Aimee Laine: Little White Lies

James’s unmistakable footfall identified him as he joined her. A quick scrape of metal against wood suggested he’d moved one of her chairs. “Pass over some blanket.” He swiped the top one from her. “I know you hear me.”

Her lips curled, though her eyes remained closed. She shivered under the lost weight of one layer; her grip on the opposite end of her cover thwarted his attempt to steal a second.

“Ha! Knew it.”

“I don’t bother you when you’re recovering.” She made no attempt to turn toward him.

“You’re worrying.” After so many years together, he’d guess right.

Her hair caught between the slats as she turned. She cringed as she fluttered sleepy lids, letting in a sliver of light. She found James’s nose an inch from her own.

“I’m sorry.” Charley whispered the words.

James closed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have let you get close to him.”

“You couldn’t have stopped me.” Her grin grew. “You know that as well as I do.”

“I could’ve tried harder-”

She shook her head. “No. I should have known better.”

James huffed a laugh. “Well, as your big brother-”

Charley snorted a laugh. “Big brother my ass. I’m fifty years older than you and related in absolutely no way, shape or form, and thank god I can’t be male because then I’d have to become you just for spite.” She tweaked his nose. “But you are bigger.” Charley let her head loll away. “That was a first for me.”

“I’m surprised. We’ve all faltered at some point.”

She drew her gaze back to his. How he could relax, proportioned in a chaise half his size, she didn’t know. The single afghan barely reached his knees as he burrowed his body beneath it.

“Why don’t you wear a jacket?” She held the blanket above her lips to keep her smile hidden.

“You act old when you do that.” James spread out the cover more, pulling the edges to their limit.

Charley patted the knee resting against her armrest.

“And yet you look like you could be-”

“Don’t say it. It’s really gotten old, and I am so over it.”

James’s boom of laughter shook the trees. “Fine, fine. You don’t want me to tell you that you’re the most beautiful two-hundred-something eighteen year old around? No problem.”

She mock-punched his shoulder.

“Ahem.” Cael stood in the frame of the sliding glass door, so very different from James in every way except height and form, shape and strength.

Lily snuck in under his arm-an easy feat given her tiny stature. “You’re awake.” She slid her butt onto the edge of the chair at Charley’s toes. “Feelin’ better?”

“I screwed up, Lil.”

“No, no. Giving up who we are? That’s how we move on in this world. You know that better than any of us.” Lily’s head bobbled. “How’d you know he was the right one, though?”

Charley caught James’s gaze before Cael’s. “It’s a long story. I just can’t believe we met up tonight, of all nights.”

“Any other day of the year you’d have been safe to show off your wild and youthful age.” Lily giggled.

“Ooh… and about that. Happy Birthday, Charley.” James leaned in, added a kiss to her forehead.

“To eighteen again!” Cael smirked and held out his fist.

She bumped it.

Lily eyed her with a hint of mischief. “Maybe he was your birthday gift. Maybe that means another chance is around the corner.”

One year later

The blare of the bell vibrated through speakers as the masses began their hourly class change. Feet shuffled and screeched, shoulders bumped backpacks, and laughter rang out within the halls of West High.

“Whoops. Sorry, man,” Wyatt called over his shoulder. A hand-as sincere an apology as he’d get-waved back at him. Like the others, he jostled for space and position amidst the sea of sweaty, over-cologned jocks and pretentious girls. Five minutes between classes didn’t offer much time for socialization, though as senior class president, Wyatt found himself the forced exception.

“Yo! Wyatt!”

One quick move, and he met his childhood friend between a set of well-graffitied lockers- Jill and Jordan 4-ever and Cate loves Sam the most prominent of the numerous tokens of love scribed in magic marker of various colors.

“Man!” Out of breath, Stuart leaned over, placed his hands on his knees. His hair shook as his chest heaved. He twisted backward to lean against the wall and held one finger out, sliding it down to Wyatt’s face. “Dude! Did you see her?”

Head cocked, Wyatt squinted. In the course of his ten-yard walk, he’d bumped into, waved at or said ‘hello’ to a dozen or more students-a number of them of the female variety. Some he’d recognized; others he figured were underclassmen not worthy of his acknowledgement.

“Oh, c’mon, man! That girl! The hot one.”

Wyatt shook his head.

“Oh my god, man! You so totally missed it. Her. She. Oh man, she is smokin’!” Stuart slapped his palm against his thigh. Head against the metal, he turned to Wyatt. “You really didn’t see her?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” To have missed new-hot-girl broke their sworn code-always share when the worthy appear.

“Kevin said, that Cam said, that Jen said she’s from Sweden or something,” Stuart said.

At once, Wyatt remembered. His high school had accepted a one-month exchange student from New Zealand.

“She’s here? Already?” He hadn’t expected her until after lunch-his fourth-period study hall-which turned into a daily bitch-and-moan session with his fellow seniors. The plan had been to greet their visitor and give her an honorable, if vivacious, West High welcome.

At Stuart’s nod, Wyatt threw his backpack over his shoulder, slammed his palm into Jill’s scrawled name, and with a quick yell of ‘Gotta go!’, took off. One ‘Where’s the fire?’ and a number of apologies later, he reached the main office.

West High’s secretary greeted him with a giant smile on her pudgy face. “Wyatt!”

“Hi, Miss Stillman.” He returned her sentiment with his own grin. Wyatt let his backpack fall to the floor and leaned over the chest-high counter. The glass from one office reflected through all the others-a direct shot inside the privacy of closed doors.

Hot-girl sat with Principal Stone.

Fiery-gold ringlets draped from a single pony tail; it swished and swayed as she spoke. Her hands flew in the air. Her head tilted back with laughter. Whatever they chatted about must have been hilarious as Principal Stone mirrored her every action.

“Wyatt.”

Lips painted soft pink, skin a luscious milky white, neither marred by the strength of the sun.

“Wyatt.”

Her legs bumped the edge of Principal Stone’s desk as she crossed one knee over the other and left her calf exposed.

“Wyatt!”

He blinked. “Sorry. What?” His eyes stayed focused on her.

“Mr. Stone is ready for you.”

Wyatt continued to stare through the glass walls.

“Wyatt!” Miss Stillman rapped her hand on the desk. “Stop ogling and get in there! Principal Stone is ready to introduce you.”

Sweat broke out on his palms as he stuttered, “Yes, ma’am,” and began the too-short walk. Stuart hadn’t lied. In his dreams, Wyatt had imagined some overweight mousey girl with braces, glasses and out-of-date shoes. She’d have been short, her hair knotted and her voice gruff. Not that it mattered, of course.

Her voice will be gruff, Wyatt thought to himself. No way she’s that perfect.

With concentrated effort, Wyatt steered himself toward Principal Stone’s office and knocked on the outer edge.