Next Stop Love, #1

by Rachel Stockbridge

  “You’re so weird,” he said, not quite joining in, but not quite resisting her efforts, either.

  “Ah, yes,” said Sasha, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “Are we having a kitchen dance party?”

  “No,” Julian said, attempting a retreat.

  “Heck yeah,” Beatrice said, grabbing his other hand too and redoubling her efforts to make him do the Twist with her. “Dancing makes the gravy come out better.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Julian said, laughing, as Sasha called Kinsey in to dance too. He was dragging on Beatrice’s hands a little, but she wasn’t about to let go. Not when he was so close to giving up and joining in. She could see it in his eyes.

  “Uh, hello,” Kinsey said. “You can’t do the Twist on Thanksgiving. You have to do the Mashed Potato.”

  “That’s not a real thing,” Julian protested.

  “Is so,” Sasha said, joining Kinsey in demonstrating. “See?”

  “We’re not dancing for the potatoes, we’re dancing for the gravy,” Beatrice said, laughing so hard she could feel a stitch forming in her side.

  “Which goes on the mashed potatoes,” Sasha pointed out. “Doy.”

  “You’re all crazy,” Julian said, sliding one foot back toward the stove.

  “Dance with us,” Beatrice said, leaning in and waggling her eyebrows at him. “You know you want to.”

  “Good grief.” For a second, he looked flustered, and she thought the dancing had upset him and he was going to flee the kitchen. But before she could pull away and apologize, the tense expression was gone, replaced by bright determination. He adjusted his grip on her hands, pulling her close. “Okay, if we’re doing this, we’re going to do it right. Keep your hands up like this, loose, and follow my lead. Ready?”

  “Uh,” said Beatrice, alarmed by the sudden mischief in his eyes, and the sudden shortness of her breath. They were close enough she had to tilt her head up to look at him. The kitchen seemed to grow five degrees warmer in the space of a second. “I don’t—”

  “Trust me,” he said.

  She did trust him. So she nodded.

  And then they were dancing.

  Beatrice squeaked as he pulled her into a complicated series of turns and twirls, twisting her out and back to his arms again. She didn’t know how she kept up with it, or managed not to step on his toes, or lose her balance and fall like a top in a bad spin. She barely felt the floor under her feet. The only solid thing in the world was Julian’s hands.

  “Holy crap,” Beatrice said, when he spun her to a stop, the last notes of the song jangling in the air. Her breath was coming in gasps. She turned her face up to him and clung to his hands while she tried to find the floor again.

  “You okay?” Julian asked, grinning down at her while Kinsey and Sasha applauded.

  “I . . .” Beatrice wasn’t sure how to respond. Her face was flushed, and she felt like a swarm of birds was spiraling up from her abdomen to the top of her lungs.

  She didn’t know what was wrong with her. It wasn’t like she’d never been this close to Julian before. They sat next to each other on the train, bumping arms and knocking knees, almost every day. She must be dizzy. From the unexpected twirling. That was all.

  But God, if he didn’t have the loveliest eyes she’d ever seen. They were a rich, warm brown, and when he looked at her, she felt . . . understood.

  The grin on his face softened a fraction as she stared, tongue-tied. His gaze flicked down to her lips and back up again, his thumb skimming over her knuckles. Her stomach skipped as her entire body flushed in anticipation.

  Slowly the world seemed to tilt—

  “Where in the hell did you learn that?” Sasha asked, bringing reality crashing back down.

  Julian cleared his throat and stepped back, breaking contact. “My high school gym teacher was really into swing dancing,” he said with a shrug. Beatrice didn’t know what to do with her hands, now that they were empty. What did she usually do with her hands? She couldn’t remember. “I’ll tell you, there’s nothing like forty high schoolers trying to swing dance on a basketball court dressed in gym clothes.”

  “Okay, but you have to teach me how to do that,” said Sasha. “That was epic.”

  Julian laughed as one of Beatrice’s timers went off. “Remind me after dinner. I think this is almost ready.”

  Yes. Food. She was supposed to be making food.

  Beatrice wiped her tingling palms on her jeans and went to throw another handful of marshmallows on the sweet potatoes.

