Cross your Heart Page 2

  “Have fun.” She waves us off. “Be safe.”

  Sliding into the passenger seat of Reid’s truck, I stare down at my hands. I don’t know why I do this to myself. Force myself into situations to let Reid unknowingly tear jagged holes into my heart.

  When we’re together, alone, my life feels complete. It’s us, he and I ready to take on the world. But then reality kicks in, and that world we’re so convinced we can conquer edges between us. Separating us by the desires of our individual wants. Our goals, our needs are no longer aligned. Only, he doesn’t realize that. He’s living his life with a sole focus, enjoying the ride. I, on the other hand, am performing my most important role, pretending to be his best friend when in truth I want his heart.

  “You okay?”

  “Hmm?” I startle at the sound of his voice, lifting my head to see his focus back on the road.

  “Yeah.” I shake my melancholy. “You know this scene isn’t me. I don’t know why I punish myself with it.”

  He smiles, the right side of his face lifting in easy amusement. “You need to get used to it.”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s a difference between partying with A-listers and the small-minded humans from high school.”

  Arching an eyebrow, he glances at me in challenge.

  “True.” I bark out a laugh. “Still, I plan on being married to Charlie Hunnam, it’ll make it more tolerable.”

  “Long as he knows you’ll still be living with me and not him.”

  Winding my window down, I let the cool night air brush along my face. “As long as you know that we’ll be having loud and frequent sex, wherever and whenever we see fit.”

  He punches my arm. “Gross.”

  “For you,” I agree. “Not me.”

  Hand running through the thick brush of his dark hair, he smiles. “Let’s go to the movies tomorrow,” he changes the subject.

  “Okay,” I agree readily, letting the conversation fall off there.

  I drop onto the couch beside Reid, ignoring the blonde currently perched on his lap, her lips attached to his neck. This way my eyes can’t glue themselves to the nightmare of my heart.

  Reid doesn’t attach himself to women. He doesn’t date. Here or there I find myself in situations like now, but thankfully, it’s rare. I guess if push came to shove, I wouldn’t suffer through it the way I do if it became his norm. Surprising as it may be, seeing Reid with other girls doesn’t cut me in the way most would imagine. He’s the owner of my heart, but I know they aren’t the owner of his. It makes it easier to swallow. They’re replaceable. I am not, not to Reid. They might have more intimate knowledge of his body parts, but I know the greater parts of who he is. I know his heart. I share his dreams.

  “Got your prom dress, Rox?”

  I focus my attention on Brooke, forcing my ears to block out the sound of blondie’s giggle at whatever Reid is whispering in her ear. “I have.”

  “What?” Reid’s voice tramples Brooke’s. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  Blondie death stares me, eyes throwing darts in my direction at distracting Reid from dipping his tongue into her mouth.

  I shrug. “You told me to buy something black. Saw. Liked. Bought.”

  He watches me for a beat.

  “So you two are going to prom together?” Blondie snipes.

  Reid ignores her.

  I ignore her.

  Prom was never discussed. No agreement was made. Neither of us asked the other. It was just assumed. We’re a pair. Where he goes, I go and vice versa.

  “Of course they’re going to prom together,” Brooke gripes. “Who even are you? More importantly, what are you doing here? If you’re not well versed enough on Reid and Rox, you shouldn’t be perched upon his lap. Off with you.” She waves her off.

  “She’s right.” Reid taps her thigh in dismissal. “Rox and I are about to bail.”

  “We are?”

  He nods. “I need you to show me the dress. I need to make sure Mom doesn’t buy me a suit that clashes.”

  “I told you.” I roll my eyes. “It’s black. Nothing else to it.”

  He sighs. “Lord help her.”

  He stands and I follow. “What?”

  “There are so many fucking variations of black, Rox.”

  My feet pause. “Nope. There’s just black. Simple.”

  Inhaling through his nostrils, he shakes his head. “Is it classic? Is it grunge? Is it costume? Formal? Cocktail?”

  My eyes widen in panic. “I am so confused.”

  “Catch you guys later,” he yells to our friends, hooking his arm over my shoulder, pulling me in close.

