Page 28 of Courtroom Drama
My pulse accelerates to a screaming pace as she steps closer to us. She looks over the room once more, seemingly to ensure she hasn’t disrupted anything, and then, eventually, flips the light switch and steps out of the bedroom.
I lean forward, angle myself to watch through the slats as she runs her fingertips along the dining table as she walks. Midway she stops and sweeps up a small item her fingers have run into. She holds up the piece of tin to evaluate it. Damon and I both look down at the can in my left hand, tab missing.Shit.The maid turns on her heel, returns to her previous spot in front of the closet doors.
I think I’m ready for that passing-out situation now. The lightheadedness hits, and I would grip Damon’s arm for steadiness if I weren’t holding two beer cans. Noticing my state, he presses his arm deeper against mine to steady me, pinning me tightly between him and the wall.
The maid listens a moment longer, her face sharp. She walks back tothe balcony’s sliding door and looks out, left then right. She steps back in and reassesses the room. She looks to the closet, and I instinctively close my eyes—if I can’t see her, perhaps she can’t see me. She takes the few steps toward the closet door, and it’s just the thin wood between us.
It’s rather impressive how many thoughts make their way through my brain in a split second. I think of the mistrial this will inevitably end in, our names and photos leaked to the press. I think of Judge Gillespy scolding us, then placing us in contempt and throwing us both in jail. I even have a brief but visceral hallucination of Damon and me in the same cell in some prison fantasy gone awry. My heart leaps with each pump, and I feel its force across every inch of my wobbly body.
I open my eyes to find the maid staring right at me. Technically, she’s staring at the door, but it feels like we’re making eye contact. She cocks her head, perhaps listening more intently for another sound. She won’t get it, though. I’m holding my breath.
Finally, after what feels like far longer than I should be capable of not breathing without dying, the maid, satisfied or perhaps no longer interested, turns and exits the bedroom again. The door to the suite slams shut in the distance, and I slowly release my breath.
We stay just as we are, waiting, listening, determining when it is safe to exit the closet. Damon’s side is pressed firmly against mine, his arm now wrapped around the back of my neck. The cold of his beer can against the sleeve of my sweatshirt further jolts me alive. I feel his heart, too, as my shoulder fuses to his chest. Despite his calm demeanor, his heart is also thumping. It somehow soothes me, knowing he’s not as unaffected as he seems. The compact space has taken on the scent of saddles and beer, and I find the combination decidedly intoxicating.
I close my eyes and inhale his scent, more erotic than nostalgic in this moment. I suddenly want to ravage him. It’s a stark reminder of how little physical touch I receive in my daily life. One press of skin and I’m decidedly horny.
This is... Damon, I remind myself. My once best friend. My last real, meaningful kiss. The only person who knows so many both innocuous and monumental things about me.
The top slit of the closet door slashes him with a slice of dim lightdirectly across his eye line, the full blue green of those eyes coursing into me. “You okay?” he whispers—a gentle, almost inviting declaration.
“Yes,” I tell him, drawn into the halo of light across his eyes. As if on command, his heartbeat quickens against me.
He gently pulls his arm from around my shoulders, still looking down at me as he does. He lingers a moment, our eyes connected, and again I’m holding my breath. The electricity between us is nothing short of high voltage, zapping through me like a live wire. I wonder what’s causing him pause. Before I can ask, he gingerly pushes the closet door open with his elbow. He silently inspects the room before I take a step out. At the rush of air, I find myself more grounded.
Damon is back in an instant, beer cans placed elsewhere. At his urging, I step out of the closet. The room is almost completely dark, the only light from the alley below.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, this time not in a whisper. Instead, it’s a low, groaning sort of growl.
“Yes,” I muster. “Just got a little lightheaded there for a minute.”
Even so, he grips my elbow as if to steady me. Our eyes meet, his face sharp and raw. I want to wrap my arms around him again, tell him I’m sorry about Kara. So incredibly sorry. That I loved her, too. I want to tell him I wish we had been more mature back then, that we could have—shouldhave—been better than our parents’ worst decisions. That we shouldn’t have let them ruinus.
Staring into his dimmed eyes now, I don’t know that I can say any of these things without breaking. He continues to look into me, like he is the only one who could ever make sense of everything inside me. He was.
What I think of then, in a gush of memory that floods my brain and body in a massive, all-encompassing swell, is our first kiss. The only kiss we ever shared in all our time together. It was midway through our sophomore year, just a few weeks before the end. Those days were built of the fun and freedom I’ve often pointed back to as the best of my life. Moments of such uncomplicated happiness they made my skin tingle with satisfaction.
I’d gotten my hair cut that morning, opting for bangs and a bob as a reengineering, a rebellion against the “kid” version of myself that held consistently long, stringy locks halfway down my back. I regretted it the instant the stylist swiveled the chair to face the full mirror. I wanted1989-era brunette Taylor Swift. What I got instead was horrifyingly similar to the cuts I’d once given my Barbie dolls. I avoided Damon all day, though when I didn’t return his texts, he showed up at my door.
“You’re beautiful,” he affirmed when I opened the door, before I could voice a complaint. “You’re always beautiful.”
I couldn’t stop the slight shake of my head or the tears that threatened to fall, embarrassed by how much I was allowing it to affect me. He pulled me into his chest, wrapped his burlier-than-ever-before arms around me, and rocked slowly back and forth as we embraced. Even then, I couldn’t fathom how he, at sixteen, knew the exact right words to say.
“Your bangs are tickling my chin,” he teased before I could feel too sorry for myself. I shoved him. He chuckled, then pulled me back in. “You’re beautiful,” he said again, his features severe, and instantly, there was something different between us. As if everything—all our years and days and time—had taught us into this moment. His jaw muscle twitched. His eyes grew heavy. There was a flutter, though whether emanating from my chest or stomach, I wasn’t quite sure. This person before me,Damon Bradburn, looked both brand-spanking-new and solidly familiar at the same time. Almost zombielike, overtaken by a lack of thought and need to act, I lifted my hand and cupped his jaw. He reflexively squeezed the muscle beneath my touch, and I felt the unmistakable ripple of excitement between my legs.
He moved like liquid, spilling toward me until his lips met mine. As soon as our mouths touched, I felt, more than anything, the rightness of it. Kissing him felt right. To this day, I couldn’t tell you how long that kiss was. It could have been only seconds. It could have stretched on for several minutes. But in that kiss, I felt everything and nothing but it. I do know it ended abruptly, at the thrumming of my garage door opening, the rev of my father’s Buick before it backed out.
Ten years later, here in the dark of the presidential suite, I know with certainty... I need another.
I lean in and kiss him.
Kara. Margot. Him.
Sequestration. The stakes of the trial.
Him.
I’m certain the kiss is a result of all these things rolled into a doughy mess. Regardless, I can’t seem to help it. In this moment he is calling to me like a fucking foghorn.