  Kinsey came to stand next to her, her eyes wide. “Whatcha doin’, Bee?”

  Beatrice sent her a censuring look. “What? Too many marshmallows?”

  “No such thing,” Sasha put in, gathering silverware from the drawer.

  “I think there is, actually,” Kinsey said, lifting her eyebrows in a way that made it clear to Beatrice she wasn’t talking about the marshmallows. “But as long as you know what you’re doing.”

  Beatrice’s face warmed. She glanced at Julian, who was searching the spice cabinet for something. If he’d picked up on Kinsey’s veiled lecture, he didn’t give any indication.

  “The sweet potatoes just need a few more minutes,” Beatrice said, turning away from Kinsey and sliding the casserole into the oven.

  She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She and Julian were just friends. If her heart beat a little too fast, it was from the dancing. If her face was flushed, it was from the oven. If she was scattered and lightheaded, well . . . maybe she was dehydrated.

  She realized she had meant to check on the green beans when she put the sweet potatoes in, spun around—

  —and slammed right into Julian’s chest as he came the other way.

  “Oh,” she gasped, springing back like she’d been burned. Her elbow banged the counter. Pain exploded down through her fingers. “Ow. Crap—”

  “Sorry,” Julian said, touching her arm. A jolt of . . . something shot up to her shoulder and straight down, all the way to her toes. She tensed, hissing in a sharp breath, and Julian withdrew his fingers, leaving them hovering in the air between them. His eyebrows drew together like he couldn’t quite read her. “Small kitchen.”

  “Right.” Except Kinsey’s kitchen wasn’t that small. And they had been navigating it without any issues before Beatrice’s insides decided to ping and light up like a pinball machine possessed by a hyperactive demon.

  Good lord, what was wrong with her?

  “I have to—I—Potatoes,” she said. And with that elegant witticism, she darted out of the kitchen.

  ‘Potatoes??’ she wailed at herself, dashing into the living room and pressing her back against the door. Your big excuse is ‘POTATOES???’

  She let her head drop against the door and squeezed her eyes shut. This was ridiculous. There was no reason for her to be flipping out right now. So Julian had spun her around the kitchen a couple of times. So she felt jittery and light and awkward and conspicuous. So she had thought for a split second that he might want to kiss her.

  So what?

  They weren’t going to kiss. She had probably imagined that look on his face. Some sort of nervous reaction from wanting Thanksgiving to go well. She’d never seen him look at her like that before, after all. Never for one second had she thought they were anything but friends. Buddies. Coincidental commute acquaintances.

  Well . . . Maybe for one second. Maybe even two. Every so often, when they were waiting for the train together, or both supposed to be busy with studying, she would glance over at him, and their eyes would meet, and there would be this split second of . . . what if.

  She’d always dismissed it. Brushed it away before it stuck. She’d been certain it was a weird, one-sided fluke. Another episode of Beatrice Gets Way Ahead of Herself and Drives People Away.

  Not that it mattered. She had a boyfriend. She wasn’t going to cheat on him. She wasn’t that kind of girl.

  Even if she did keep trying to figure out ways to slip o
ut of the relationship without Greyson noticing.

  She pressed both hands over her face and groaned into her palms.

  “What’s with you?”

  Beatrice pulled her head from the door. Nath was tucked in one corner of the couch with his phone in his hands. He raised one eyebrow in typical brotherly you’re-insane fashion. She hadn’t noticed he was in here, somehow. Even though he was sitting on the couch right in front of her. And watching football. She hadn’t noticed the TV was on, either.

  She was all over the place.

  Beatrice made a concentrated effort to pull herself together. “I—uh—I need to know how much longer on the potatoes.”

  Nath gave her a Look before pulling up the timer app on his phone. “Six minutes.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  “Are you okay?” Nath asked. “You look weird.”

  “I’m fine,” Beatrice said, in a voice that sounded strange even to her. “I’m fine,” she tried again. “It’s fine.”

  “Okay . . .” Nath said, clearly not buying it.

  “Everything’s fine.” Every time she said it, she sounded less convincing. “Dinner soon. Okay? Okay.”

