We looked silently at one another, his face so close to mine, I could see little flecks of yellow gold in his green eyes.
In those moments, I forgot where I was. Who I was. And what the right thing to do for him was.
And I didn’t even realize I was straining toward him until he brought it to my attention. “Why are you fighting this when you want it?”
Why was I fighting this again?
“Nora?”
I closed my eyes, shutting him out, which allowed the memory of why I was fighting this to return to me. “Because—”
His mouth crushed down on mine, silencing me. Surprise turned to instinct. I kissed him back, meeting his tongue with my own, straining against his hold on my wrists but not to get away. To wrap my arms around him. Run my fingers through his hair.
Heat flushed through me like I was covered in fuel and he’d started a fire at my feet. It lashed like lightning until I was surrounded in a blaze.
Too hot. Too needy. Too everything.
I wanted to rip off my clothes.
I wanted to rip off his clothes.
And then he broke the kiss to pull back and stare at me in triumph.
If he’d been anyone else, if it had been any other moment, I’d have called him out for being smug.
Instead, I remembered exactly why we should not be doing this.
Whatever he saw in my expression made him loosen his grip on my wrists. I lowered them, but he didn’t step away.
He waited, his hands resting gently on my small shoulders.
Something in his eyes made my defenses crumble. Tenderness rushed through me and I found myself caressing his cheek, feeling his stubble prickle my skin. Sadness doused the fire. “She’s gone,” I told him gently. “Not even I can distract you from that.”
Unbearable, bleak anguish fought with the desire in his eyes and he slowly slid his hands off my shoulders and down to my waist. With a gentle tug I fell into him, clutching at his chest.
He tore through my soul with the whispered, tortured words, “But you can try.”
There was a part of me that didn’t want to go home. The smell of fast food clung to my nostrils, and I worried that over time, I’d never get the smell off my skin, out of my hair. And yet I still didn’t want to go home. “Have a nice day,” I said to my last customer, handing them their burger and fries.
I stepped back from the counter, drawing Molly’s eyes. She was at the drink machine, filling up a supersize cup with soda. She made a face. “Why did I agree to overtime?”
Smirking at her, I wanted to shout, “I’ll cover for you!” Instead I reminded her, “Because you’re saving to buy that piece-of-crap car from Laurie.”
“Ah, yeah. Dreaming big.”
I chuckled. “Bigger than me. I’m still hauling my ass around on these.” I pointed at my legs.
“Yeah, and that ass will continue to defy gravity because of it.”
“It defies gravity?” I peeked around at it. “Seriously? And here I thought it was nonexistent.”
Molly grinned. “Oh no, you have an ass. It’s cute as a button like the rest of you. It’s a sweet little heart-shaped butt.”
“You are paying way too much attention to my ass.”
“It’s called compare and contrast,” she argued, pointing at her ass. “Your whole ass could fit into one of my butt cheeks.”
“Uh…could I have my order now?”
We glanced over at her customer, a sullen freshman who was staring at us like we’d crawled out from under a rock.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said to Molly, but before I disappeared around the corner, I leaned back and called out to her, “Oh, and I would kill for your ass. And your boobs. Just so you know.”
My friend beamed at me, and I wandered off toward the locker room, hoping I’d made her day a little better. Molly was her own brand of cute, but she worried way too much about her weight.
Grabbing my stuff out of the lockers in the back of the building, I tried to shake off the guilt I felt about wanting to remain here serving fries rather than go home. It said a lot. About me or my life, I’m not sure. I wasn’t even sure there was a difference.
Working part-time at a fast-food place was not what I dreamed I’d be doing with my life after I graduated. Yet I’d known it was coming. While everyone else was making plans to go to college or travel, I was among the very few who couldn’t do any of those things. Eighteen. And trapped.
My closest friend was Molly. She got me the job since she’d been working here for the past two years on weekends. Now she was full-time. Although she’d joked about it, Molly had never dreamed big. I didn’t know if it wasn’t in her, or if she was lazy or what. All I knew was that my friend hated school. She seemed content to work fast-food and live at home because she never thought about the future. She was always living in the now.
I, however, thought about the future all the time.
I liked school.
I was not content here.
A feeling of claustrophobia crawled over me but I shoved it back. Sometimes it could feel like I had fifty people sitting on my chest, mocking me. Pushing through it, I grabbed my purse.
Time to go home.
Calling bye to Molly as I passed through the front of the restaurant, I inwardly flinched when I saw Stacey Dewitte sitting with a bunch of friends at the table near the door. She narrowed her eyes at me, and I looked away. My neighbor was a few years younger than me and once upon a time had been under the illusion that I was something I was not. I didn’t know who was more disappointed in me working at the fast-food place: Stacey or me.
Needing this day to be over, I pushed the door open, oblivious at first to the two guys messing around, playfully wrestling outside.
Until one shoved the other and he hit me with enough force to send me sprawling to the dusty road with a thud.
I was so surprised to find myself on the ground, it took a moment for the pain to hit, to feel the ache in my left knee and the sting in my palms.
I was suddenly surrounded by noise.
“Oh fuck, am really sorry.”
“Ye awright, lass?”
“Let me gee ye a hand up.”
“Dinnae ye bother, I’ll get her, ye fud.”
A strong hand gripped my bicep, and I found myself gently pulled to my feet. I looked up at the guy holding me, held in the spot not only by his hand but by the kind concern in his dark eyes. He didn’t look much older than me—tall, with the wiry, lean build of youth.
“Here’s yer bag. Sorry aboot that.” The guy with him handed me my purse.
Understanding his words but confused by the way he’d said them, by their alien accent, I blurted, “What?”
“Speak properly. She can’t understand ye.” The guy still holding my arm nudged his friend. He looked back at me. “Are you okay?”
His words sounded careful now, slower and pronounced. I gently pulled my arm from his grip and nodded. “Yeah.”
“We’re really sorry.”
“I got that. Don’t worry. A scrape on the knee won’t kill me.”
He winced and looked down at my knee. My work pants were covered in dust and grime. “Bugger.” When he looked up, I could tell he was going to apologize again.
“Don’t.” I smiled. “Really, I’m fine.”
He smiled back. It was cute and lopsided. “Jim.” He held out his hand. “Jim McAlister.”
“Are you Scottish?” I asked, delighted by the notion as I shook his calloused hand.
“Aye,” his friend said, offering me his hand too. “Roddy Livingston.”
“I’m Nora O’Brien.”
“Irish-American?” Jim’s eyes danced with amusement. “You know, you’re one of only a few people we’ve met in America who guessed where we’re from. We’ve gotten—”
“Irish,” Roddy supplied. “English. And dinnae forget Swedish. That was ma favorite.”
“I apologize for my countrymen,” I joked. “I hope we haven’t caused too much offense.”
Jim grinned at me. “Not at all. How did ye know we were Scottish?”
“A lucky guess,” I confessed. “We don’t get a lot of people from Europe visiting our small town.”