Read Online Books/Novels:
About Last Night
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
He’s my stepbrother, but it’s already too late.
My friend Jane invited me to a party.
In this book you will find:
|Books by Author:|
I can’t stop thinking about that house in my neighborhood.
We live on a pretty quiet block here in Montague, North Carolina. Barbecues on Saturday. Church on Sunday. American flags and a friendly smile on every front porch. But that one house . . .
It caught my eye just yesterday, on my third day back from college on summer break. I almost didn’t notice it because I was so distracted. My thoughts were wandering to how I was going to make the best use of the next three months, now that I was finally free of Boston. The decision to come home was easy. I never thought of myself as a true blue Southern belle, but after four brutal semesters in a city where they serve the tea unsweetened, I decided to embrace my inner Scarlett O’Hara a little more. It’s strange because up north, people don’t even blink at snow up to your eyeballs and blasts of wind so cold you can feel your eyelashes freeze. As a result, I was looking forward to coming home.
I spent the entire train ride home dreaming about hot biscuits and honey, Carolina-style ribs with that one-of-a-kind sweet, thin, tart sauce. But now that I’m here, I remembered why I was so anxious to get away. Real southern belles can be cruel, especially when you’re not a size two. I’d be at home with a book every Saturday night, eating bon bons. Meanwhile, the pretty girls would be out drinking and racing pickup trucks in the mud with their moron boyfriends. But you’d never know it from how prim and proper they’d sit in their church clothes the next morning.
I know in my heart I’m not ugly. I may not be runway model material but I love being blessed with curly chestnut hair – even though I wish it would behave a little better on humid August nights. Buying jeans is always a little demoralizing when you’re built like an hourglass, but once I’m back home, curled up with my favorite Jane Austen novel and a glass of lemonade, suddenly being a double-digit size doesn’t matter all that much. I have to admit though, that at the age of twenty, I’ve never so much as shared a milkshake at the local burger joint with a guy, let alone be courted by a dashing, mercurial millionaire. Is it because of my size? I hope not.
It was sitting in that nook this sunset evening, my thoughts wandering to when my own Mr. Darcy was going to appear, when I noticed that house across the street. That’s funny, I thought. My mom has lived here for a while, but I never really looked at the mansion closely. Whoever bought the property did a nice job of cleaning it up. Unlike all the ranch houses that crouched on our street, it was like something out of an enchanted story. It had towers, grand round windows, and a wide inviting porch that rambled around its sides like a castle moat. It reminded me a little of a coral reef, like it’d organically grown from the environment. To think, that was what was hiding behind the thick, kudzu-coated bramble that I walked past every day.
I put my book down and started dreaming about the place. Was it a castle, with a fair maiden in the tower? Or was it more like a witch’s lair inside, with temptations and secrets around every corner? I got a funny, tickling impulse to just march up to the front door, so I could answer all these questions for myself. And just when I was imagining my finger reaching out to press that doorbell –
What in the world?
My heart leapt into my throat. I caught myself a moment later, giggling at my foolishness. Silly, that’s your own doorbell. Go see who it is!
Heart still pounding, I slipped on my flip flops and peeked out the window before opening the door. I knew who it was as soon as I saw the spray of hot pink hair and the Marilyn Monroe-as-Dracula t-shirt. It was my wacky best friend Jane.
“Hey, girly girl,” said Jane. Whoever gave her that name had a knack for irony, because Jane was anything but plain. We’ve been friends since the very first day of high school, when she scared off a crowd of bullies who’d dumped my cafeteria tray on the floor. I was just about to deck them when Jane ran up with a lit book of matches clamped in her teeth, and yelled, “Gimme a kiss, loverboy!” You should have seen them scatter.
After that, we were absolutely inseparable best friends. Everyone thought we made a funny match, because I was so shy and Jane was so wild. But our personalities complemented each other. Jane was always there to remind me I was valuable, even when the world only saw my weight. Whenever Jane felt all alone because she was so unconventional, I gave her a caring shoulder to cry on. I was even there the day Jane screwed up her courage to tell her very religious parents that she was bisexual. I stood right beside her for moral support. Of course her parents thought I was her girlfriend, but it’s never been like that between us. We’re just besties, through and through.