  “Bee,” Nath said, calling her back as she turned to leave. “Breathe.”

  Beatrice closed her eyes and made herself take a slow breath. It helped, a little. She still felt like fireworks were going off inside her, but it felt less like they were also shooting out of her ears and fingertips.

  “Did something happen?” Nath asked. “You want me to come out there?”

  “No, it’s fine,” Beatrice said again. At least she sounded halfway credible that time. “I just had a moment. I’m better now. Thanks.”

  Nath gave her a thumbs up and turned back to his phone.

  Thirteen

  Things had—for the most part—gone back to normal by the time they all sat down at the dining room table. Kinsey’s mood had lightened, and Nath had decided to make an effort to be social again. Beatrice had even managed to convince herself all her excess energy was due to nothing but nerves over wanting Thanksgiving to go well for everyone.

  She thought she had, anyway. Sitting next to Julian when she was so agonizingly aware of him was making her feel like a neurotic squirrel. She had scooted to the far side of her chair, just so she wouldn’t accidentally brush his arm, afraid of what embarrassing thing she’d end up doing next. It was so bad that when she tried to pass him the gravy boat, she almost knocked it over.

  “Whoa, there,” Julian said, his hand darting out to save their gravy once again. His fingers brushed hers and she jerked her hand back at the shock. He froze for a moment, turning his whole attention on her with that same strange look on his face he’d worn when she knocked into him.

  This was ridiculous. She’d touched Julian dozens of times before. Maybe hundreds, by now. Kicking him to get his attention, or poking at his arm, or pressing against his shoulder to try to sneak a look at his sketchbook, or pushing his hand aside to make sure he was studying and not just doodling energetic chibi characters in the margins of the study book. None of that had ever set her heart racing. What was so special about a glancing touch over a gravy boat?

  Slowly, he set dish down, never once taking his eyes off hers. “Sorry,” he said. “Did it burn you?”

  She shook her head tightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep that well last night.” For some reason, her cheeks warmed at the excuse, and she turned away, stabbing a green bean with her fork and shoveling it into her mouth.

  “So what’s the verdict on the turkey?” Sasha asked Kinsey, pulling Julian’s befuddled attention from Beatrice’s burning face. “Is Thanksgiving ruined after all?”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Julian said.

  Sasha bowed her head towards him with a little flourish of her fork. “No trouble.”

  “Well,” Kinsey said, with the air of a queen about to make a pronouncement, “I think that this Thanksgiving, the thing I am most thankful for is this Julian guy that Bee found—probably in a gutter or something.”

  “Kins,” Beatrice objected.

  But Julian shrugged. “She’s not far off.”

  “The point being,” Kinsey said loudly, “that Sir Guttersnipe has indeed saved Thanksgiving.” She raised her glass in Julian’s direction. “The turkey is excellent, sir. You’d never even guess I ruined it.”

  “Huzzah!” Nath said as the rest of them raised their glasses at the toast.

  “Good grief,” Julian said, his shoulders going up in embarrassment. “You people are far too easy to please.”

  Beatrice kicked the leg of his chair to get his attention. He fixed his gaze on her at once, sending a strange little thrill through her. “You’re too modest.”

  “You’re right,” he said with a growing smile. “I should start my own cooking show. Every episode, I’ll take a seemingly ruined item of food and simmer it in gravy for half an hour.”

  Beatrice snorted.

  “I think I’ll start with the obvious—turkey, meatloaf, tofu—”

  “Chicken fried steak,” Nath suggested. “Mashed potatoes. Shrimp.”

  “Shrimp?” Sasha repeated, half disgusted.

  “Why not?” Julian said. “And after that, I’ll start including more unusual choices. Sandwiches, cabbage, scrambled eggs, pancakes. All simmered in a nice brown gravy.”

  “Ew,” Kinsey said. She picked up a roll and shook it at Julian. “Some of us are trying to eat real food here.”

  “I haven’t even gotten to the desserts yet,” Julian said.

