Free Can't Always Get What You Want by Chelsey Krause

time.”
    “No, don’t do that. I can pull myself together.”
    We’re quiet for a moment.
    “What was with the kiss Brett gave you?” Sam asks.
    I shake my head, and blow my nose.
    “I have no idea. Yesterday he said he was ‘interested,’ and agreed to be friends and see where it goes. But you don’t just randomly kiss friends, right?”
    Samira nods and offers me a new tissue.
    “I really, really like him, Sam. I was starting to get all giddy and hopeful, and now I feel so confused. It’s like someone’s put my head in a blender.”
    How long have we been in here? I sit up, and am reminded that Samira’s top is soaked with wine.
    “We should head back. Here, let me get you a shirt.”
    I shakily stand and evaluate my wardrobe. What do I have in here that’s going to fit Sam? She’s tall and lanky, while I’m short and curvy. Sometimes I think she and Narayan are going to have really tall, storklike children. You know, in a good way.
    “Here you go,” I say, offering her a plain black T-shirt.
    “Are you sure you’re okay? I don’t think—”
    I cut her off. “I’ll be fine. I just need to drink some water and eat something. I promise I’ll behave from now on.”

    She eyes me speculatively. “Well, all right. You might want to fix yourself up a bit though, sweets.”
    I turn to look in my mirror.
    Oh dear Lord…
    “Okay…and thanks, Sam. For listening.”
    She nods, then exits the room, leaving my door slightly open.
    Oh, thank God for makeup. I’m nearly done making myself look human again when I hear voices in the hallway.
    Brett’s deep baritone echoes softly. “Is she okay?”
    “Umm…”
    Please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything…
    “Does she normally drink that much?”
    “She just had a rough day at work.”
    Their voices continue down the hallway and out toward the backyard.
    —
    Heading to the kitchen, I resolve to drink my body weight in water. It won’t completely sober me up, but it’s a start.
    The pie (thankfully) looks fantastic. At least something is going right tonight.
    Brett is already standing by the grill, prepping it for our cook-off. Can I cook drunk? Only one way to find out, I guess.
    “Looks like you’ve made yourself at home,” I remark with a cheeky grin. I watch him closely, looking for any clue as to what he might be thinking.

    Well, I watch him as closely as my eyes will let me. They’re not focusing right. But his expression isn’t giving anything away. He’s cool, calm, confident Brett.
    I wish I could be like that.
    “Prepare to be schooled.” He laughs.
    He rummages around in the cooler he brought, and brings out a Ziploc bag filled with yellow liquid and grilling steaks. I bet it’s the pineapple juice.
    What a rookie mistake. The enzymes in pineapple juice will overtenderize the meat, making it mushy and spongy. I’ve sooo got this.
    “What are you smiling about?”
    “Oh, nothing…just thinking.”
    He eyes me cautiously. “You look like the cat who ate the canary.”
    I make a zipper motion over my lips.
    “To make things fair, we should have Narayan and Samira judge. Because obviously, we’ll choose our own.”
    “Obviously.”
    We cook in companionable silence, and I find the events of this afternoon slowly retreating to the recesses of my mind.
    Wow, he actually looks like he knows what he’s doing. His steaks even have those fancy crisscross grill marks on them.
    Brett moves to his cooler and brings out skewers with small, curled chunks of meat. It looks like the jumbo shrimp he bought yesterday.
    “What, no mice on those skewers?” I tease.
    “That’s what you think.”
    “Eww!” I screech, and bump my hip into his. He bumps me back, and I peek up at him. His face is in profile, and his hair is hanging slightly into his eyes. It looks like he’s trying to concentrate on cooking, but is failing. A smile plays on his lips.

    “No fraternizing with the competition,” he growls.
    Twenty minutes later,