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Fallon:
You’ve just never seen it.
Ethan:
Does it cover every inch of you?
Fallon:
Wouldn’t you love to find out?
Yes. The answer leaps to the forefront of my mind. I can’t believe it’s been five years since Fallon and I began talking outside the confines of our defined roles within my family. Yet, we still haven’t crossed that final boundary with each other. I haven’t seen the glory of a blush spread across her perfect skin.
I haven’t touched it.
Kissed her.
That’s going to end soon.
When she texted me a 9-1-1 emergency request for a hangover cure, I know I shocked both her and my niece when I pounded on their doom door three hours later with my surefire hangover cure of Funions, Gatorade, and Ho Hos. Both women, still trussed up in the gowns they’d worn the night before, were passing a mop bucket between them as they puked something called “Witch’s Brew.”
Appropriate for my witch—my Fallon.
After I got them both moderately sober and left, Fallon texted me her heartfelt thanks on my way back to Kensington.
Fallon:
Don’t know what I would have done without you. I have an exam on Monday.
Ethan:
Take it from someone who knows—avoid the mixed drinks, Fallon.
From then onward, our relationship bloomed. We became friends that have aroused, amused, and irritated the fuck out of each other. Case in point, I scroll back and chuckle over the snap and GIF of the West Wing, where the president is banging his head on the desk.
Fallon:
I’m so close to doing this. Why did I agree to be fixed up?
Ethan:
Ditch him.
I sucked in a breath at the selfie I got at that point of Fallon decked out in an excuse for a dress.
Fallon:
Because I look good, E.
Ethan:
You look better than good, witch.
Fallon:
Sweet talker.
Ethan:
