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I can’t do anything about not being blond, not without ruining my hair or looking ridiculous. I did it once, and it was a disaster. But he dates voluptuous, pouty-lipped women. I’d call them vapid, but I don’t know them.
I just know I want to be them.
I take one last look in the mirror, satisfied with my work, before driving to his house and parking on the street. He hasn’t been in town long, just having moved here after law school to hang out his shingle for business. Talk about killing me slowly. Yes, I will go off to college in the fall, but for years, he’s been the only boy I want, the only boy I see. Man, really, since he’s never been a boy in my mind, but still.
But he’s only seen me as a girl. He always calls me ‘kid’ or ‘young lady.’ That’s the worst term ever. No one wants to be referred to that way. It’s icky and weird and never lands. I don’t want him to see me as a child or even a young lady. I want him to see the woman I’ve become. I am legal to vote, to buy a gun, and to move out of the house. I’m not a kid and I won’t be trifled with.
I get out of my sedan, grab the clutch I swiped from Mom’s closet, and, after a deep breath, march up to his house and knock.
To say he’s surprised is an understatement. His eyes register that before they heat. They flare, even if ever so briefly. That much is obvious.
He opens the door wider, mostly because I push past him and into his home.
“Brighton. What— What are you doing here?” He looks around as if he can’t figure out the game. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Elias, I…” Digging deep into my courage reserves, I do what I came to do. I slide my dress off my shoulder and let it pool to the floor before he even has time to close the door.
I stand before him in my black lace bra and thong, red heels still in place, and step out of the dress. My hands dangle in front of me awkwardly, because I don’t know what to do with them. Shit.
His wide eyes look me up and down, before he turns them to the ceiling. “What the hell, Bright? What the—?” He swallows roughly, scrubs a hand down his face, and spins to slam the door.
Throwing his hands out to the side before propping them on his hips, he barks out, “Is this a joke?”
His words are the first knife to the gut.
“Elias, I want you. I think I’m in love with you and I want us to be together.” My words are rushed, as if coming out without my consent. “I’m tired of being seen as a child.” I step toward him and reach up to touch his cheek.
His flinch makes me cringe, and my confidence plummets. It’s the second stab.
I can’t take another.
His green eyes turn hard and his next words cut through me and decimate what’s left of my resolve. “You are a child, Bright.”
“I am not.” I sound petulant like one, but I can’t help it. “I’m a woman and I have needs.” I’ve heard that in movies and read it in books, but really don’t get what I’m saying. But it’s something women say to men, and I need him to hear me.
He steps out of my reach and walks around me to grab the dress, which he promptly thrusts in my direction. “Cover up, dammit.” He turns his back on me, but continues, more to himself than to me. “Your father will kill me. Hell, your brothers will help him dispose of my body.”
I take my dress, deflated, and bunch it in front of me protectively, covering my breasts and privates, wishing it would cover my mortification and erase my horror.
“I don’t think of you that way, Brighton.” At least he can’t see me flinch at his matter-of-fact declaration.
“But I want you.” It’s my last feeble attempt. It sounds weak, even to my ears, almost childlike.
“You’re like a little sister to me and always will be. I’ll never see you as anything else.”
With his final crushing blow, I fumble into my dress, fighting to pull it over my breasts, not bothering to right it, and hurry for the door.
I want to deliver a hateful comment as I go, but I can’t speak for fear of choking on my humiliation, anger, and tears. Tears I refuse to shed. Not over a man who would so quickly and efficiently crush me. I take one last look around and note the sparse living room and an open bottle of amber liquid on the end table.
“Don’t come back, Brighton.” His face is hard as he watches me go. “My answer will never change.”
I drop my hair to cover my flaming face. I hate these shoes since I can’t flee fast enough. I hate these panties that scratch with every step, reminding me of my epic humiliation at the hands of Elias Finchley.
I rush to the car and peel away. It’s several minutes before I realize my mom’s clutch is still at his house.
Don’t come back, Brighton, plays on repeat. It might as well have been shouted through a megaphone.You’re a child. You’re like a sister to me. I don’t think of you that way.
Each line cuts through me. Each of them is brutal in their finality.
