Free Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit by Jaye Robin Brown Page B

concessions comes to mind. But Mary Carlson doesn’t skip a beat and falls into some weird more-Southern-than-thou coquette role. “I did. You were amazing.” Chaz is tall enough that she has to tip her chin to look at him. He looks like he wants to consume her.
    â€œYeah, pretty great. Hey, you look hot.”
    I’m sure to Chaz this is a compliment in the highest measure. Mary Carlson doesn’t drop the smile but it freezes for a microsecond. Maybe she doesn’t like him? But when he puts his hand to the small of her back and propelsher in the direction of Gemma and the keg, she lets herself be directed. I let out an audible sigh.
    â€œStuck with the loser, huh.”
    I’d forgotten about George, so focused was I on the Taylor Swift video playing live in front of me. “What? Oh no, you’re not a loser.”
    â€œI am. To those guys.”
    Poor guy, self-deprecation is going to kill his game. I take George’s elbow in both my hands. “You are so not. You’re a runner, an honor’s student. You can speak in Latin.”
    He’s blushing under my attention and I drop my hands. Kindness can be misinterpreted, and though it would be easy to let George be my beard so I could fit in, it’d be a douche move. “You still want to find something to drink?” I waggle the cups.
    â€œYep.” He is pleasant looking when he smiles, and if I were going to date guys, it would be a George type. But yeah. No.
    George inflates as we walk through the crowd because just as people made assumptions about me and B.T.B., the same thing’s happening with George. He’s getting fist bumps and nods in my direction. A girl even approaches me as we shoulder our way into the living room.
    â€œHi, you’re the new girl from church, right?”
    â€œJoanna,” I say.
    â€œEmily,” she says, then leans in. “George is the sweetest guy.”
    â€œUh. Okay.”
    She grins like I confirmed everything for her and bounces off to the group she split from to share her juicy bit of gossip. At one point, George pulls the Chaz move, reaching out a hand for the small of my back to guide me forward, but I do a mean twist firmly back into the friend zone.
    In the kitchen, we find liquor and mixers. I figure I’ll keep my mantle of designated driver going, because even though I’m tempted to get pissed to survive this messed-up night, I’m not sure how much the others are drinking.
    â€œYou don’t drink?” George asks.
    I grab a ginger ale and untwist the cap. “Sometimes. But not often. And never much. I don’t like feeling out of control.”
    â€œMe neither. It messes with my times.”
    â€œTimes?”
    â€œRunning.”
    â€œRight.” I take a sip and wrinkle my nose at the spray of bubbles.
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œYou know, outside interests, sports, clubs? Who’d youhang out with in Atlanta? What’d you do?”
    My mind fires with images of Hellcat Coffee, Dana, GSA meetings that were more like hookup gatherings, masquerade balls, and parties, parties, parties. I can’t find a thing to share. Which is kind of embarrassing.
    â€œUm. Not much. I guess I’ve always been the listening, observing type.”
    â€œLike your dad.”
    â€œMy dad?”
    George nods, then settles at a kitchen stool. I do the same.
    â€œYeah, I love your dad’s show. Especially the ones where he takes hot-button issues and looks at them through a more moderate lens.”
    â€œYou listen to my dad?”
    â€œYeah.” George spins the stool back and forth. “I’m debating theology, psychology, or pre-law in college, and I like his worldview.”
    â€œThus the Latin.”
    â€œThus the Latin.” He smiles, then gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he’s nervous, and oh damn, is this lovely conversation about to get weird? But then, “Do you