  A collection of groans and laughs went up around the table. And just like that, like magic, everything clicked into place. Kinsey threatened to revoke her endorsement of Julian’s turkey if he kept describing his imaginary cooking show. Sasha perked up and told a story about a cousin back in Wyoming who’d almost gotten on a Food Network competition. Nath ratted Beatrice out for bringing homework to Thanksgiving, and the whole table teamed up to stop her from actually doing any. Everyone was talking. Everyone was happy.

  It was perfect.

  When they were finished eating, everyone pushed their plates back and kept on talking and laughing. Someone floated the idea of Pictionary, which had Beatrice claiming it wouldn’t be fair for whichever side had Julian because he was an artist. That turned from Julian trying to deny his art skills would give his team an advantage into the whole table trying to make him draw something for them.

  “Okay, okay!” Julian relented, pushing back his chair. “My sketchbook is in my coat. Please calm yourselves while I get it. I don’t draw for crazy people.”

  “When did you adopt that policy?” Beatrice asked, twisting in her seat to follow his progress into the kitchen. “I make you draw stuff all the time.”

  “You’re not crazy,” Julian said, his voice muffled by the swinging kitchen door. He emerged a moment later, coat in hand, and started digging in the pockets for his sketchbook. “You’re just weird. I don’t mind drawing for weirdos.”

  She wrinkled her nose to hide a giddy grin as he threw his coat over the back of his chair and dropped into his seat. He tucked a ballpoint pen—this week’s favorite drawing implement—behind his ear and started to flip through the book for a blank page. Beatrice knew most of the sketches already, from sneaking peeks while he was drawing, and prodding him into showing her what he’d been working on between train rides. But then a little portrait whipped by that she hadn’t seen before, but snagged her attention.

  “Wait wait, go back,” Beatrice said, swiping the sketchbook from him. She turned the pages until she found the loose drawing. It was of a girl in a fluffy sweater, enjoying a hot beverage while a flock of birds nested in her abundant hair.

  A weird feeling seized her chest. It was that stupid joke she’d told him on their first train ride into the city. But he hadn’t made the girl in the drawing look crazy, or frumpy, or riddled with pigeon mites. She looked sort of . . . cozy. It was like something out of a picture boo
k.

  Beatrice pointed at the page and looked up at Julian, her heart thumping against her ribcage. “Is that supposed to be me?”

  “Of course not,” Julian said, plucking the sketchbook out of her hand before anyone else had the chance to see it. He flicked to a new page. In one corner, he doodled a bee wearing a massive wig. He tapped it with the back of his pen. “That’s you.”

  Beatrice made a face at him, relieved he was turning this into a joke. “Original.”

  “No good?” Julian asked, squinting at the sketch sideways. “No, you’re right. I’ll try again.”

  Beatrice rested her head on her hand and let her gaze follow the loping movements of his fingers. She liked watching him build up shapes from something completely random-looking to an actual drawing. It didn’t usually make her feel so strange. But then, she’d never seen him draw her.

  Not that he was drawing her actual likeness. The new sketch looked suspiciously like a bird.

  “Don’t forget the hair,” Nath said, leaning in to point. He seemed to think it was hilarious his sister was being drawn as various implausible animals.

  “Well, obviously,” Julian said, sketching in another floof of hair on the bird’s head.

  “I feel personally attacked,” Beatrice said, more to preserve her dignity than from any real offense.

  “And her floral boots,” Kinsey suggested as she and Sasha leaned over the table to watch.

  “Good idea,” Julian said, adding them to the masterpiece. He turned the sketchbook in Beatrice’s direction. “Better?”

  “One problem,” Beatrice said, looking from the drawing to Julian’s self-congratulatory face. “I’m not a pigeon.”

  “Ah, yes, I see where I went wrong.” His pen flew across the paper, building up the shapes until it became a coherent image of a lion with a voluminous mane and an abundance of freckles, wearing what looked like Beatrice’s favorite Fair Ilse sweater. “There. How’s that?”

  Her heart was thumping so hard she was surprised no one was looking around for the source of the noise. She’d thought, when he’d called her Simba, that it was some kind of dig at her appearance. But maybe she’d misunderstood. Maybe it was because, for some unknown reason, he thought she was brave.