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I toss Owen my keys with the hand behind Bambi’s back and he catches them, a dumbfounded look on his face.

“What? Why? It’s your truck, you always drive,” he argues, still confused how I ended up with Bambi in my arms and the keys in his hands.

“Yeah, well starting next week it’s your truck. So, you should drive.”

I don’t give him time to argue or question my motives. I circle to the passenger side of the truck and slide in with Bambi on my lap.

“You know I could just as easily sit on Izzy’s lap,” Bambi teases.

At least she’s not angry with me. She has every right to be, but I exhale a slow breath of relief knowing she isn’t. She even grins at me.

“Yeah, but do you really want Izzy groping your ass? You know how handsy she can get,” I tease right back.

Bantering with Bambi feels normal, right. Far better than the odd quiet she was while we ate. She settles in my lap, and I wrap both arms around her, turning her back to the door and crossingher legs over my lap. Her thighs rub against my zipper and other parts that make me glad her legs are concealing my growing erection.

Bambi’s arm wraps around my neck and she leans in close, engulfing me with her rose scent. The tip of her nose skims across my stubbled jaw and I have to force myself not to turn and take her mouth with mine. That would be hard to explain. Instead, I dig my fingers into her outer thigh and stroke the material of her overalls, imagining the smooth skin hidden beneath.

Izzy scoots into the middle seat from the driver’s side since I didn’t exactly give her time to enter through the passenger side. Owen follows behind and we all settle in for the short ten-minute ride to the hangout house. It’s a tight squeeze but not as tight had Bambi not sat on my lap. We’re all wearing thicker layers as the temperature decreases with every day. An inner war battles in my chest between wanting to leave before the snow and ice trap me here and hoping it does and I won’t have to leave.

Damnit. Why does Bambi have the worst timing ever? If she had expressed her feelings for me years or even months ago, things would be very different right now. But she didn’t and they aren’t and I’m too close now. I didn’t spend all these years not allowing myself to have her just to give in now. She’d still be better off with someone else.

We arrive at the hangout house, the sun nearly set on the horizon. We won’t have very much sunlight left. It’s already more of a foggy haze.

When I slide out of my truck, Bambi is still in my arms. I don’t want to put her down, but I have to. Reluctantly setting her on her feet, letting her body glide down the length of mine, relishing in every moment of contact.

“Alright, one last B&E for the road.” Owen grabs the flashlight from my glovebox and bounds for the front door of the house.

The paint has long faded and peeled from its siding, the windows on the first floor remain boarded while most of the second story windows are bare, a few broken. Weeds grow in the unkempt yard and the gravel driveway has long disappeared. There’s a detached garage that’s seen better decades and is in even worse condition than the house. No one goes in there anyways.

Someone pried open the front door years ago, the two by fours across the front are just for show. Something to deter snooping adults so they think it’s locked up, but it isn’t.

We’re probably way too old to still be coming to this place. Pretty sure it’s been something like four or five years since we’ve been here. It still looks the same. Just like everything in this town always does. Nothing ages, nothing changes. Well, some things change.

I glance at Bambi walking at my side as we step up onto the porch. She’s changed, I’ve changed. But is it enough?

Chapter 7: Raelyn

Probably too many romantasy novels

I’ve always loved this house. Not because it’s a place for unchaperoned high school parties and hook ups, but because of its unique beauty. I have a thing for antiques and secondhand items. This house is just another prime example of how something old and used can still have the potential to be beautiful and useful again. With a little elbow grease and paint, I’m sure new life could be breathed back into it.

Owen leads us all in, ducking under the wood planks nailed across the door frame. The cone of light from the flashlight illuminates the darkening interior.

Years of adolescents making their mark are layered in paint on the walls and floors. A mosaic of spray-painted dicks and names, declarations of love and hate. Generations of history left to age in the dark dusty house.

Even with the new art addition, the house remains beautiful and intriguing. I’m probably the only one who ever took the time to admire the architecture and attention to detail the original builder took. High ceilings, crown molding, wooden floors, ornate door frames and stained glass. Thankfully no one around here is cruel enough to smash the glass and the colorful panels remain in arches over doors and on ceiling mounted light fixtures.

The foyer leads into a wide central hallway, rooms branching off on each side. A den, family room, office, or so I’m guessing. The only furniture in the house was brought in by kids. Folding chairs and crates all plastic and completely out of place in the house.

On our left halfway down the hall is the main staircase, a wooden marvel that over the years has gained its own renovation. Names and dates are carved in the banister and steps. Nothing as vulgar as the wall cocks and curse words. Initials with hearts around them and a few carvings of simple images and shapes. Flowers, a dear, a fish or two. This is Homer after all, fishing is a way of life around here.

The stairs make a one eighty U-turn halfway up and there on the banister, is where we all carved our names the first time we ever came here. I was fourteen and it was my only occurrence of vandalization. My name looks like it was written by a toddler but in my defense, carving on wood is far more difficult than it looks.

The light shines back and forth from room to room as we pass and approach the staircase. It’s darker down here since the windows are all boarded up.

“Looks like a few new artistic renderings of the male genitalia have been added to the collection,” Izzy comments as she shines her cell phone light on the wall, revealing the rather detailed drawing.

“Someone’s been peeking through my window. That looks just like mine,” Owen smirks and Izzy mock gags as if she really were looking at her brother’s dick.