Mr. Bronson looked over at his wife.
“Eve,” he said. “Did we say this child could go on a date?”
“We said sixteen, baby,” said Brielle’s mother. She averted her eyes to keep from showing her husband her amusement. Mr. Bronson was struggling with the idea that his beloved daughters were old enough to date.
“They are too young,” said Mr. Bronson, looking upset. “I must have been on drugs when I said sixteen.”
“Daddy, please,” begged Brielle. “Just talk to him, okay?”
“Well,” said Mr. Bronson, relenting. His daughters knew how to work him. “I’ll meet with him, but I reserve judgment until later.”
“Thanks, dad,” said Brielle, jumping up to go and call Damon, leaving her father to glower at her mother as though blaming Mrs. Bronson for allowing his daughter to grow up.
Brielle nearly leaped off of the couch when the doorbell rang a half hour later.
“Sit down,” snapped her father and Brielle subsided onto the brown leather couch and stared sightlessly at the television. He walked out of the room to go and answer the front door.
“Brielle!” her father called a few minutes later.
“Yes,” she answered, jumping to her feet.
“You have company,” he said. Brielle bounded out of the room, through the kitchen and skidded around the corner to the front door. She stopped, composed herself and forced herself to walk sedately to the living room where Damon and her father were sitting.
Mr. Bronson stood up. Damon stood up, too.
“It was nice to talk to you again, sir,” said Damon. He was looking very nervous, but he stuck out his right hand. Mr. Bronson looked at it for a long moment and then, took it and squeezed. Brielle saw Damon flinch, but not change his expression.
“I’ll be talking to you,” said Mr. Bronson. He looked at Brielle. “You have fifteen minutes.”
“All right,” said Brielle.
“What did my dad say to you?” asked Brielle in a hushed voice. Damon rolled his eyes.
“He asked me all kinds of questions like he’d never met me before,” said Damon, looking a little shell shocked. “Your dad is a big dude.”
“Oh,” said Brielle. “He is. But you’re almost as tall as he is.”
“He told me that you were his daughter and he didn’t want any mess out of me,” said Damon. “Then, he tried to break my hand.” He flexed his right hand.
Brielle could feel her cheeks burning. She put her hands to her cheeks.
“How embarrassing,” she said. “He’s so old fashioned.”
“Naw,” said Damon, taking her hand in his. “He just cares about you. He said we could go.” Brielle nodded, relieved that Damon understood.
Damon chuckled.
“My dad told me that one time my grandfather, my mother’s father, I mean, pulled a pistol on him when he came to pick my mother up for a date and told him he better bring her back in the same condition that he was picking her up in,” he said.
“I bet that was so scary,” said Brielle.
“Yeah, dad said he almost messed his pants and was afraid to even hold her hand for about two hours,” said Damon.
“At least my dad was a little more civilized than that,” said Brielle, with a shudder.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” said Damon, casting a fearful glance towards the door that Brielle’s father had left the room through. “Your dad said if any mess jumped off, he was coming over my house to kill me.”
“Oh, my God,” said Brielle, covering her mouth with her hand.
“It’s okay,” said Damon, with a sigh of relief that the ordeal was over. “I told him that I was going to be very careful. I’ll pick you up at six thirty for dinner, is that okay?”
Brielle nodded.
“We can have dinner with Kyzie and everybody if you want,” he said.
“Maybe the same restaurant,” said Brielle. “Then dad won’t have to follow us.”
“Well,” said Damon, with his own shudder. He reached over and tugged on her braid. “I’d better go, before your dad comes back.”
“Yeah.”
Damon got up and pulled on his brown leather bomber jacket. The temperature had dropped suddenly and the leaves had changed from green to red, brown and orange nearly over night. Brielle walked Damon to the door and pulled it open. Damon stepped outside onto the porch.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Damon, turning to face her. “What color are you wearing?
“Purple,” said Brielle. She had picked her dress weeks ago.
Damon nodded, glanced behind her to make certain the coast was clear, and swiftly moved in for a quick kiss to her lips. Then he sprinted off the porch and got into his car. She watched him drive off, bemused and thrilled all over again that Damon Hamilton was hers.
“Brielle!” her father roared from the family room.
“Yes, dad?” she answered.
“Shut that door, girl. I’m not trying to heat up outside.”
Brielle touched her bottom lip with her fingers and shut the door with a smile.
Damon
“What’s going on man?”
“Well,” said Ephraim. “She did it.”
“What?” asked Damon. He was lying on his bed. Ephraim was sitting at the desk with the chair backwards like he always did. Ephraim had come over and sat not making conversation for over an hour. That was one of things Damon liked most about Ephraim. He wasn’t always talking. But his silence today was oppressive. Ephraim, not the most cheerful of Damon’s friends to begin with, looked like he had a thundercloud hanging over his head. He and Damon played video games for a while until it became apparent to Damon that Ephraim wasn’t even trying to win any of his battles. Damon, posed the question, “What’s going on,” and Ephraim opened his mouth and the words tumbled out like water from a faucet that had been turned on too quickly.
“She got the abortion,” said Ephraim. He clenched his jaw.
When?”
“Last Tuesday,” said Ephraim. “She took off from school and went and had it done.”
“Did you go, too?”
“No,” said Ephraim. “I told her that I wouldn’t and
