Page 9 of Restored Dreams

“Did I? I held Pop’s shop together by a thread for a long while after he drank and gambled away the profits. I did it out of necessity, but I never became who I wanted to be.” My words are harsh, bitter even. It’s been a long, rough road to keep the shop afloat until recent years.

“But I thought…” Her voice drifts. When we met, I worked for my dad, restoring cars, but it wasn’t my first love. I wanted to be a teacher, and I was taking classes to be one. I liked history; only I’m better at making it repeat itself. I got the wrong girl pregnant, just like my old man, and raised my son as a single father, just like Pop. Only Pop had two boys. The comparison brings me little solace.

“It doesn’t really matter now,” I say, shrugging like her, dismissing my past and finishing my beer. The sun sets slowly, but the sky has turned cloudy off in the distance, so it’s not as stunning as I would have hoped. The light filters around the hazy clouds, but the golden globe hides behind gray darkness. Lily remains silent as we stare forward, each lost in our own thoughts. Mine are a jumble crashing into each other like the growing irritation of the ocean before us.

“Want another?” she asks, and I peer down at the empty green bottle.

“Sure. I’ll get ’em. I owe you.” My knees creak as I stand. After brushing the sand from my shorts, I reach for her empty.

“Brut,” she voices my name with a serious edge. “You don’t owe me anything.”

8

Frolic in the sand

[Lily]

I don’t know why I went all serious on him or spewed the history of my life. Good Lawd, Lily, way to strike up a conversation. Maybe it was his abrupt apology. Maybe I wanted him to know I was a messed-up kid with crazy, romantic dreams. I can’t say I understand why he did what he did with my sister, but I get it. I mean, I don’t really, but I also kind of do. We were so young and foolish—stupid even. Well, maybe he was more stupid than I was, but then again, he probably didn’t want the things I did when I was nineteen and he was twenty-three. Maybe that’s why he went for Lauren one night.

Brut returns with another round. He seemed rather surprised about the Heineken, his face morphing to pleasure when I said I remembered. Funny how your memory tricks you and takes you on a damn roller coaster ride. One minute, I’m reminiscing about drinking his favorite beer in the office of his dad’s garage, and the next, I’m rattling off about Brad. I shiver with the recall, but I’m also good at repressing it, and as soon as I released the information to Brut, I’m ready to block it once again.

“Here,” he offers, holding out another hard lemonade for me and squatting before he sits in the sand. He opened the bottle inside, so I don’t have any hassle with the cap. I watch his face as he takes a long pull from his beer—the hard line of his jaw sprinkled with white, the crow’s feet by his eyes, the curve of his nose. He’s so handsome; he redefines the word.

My heart flutters as I stare, and I shift to better memories. Straddling Brut. Kissing him. Moving against him like a dance. A pulse races between my thighs, and I close my eyes at the waning ache.

“You okay?”

“Mmm…” More as a yes, it sounds like a moan. Brut chuckles.

“Heavy stuff you just told me.”

I nod in response as I open my eyes. “Would you mind if we let it go?” I really don’t want to keep talking about all these things from the past. It’s out there. I’ve shared one of my deepest, darkest secrets, and it’s up to him how he interprets it. I, on the other hand, don’t want to rehash it.

“Sure.” The pause after that word feels heavy, but I’m sensing something heavier coming. “But I’d like to know more about the man. The one who didn’t marry you or give you babies.” He swallows. “The one who hurt you.”

And there it is. I laugh without humor. “You mean Brad?”

“Brad. As in the name of a car in those insurance commercials? That Brad? Sounds like a pussy name,” Brut mocks. “Give it to me, Brad,” he exaggerates as he throws his voice to sound feminine. “Nope, doesn’t work for me.”

“I didn’t sound like that,” I snap, my voice rising an octave, filling with honest laughter, and almost matching the whiny noise he made.

“Right there, Brad. Harder, Brad.” Brut continues in mocking disbelief.

“I didn’t say those things.” I chuckle. His head swings in my direction.

“You didn’t?” His eyes widen. I’m wagging my head, laughter filling my cheeks. I’m not discussing my sexual history with him, and I see what he’s doing. He’s making fun of Brad to lighten the heaviness of discussing him. He continues.

“Fuck me…Brad.”

“Okay, now you’ve gone too far,” I bellow, but I’m giggling.

“You’re kidding, right?” His eyes widen farther, the blue sparking to midnight. I don’t know what he thinks my sex life has been like, but I’m not interested in correcting him with details. Despite Brad or anyone else, I haven’t had the kind of sex which has me begging for harder, deeper, faster, even if I’ve wanted it.

“You know you share the same beginning sound in your names,” I clarify. “As if, fuck me, Brut sounds so much better.”

His breath hitches, and I swallow what I’ve said, nearly choking on the fierceness in my tone. Fuck me, Brut, my brain repeats.

“Lily pad.” My nickname lingers on his lips. He’s the only one to ever call me that. The wind kicks up, and my hair blows in front of my face. Just as he did earlier in the day, his fingers brush it back, holding it in place behind my ear. “Actually, that does sound better.”