  Settling into his car, I open my hands against the air vent, letting the hot air warm my hands.

  “Wanna watch a movie at mine or yours?”

  “Huh?”

  Starting the car, he glances over in expectation.

  “I thought you needed to see my prom dress.”

  Pulling into the street, I watch his head move side-to-side in exasperation. “Your mom texted me a pic before you bought it.”

  Eyebrows to my hairline, I frown. “Why?”

  “Fuck, Firefly. I love you, but you’re lost when it comes to dress code. You live solely in ripped jeans and licensed tees.”

  Glancing down at my torn jeans, I struggle to see what the problem is. “What’s wrong with my Scarface shirt?”

  “Nothing.” His eyes remain on the road. “You look cute as shit. You make it work, even if the only variation is whether you tuck your shirt in or tie it up.”

  Cute. As. Shit.

  I force myself not to read into it. “Why did we leave the party then?”

  He shrugs. “It was lame, and blondie kissed like Alice Cooper.”

  I raise an eyebrow in question.

  “All tongue.”

  I grimace. “Eww.”

  “Tell me about it.” He shivers. “I felt like she was an alien life form working to impregnate me.”

  I swallow the bile at the imagery he just painted. “I feel sick.”

  Sticking his tongue out in my direction, he pretends to lick me, and I jab him in the ribs. “Don’t be so fucking disgusting.”

  Three hours of viewing later, jean’s button popped to allow for the copious amounts of popcorn, soda and ice cream consumed, Reid looks over at me sprawled over my bed. “You wanna sleep or wanna watch another?”

  “Throw the next one on.” I yawn. “If I fall asleep, I fall asleep.”

  Pressing play, he settles in beside me, pulling the bowl of popcorn onto his lap.

  My eyes feel heavy, the voices on the screen dulling to a quiet lullaby, helping me find sleep.

  “Hey,” Reid speaks, oblivious that I was moments away from unconsciousness. “When we have a kid...”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I lift my hands to exaggerate my point, now wide awake. “I know I was drifting off there, but I feel like I missed the entire lead-in to this conversation.”

  He rolls his eyes, stuffing my popcorn in his mouth. “Don’t be dramatic,” he mumbles around popcorn stuffed cheeks. “Obviously we’re not gonna fuck. We’ll get a doctor to have my stuff fertilize your egg.”

  I stare at him in shock. “Your stuff,” I repeat slowly.

  “I’ll jizz in a cup,” he clarifies unnecessarily.

  “Oh, I know what you meant.”

  Eyes fixed on the TV, he turns to me slowly, almost reluctantly, the thought of missing any of the movie too much for him to bear. My jaw sits in my lap, eyebrows drawn together so heavily they’re kissing. My reaction, enough to give him pause, stops his next handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  Lifting the back of my hand to his forehead, I check his temperature. “No. Not delirious due to illness.”

  Whacking my hand away, he pauses the movie on a huff.

  “You don’t think your future wife might have an issue with me carrying your spawn?”

  Chewing loudly, he shakes his head. “Firefly. Please. N
either of us are ever getting married.”

  “Have you added psychic to your many talents?”

  Flicking a piece of popcorn at my face, he has the audacity to look exasperated by my confusion. “Rox, seriously, can you honestly imagine any male or female being okay with the relationship we share? I’m not changing this” —he gestures between us— “for anyone. And neither would you.”

  I open my mouth to speak, closing it almost immediately at the thought he’s actually right.

  “Exactly.” He smiles triumphantly. “Can I turn the movie back on now?”

  “I’m sorry.” I pout. “I’m still coming to terms with the fact that my best friend has just mapped my life out for me. All-inclusive of life as a spinster and the high probability that I’ll be turkey basted with his spunk to bear his illegitimate ‘friend’ child.”

  “Friend-child. Clever.” He chuckles. “I don’t see the problem. At least we’ll know our kid will be all kinds of rad.”

  “Don’t ever say rad,” I scold. “You’re crazy.”

  He scoffs. “Says you. Anyway, when we have a kid, we should name him Al, after Pacino.”

