Lucky KissesBy: Addison Moore
In a horror only the universe could dole out, my best friend died just minutes before I was born. I know how that sounds—morbid and wholly impossible, but for the most part it’s true. She was my twin, my other half, and she arrived blue and cold as stone. I was born three minutes later, ruddy and fully alive with the lusty cry of a newborn. My mother placed the millstone of my sister’s death around my neck at the vulnerable age of five. It was to be our little secret. She confessed this to me so that I would know there was a very special angel looking after me. She wanted me to know that she would have been more than my sister. She would have been my very best friend. My sister had perished, but I was the lucky one.
My father died when I was six, my mother when I was fourteen. I have felt many things in my short life, and lucky has yet to be one of them.
Growing up, I have never been close to other girls. And simply speaking to a boy was a crime of the highest order, according to my severely overprotective brother. Out of the few friends I had, I’ve always been the least reliable, the least likable, the least likely to tell the truth. And I’ve never been too hard on myself for any of those sins. Sometimes when life’s cup is so achingly bitter, you beg the light to wear out the darkness, and when it doesn’t, you find that a dead deception on your tongue is far sweeter than the living truth can ever be.
But I’m no longer a child looking to amuse those around me with half-truths. I’m a woman looking to amuse myself with half-wits parading around as frat boys. Yes, I’m all grown up now, and my brother has no say in what gender I may speak to.
And now that I’m here at Whitney Briggs University, I’ve set out to navigate my path through these unchartered sexual waters. I’m no longer intimidated by my big brother’s menacing shadow, no longer bound by what other people might think or say. I’m ready to step into the skin of the woman I’m destined to become. Life has molded me, deformed my soul. I’m not sorry about who I am or how I came to be this way. I am here, and I am ready to become the woman I’m destined for without shame or mercy.
My brother had better get out of my way.
My friends couldn’t stop me if they tried.
I am fully prepared to embrace this evolution, this revolution while testing out unchartered sexual waters of the university’s lusty shores.
Yes, my time has come, and there’s not a damn thing that anyone can do about it.
Lucky, lucky me.
The Black Bear Saloon sits directly across the street from Whitney Briggs University. It holds far too much liquor and far too many bodies for my liking, but tonight the bodies happen to belong to the entire Greek system as the bar unwittingly hosts its first global mixer.
“They’re just sickening.” Harper pretends to vomit in her virgin piña colada while we ogle our best friend, Ava, and her boyfriend, Grant. Harper is an exotic beauty with impossibly glossy dark hair and skin that glows as if she had been kissed by the sun the moment she was born. She somehow manages to make the act of faux-vomiting look like a thing of beauty. Her father is part Black Foot Indian, and if you look into her hazel eyes you’d swear you can see the secrets of the universe. But I’m not one to hold a girl’s outward perfection against her. “Justin and I were never like that.”
Justin this, Justin that. If I hear that boy’s name one more time, I’m going to glue my lips to Harper’s ear and scream until I blow out every last bit of gray matter. Justin is Harper’s on-again, off-again walking dildo, who thankfully happens to be tucked clear across the country at some state college in California. He’s safe for now. God help him if I ever meet the douchebag. All he seems to do is rip Harper’s beating heart out over and over. Sure, Harper and I just met at the beginning of the year, but you hang around someone as much as we have and you start to care about how often mascara runs down her face. I know one thing for sure—Justin the Pig is trouble. What Harper needs is a real man. Not that I believe real men exist outside of my own brother, who seems to be the only decent guy on the planet. Nope. What Harper needs is an entire bevy of guys. I’ve never believed that a woman needed just one man to complete her. I never did buy any of that you had me at hello bullshit. The one man/one woman equation is simply outdated mathematics as far as I’m concerned. I’m far more interested in the new math—me plus serial relationships equals a very satisfied body and a very independent mind. As soon as my Mr. Right Now pisses me off, I’m off to Mr. Next. It’s a lifelong pattern I plan on repeating no matter what my tatted up brother thinks about it. I’m done playing the role of helpless little sister. If he wants someone to boss around, he can have at that blonde twerp he’s leashed himself to. I’m not Daisy Pembrooke’s biggest fan. Never was, never will be. But as long as she puts that goofy grin on my brother’s face, she can hang out in the meantime.