip my cup in her direction. "You probably should. Here, try a sip. It's fruity."

Lizzy presses buttons on the TV controller. "Does this thing have YouTube?"

"You're wasting your time, Lizzy. It's old news." My laughter is the soundtrack as I stomp up the stairs.

My mother and the other ladies spot me from the kitchen. "We were just going to call you kids upstairs. The chili is ready with all the fixings—are you ok dear?" Mrs. Pringle asks.

My eyes brim because I stupidly wanted JQ to rush after me and give me a chance to explain.

My mother places an iron claw around my wrist. "Of course she is."

I nod, stumbling into the brightly lit kitchen.

Mrs. Pringle says, "Tell us your Thanksgiving plans."

"Thanksgiving?" I say dumbly.

"We're going to my brother's in New Jersey," my mother chirps.

"Let's just hope there isn't any more snow," Mrs. Pringle adds.

"Wait, what? I'm not going to New Jersey."

"Where will you go?" Mrs. Pringle asks what my mother won't.

"I'll stay home or go to Dad's." I scarf the chili and then thank the Pringles before I charge toward the door to gather my coat.

Just then, JQ comes around the corner from the basement. We do an awkward dance, trying to avoid each other. I smell his peppermint soap and warmth radiates from his strong frame. I glance up, our eyes meeting. There's the faintest, briefest flicker, before he nods at me, and carries on down the hall.

I hope I didn't mistake his expression because it's the only thing that keeps me from crying. In fact, I smolder inside.

In the privacy of my room, I slide the pink toy between my legs, envisioning JQ's scruffy jawline in need of a clean shave, the hint of sun lingering on his skin, and what his fingers would feel like here instead.

Chapter 50

The winds of war sweep through the house and it isn't because the Nor'easter returned and I accidentally left the door open downstairs. My mother's voice pierces the quiet when she returns. I tuck the vibrator in the drawer next to my bed just as the bright light from the hall sweeps over me.

"Young lady, explain," she says, holding up her cell phone with an image paused on my lips pressed against Manolo's.

Penny is fast and Manolo is even hotter on film.

"#Kissing. Thanks for the view."

"What are you talking about? Is this real? Is this what you do with your time?"

"Should I tell you I was wrong? That I'm ashamed? That I'm sorry. It wasn't, and I'm not. You wouldn't understand."

"You're right. I wouldn't, because this is even beneath anything I ever imagined you'd do. I mean, really. I don't even know what to say."

"That's a relief."

"This isn't something to be taken lightly. What if someone sees?"

I snatch the shaking phone from her hand. "About 37,954,044 people have, actually."

"You're in big trouble."

"Yes. I've been in big trouble since senior year. That tends to happen when parents suck the life out of their children, forcing them into expressing their need for freedom in unhealthy ways. Tell that to Dr. Woodson; just make sure you charge her at least twenty-five bucks."

My mother stammers, flummoxed, practically stomping her foot on the floor. "Speaking of Dr. Woodson, she's says it's time to show you some tough love."

"Isn't that what you've been doing all this time? Because I certainly haven't felt any warmth or softness from you."

"No, Josephine. I've been lenient, but now you've gone too far. You've forced me into this. I expect you to be out of this house by the time I return from New Jersey." The veins in her forehead twitch against her tight skin, and she leaves.

I slam the door behind her.

I don't feel much of anything; she bled it all from me. I stay in bed, but don't sleep until daylight brings the sound of her boots crunching in the snow-covered driveway, the trunk of her car banging shut, and the rumble of the engine disappearing down the street.

Finally, I sleep until dark, but stay in bed reading Penny's texts.

Still want to get together? I'm done in twenty minutes
.

My phone beeps again, but it's not Penny.

Babe, what are you doing? I saw #Kissing. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I can't get you out of my head and now I can’t get you off my internet. Please write or call or come. I'd love to make you come
.

I roll my eyes. I reply.
You never could make me come so I've been forced to take matters into my own hands and lips
. It's a low blow, but I'm in a low mood. I flip to my conversation with Penny and write
Let's get together this week
.