  I let his words sink in. Having Reid’s kid one day wouldn’t be so bad. We’d be a family, of sorts, it’s better than nothing, right? I smile, my eyes closing over in sleep. “Nah,” I add sleepily. “It has to be an R name. Reid, Roxy, and Radness.”

  I hear his soft laughter as I drift off, content in the thought that it’s a pretty nice sound to end my day on.

  Two

  Take One

  Roxy

  Readjusting the tight-fitting bodice of my dress, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I yank the strapless bodice up once again, making certain my boobs are adequately contained.

  I look different. Not bad different. Maybe not necessarily good different. Just different.

  My long blonde hair falls in thick waves over my shoulders and back, skimming across my bare skin in a ticklish caress. The skirt of my dress is full, delicately rough with the sheer level of tulle dancing from my hip bones down to the line of my knees. I fluff it, only to pat it back down.

  “You look amazing, baby.”

  I turn at my mother’s voice, smiling uncertainly. “Feels weird being so dressed up. I’d feel more comfortable in my jeans.”

  She laughs, moving close enough to drag her middle and index fingers over a lock of my hair. “I’m so proud of you, you know that, right?”

  I smile. “Of course.”

  “You’re such an impressive young woman,” she praises. “You’re so beautiful, and it’s the least significant thing about you. Maybe I can’t claim that as my own success, but I do. I kicked-fucking-ass at raising my kid.”

  Looking at Mom is like staring at my own reflection in a mirror. Our similarities are eerily identical. Same blonde hair, my skin a carbon-copy of her own. Everything from the way our smiles stretch to the upward tip of our noses. The only exception is our eyes. Mine two distinct separate colors, hers the color of the sky in summer.

  I hug her. “You are pretty kick-ass.”

  “I can’t believe you’re eighteen,” she groans. “How am I old enough to have an eighteen-year-old? Tell me it’s a lie. That you’re still four and I’m just dreaming.”

  “Have I walked in on a really emotional moment between mom and daughter and totally fucked the mood?”

  “Language,” my mom scolds, stepping from our embrace to look at Reid. “And no, I’m just having a crisis of aging. My youthful daughter was about to promise me I was still young before you rudely interrupted.”

  Reid smirks, the right side of his mouth pulling up enough to hood his eyes.

  My best friend was built for the dream he’s set his sights on. He’s Hollywood handsome. Classically beautiful; a man created for the big screen, to grace the covers of magazines, to worm his way into your heart and let you fantasize about a life that can never be. Chiseled jawline, crafted from stone and set in the same way. Lips, the softest shade of pink, perfectly symmetrical and enviably thick. Heavy brows sit prominently over his lightly flecked eyes. He’s tall, broad and most importantly, unattainable. Aloof without being hostile. Detached without being a loner. Reid is the right level of disinterested and the wrong amount of beautiful.

  It’s the worst kind of heartache, being loved by someone so completely in the wrong way. Depressingly platonic when I’d hand him everything if he’d only ask. I’d seal my heart with a bow just for him and be content and happy for the rest of my life.

  “What?” He pauses, thick eyelashes brushing his eyebrows in worry.

  “What?” I echo.

  “You’re staring. Do I look like shit?”

  Mom and I look at one another, rolling our eyes collectively. “You look good, friend. It’s actually more than a little unfair at how easy you transition from ripped jeans into a tux.”

  Laugh lines starting at the crease of his nose sit perfectly against the edge of his lips, his laughter easy. “Says you. Holy shit, Firefly.”

  Eyes dragging from my heeled feet, up the line of my calves, they rest upon the heavy fall of my skirt before moving upward. His eyes flash at the prominent swell of my cleavage, pausing on the column of my neck as I swallow thickly. I feel my cheeks reddening, his gaze stirring the fire I work so hard on quelling in my stomach. Our eyes connect, our stare held together like a magnet; unforgiving and impossibly strong.

  “Mom’s downstairs,” he murmurs, eyes still snagged against mine.

  My mom clears her throat, uncomfortable at the weighted silence circling the room.

