It started with dangerous.
I was getting ready for another wedding, another love story. My mom was championing all the boys in the hotel, all the boys on the way up to north Georgia and my head was spinning off my shoulders and I hated it- boys, boys, and more boys. As if some part of me was not complete without that Y chromosome, without someone to hold my hand and call me pet names and I was so sick of it. She was trying to combat the bruises inside of me; the school’s resident bad boy had snatched me up and whipped me around and tossed me back to the grounds of Pelham High School broken.
I was absolutely sick of boys.
But that night I was ready. I wanted to drink too much champagne and sit by the bonfire and make bad decisions. My parents were fighting, my brothers were off being little boys and doing God knows what- and I had a new black dress that made me look curvy and lovely and my good luck black high heels.
I wanted to be dangerous.
But I was disappointed. The guys there were all young twenty something’s. And of that group, many were married.
Until I saw him.
Our eyes met across the room and I felt a soft zing resonate through me. But maybe he didn’t see me, because his eyes were glazed over and he was lounging gorgeously on the plush chairs with someone else, another boy.
My mother follows my eyes and murmurs, “Oh, he’s cute. Should I find out who he is?”
Oh my God… “No!” My face heats and my heart pounds and oh no, here we go again.
But maybe not, because when I meet him, he shakes my hand gently and his eyes flick over my body absently, disinterested, glazed over. I’m trying to remain aloof and acting like I don’t care about what he thinks because I am an independent woman and better than this flirting game and all that noise, but the smirk on his lips is distracting and the way he flips his hair out of his eyes in that casual way is stealing my breath.
Focus, Maddie.
I forced words out, but they catch on each other, melt in my mouth, before stumbling over each other and dripping away all over my lips.
Is he laughing at me? Probably. Do I care? Not particularly. After all, when on Earth will I see him again? He probably lives in Georgia and has a girlfriend.
But I don’t have time to flirt; time to act brazen, time to make a move before… he’s gone.
Sigh.
So I sip my champagne casually, return smiles and soft spoken compliments, but not for long. The air is hot and humid, the people are drunk, and the air smells like straight liquor and all this champagne and the heat and the smell of the spirits is making my head swim.
Where did my Wedding Boy go?
So I slipped off my heels and went for a walk. The night, unlike the reception hall, was cool, quiet, and dim. The feeling of the chilly, smooth stone of the walkway under my feet felt steady and solid. My head cleared and I noticed a hotel bonfire somewhere in the distance. But there were people there.
I don’t want a crowd. But the goose bumps on my arms and the damp wetness in the air forced me towards the warm orange glow.
There he is! Wedding Boy!
He’s dressed in skinny jeans that make my mouth go dry and a t-shirt that looks like a second skin.
And he’s got some pretty, petite blonde whispering in his ear like she’s got some obscene secret he has to know. And he’s laughing.
Disappointment is the color of bright blonde hair glowing in the firelight offset by the dark wash of tight denim.
That’s what you tasted like when I first met you- beautiful and dangerous and disappointment.