I'm covering shifts, almost around the clock, but yeah. We have to manage your rise to fame. Lol
.

I spend the better part of the next couple of days watching television, binging on entire seasons of shows. And answering calls and doing online interviews for #Kissing. The press is all too happy to ask about Niksie, to which I routinely reply, "No comment."

On Wednesday, on my way to get some jam and toast, I spot JQ and his siblings in the backyard having a massive snowball fight. There's laughter and happy shouting as they bound out from behind berms of snow, armed with snowballs, and letting them fly.

He's light on his feet, hitting every target: Henry, Mandy, Rylee, and Emily. Mr. Quaid appears on the roof and dumps buckets of snow on them. The sight makes me soft and warm in the otherwise cold house.

I go back to the living room and turn off the TV. The piano, alone in the corner beckons. I play until I conjure the sound of JQ's laughter between the notes.

The day before Thanksgiving, I lace up my sneakers, eager to move and be outside after diagnosing myself with a hardcore case of cabin fever. My mother hasn't called, nor has my father—maybe she forbade him from reaching out to me now that she's cut me out.

The sky is nothing but a happy blue against the chill inside me. When Maria, Meg, and Mary spot me jogging toward them, they cheer me into their midst.

"Where've you been?" Maria asks.

They're practically strangers, but I relay the incident in the basement, the fight with my mother, and my otherwise wooly status. I puff hot air in the cold as we venture farther from my street.

"You certainly know how to make sure there's no shortage of drama in your life," Maria says candidly. "I couldn’t stand that and I have five sisters and one fierce Columbian mama."

"She sizzles," Meg says, lifting one finger in the air and making a
Sss
sound.

Mary adds, "You could do something else with all that energy. Help the homeless, visit the elderly, and change the world."

Maria shakes her head and laughs. "Mary, you're such a dreamer. Come to my mother's table and she'll set you straight with a plate of tamales."

"So, #Kissing. Let's talk about that." Meg says, changing the subject and keeping pace with me.

"I hear a few people have watched it," I say vaguely.

She scoffs. "It was on the news this morning."

Mary pipes up from behind, "You could use your platform for good, social change, awareness, something powerful."

Maria pushes back into the conversation. "Actually, in a way, she is making a feminist statement."

"How so?" Mary asks.

"She's demonstrating that she's in charge of what she does with her lips, her body, and her time. She does it outrageously and boldly. It's totally in your face, but I don't see any shame in her face. That's what feminism means to me, not being ashamed of being female and exercising your freedom."

"I don't get how that's liberating or promoting gender equality," Mary says smartly. "In some ways she's reinforcing the idea that women are sex objects. No offence, Josie."

"I disagree," Meg says. "She's defining herself. That's feminism at its core."

Their words swirl and sting in the cold air as I gulp breaths. As I near my house, I tell them goodbye. I can't outrun the truth of what #Kissing means, but for now, I'm faster than it is, and with a burst of speed, I run up the driveway.

I zone out on my phone, sludgy from all of the judgement, living in a black and white world with likes and dislikes, and the gray of what feminism means to different people. The whole thing is a distorted mess.

After a shower, my phone lights up with texts.

Sorry if we upset you -Maria

No offense meant. -Meg.

These are really big things to think about, Josie. You're super strong and I respect your choices. I didn't mean you weren't a feminist, but wasn't sure if #Kissing is helping the cause or hurting it. Really, there's no way to know, I guess. You're brave and a friend, no matter what. Anyway, I'll go running with you anytime or meet up if you want to talk some more about it. - Mary

I reply
No worries
to each of them with a little smiley face even though it doesn't resemble my current expression or the truth.

The only person I truly want to kiss is JQ. None of those other lips meant anything and while that was sort of the point I wanted to make, maybe a better one would have been traveling back in time and not telling JQ that I wanted to give less fucks. I sigh.

It's always been him, and I've repeatedly made it so it can't be him. I fall asleep clinging to the image of his blue eyes, afraid even they will slip away.