  Our trance broken, I force a wide smile. “Shall we?” I gesture to the door and Reid nods.

  Linking my arm in his, we trail Mom down the stairs, comfortable in our quiet.

  “You look good, Roxy,” he whispers as we reach the bottom step, careful not to meet my eye again.

  “Thanks,” I reply, just as quietly.

  “Oh my God,” Bree cries as we step into the room.

  “Are you crying?” Reid scolds. “Jesus, Mom. It’s prom, not a freaking wedding. Relax.”

  His dad hugs his wife. “Leave her be, son. It’s a big moment. Looking good, Rox.” He winks in my direction, so like his son, my cheeks shade embarrassingly.

  “Got you something.” Reid touches my elbow.

  Taking the small black box he hands me, my eyebrows furrow. “Didn’t pick you as the corsage kinda guy.”

  He shifts uneasily and I find myself enjoying this almost awkward version of my best friend. “Just open it.”

  Within the dark cardboard sits a version of a corsage. Greenery interwoven amongst small tiny fly-like insects made from glass.

  “Are they fireflies?” I examine the small additions as he fits it to my wrist.

  He coughs, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”

  Glancing up at him through my lashes, he smiles softly. “They glow, too.”

  “Reid,” I cry quietly.

  “Happy birthday.”

  I push at his chest, my hand liking the feel of the hard planes through his shirt a little too much. “Thank you.”

  He winks.

  Fuck. I hate it when he does that. The cheeky grin that seems almost automatic with the gesture. Like the right side of his mouth is linked to the muscle in his left eye. It does things to my body that no eighteen-year-old girl should feel for her best friend.

  “Photo,” my mom sings, making Reid groan.

  “Zara.”

  “It’s prom,” Bree argues with her son. “Just smile, would you?”

  Glancing at one another and then back to the camera, we raise our middle fingers in salute, big fake smiles stretching across our faces in amusement.

  “You look like hoodlums,” my mom scowls, making us laugh.

  Arm thrown over my shoulder, Reid pulls me in closer, smiling at our parents. Sliding my arm around his waist, I rest my head on his shoulder, smiling softly just in time to hear the telltale click of my mom’s camera.
<
br />   “Perfect,” she muses and in that moment I can’t help but think she’s right. This, right here, me wrapped up in my best friend, feels as close to perfect as I imagine is possible.

  “Let’s get this over with.” Reid detangles from our embrace, oblivious to my heart fighting to find synchronization with his.

  “Don’t sound so excited.” Bree kisses his face.

  “It’s Rox’s birthday, we should be eating an unsavory amount of junk food and binge-watching her favorite movies. Why’d you have to turn eighteen on the same day prom fell on?”

  I glance at Mom. “Totally should’ve crossed your legs for an extra day.”

  “Apologies, Reid” —she bows her head— “for screwing with your plans. I should’ve had more foresight.”

  “Apology not accepted,” Reid grumbles.

  “Let’s dance.”

  “Let’s bail.”

  Our words cancel one another out, spoken at the exact same time. Mine with a punch of excitement, delight coursing through my veins. His dripping in boredom, punctuated with an exasperated sigh.

  “Bail,” he repeats.

  “Dance,” I push.

  “Yeah, that’s a hard no for me,” he rejects easily. Leaned back in his chair, he lifts his feet, dropping them onto the table without care. Empty cups fall to the floor and he watches them tumble. “Let me know when you’re ready to bail.” He waits reluctantly. “You can pick the movie tonight. I even bought your favorite ice cream.”

  He has zero qualms sitting here alone, watching on as our friends laugh and dance, content in playing audience instead of actually participating. Not that I should be surprised. This is how I met him. Relaxed in observation.

  Scrutiny is his favorite pastime. Watching people in their natural habitat. Studying their expression, their movements. People fascinate him.

  “Are you gonna start writing in your diary?” I bite, irritated that the final hour of prom is staring down on us in expectation, and he’s hellbent on wasting it.

  He laughs around his shock, saying nothing. Words aren’t needed, his irritation is shining heavily enough in his eyes. Pissed that I’d pick him apart in the midst of a tantrum.