by P. Dangelico
“You said she wasn’t your girl,” Brock murmurs on my left. Guess he’s not asleep anymore. True to his nature, which is to be the most chill guy I know, his expression holds no condemnation. “You said the two of you were just friends.”
“She’s not and she is––at least, I hope we’re still friends. I, uh, kinda messed it up.”
“What’d you do?”
“Made a scene when I found her talking to some guy. I just…snapped––” My eyes skirt the edge of the window while my hand nervously runs through my hair. “And I think she likes him,” I glumly admit, my face puckering in bitterness.
Brock nods slowly. “Did you apologize?”
“I tried but she’s icing me out.” My mood grows grimmer by the second as I recall the hurt on her face, the shock.
“My two cents?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sending mixed messages, stringing her along. That’s not cool, man.”
Mixed messages? Is that what I’ve been doing? “You think I’ve been sending mixed messages?”
A wtf look pops up on Brock’s face. “You honestly don’t see it? You guys spend every minute together.” Noting my blank expression, he continues. “You get nasty whenever anyone else tries to cut in on your time with her.” The sinking sensation in my chest tells me there’s truth to this. “Either make her your girl or cut her loose. It’s not fair, what you’re doing to her.”
“You think she’s into me?”
My heartbeat thunders as I await his answer with bated breath. “I know she’s into you. Everybody knows she’s into you––except for you.”
Relief floods my chest. But then the feeling pivots, takes a nosedive. It sounds like I’ve been using her, and that couldn’t be farther from the truth. And I’m not completely to blame here. Alice friend-zoned me too. I haven’t been seeing other people on the side. As a matter of fact I haven’t been able to see anybody else with the amount of time we spend together.
“I can’t cut her loose.”
He shrugs. “I guess it’s option A, then.”
“I’m not sure option A is the best thing for her, either. I’ve got too much bullshit to deal with as is. I can’t add a girlfriend to the list of responsibilities I already have. I’ll screw it up and then I’ll lose her for good.”
Brock stares at me for a beat before putting on his noise-canceling headphones. “Let me know how that works out for you.”
Alice
It’s almost midnight when my phone rings and Reagan’s name flashes onscreen. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since we argued four days ago. The six missed calls on my Recents list and multiple text messages say not for lack of trying on his part.
Chewing on the end of my thumb, I debate whether to answer. I miss him. God, do I miss him. Amazing how three months ago I didn’t even know he existed and now four days apart feel like an eternity. I better get used to it, though. Our current arrangement can’t be sustained. Too many unrequited feelings. Too much physical chemistry. Only on my end, apparently. He’s more than happy to continue as we were. Which depresses the shit out of me.
After bookmarking the article I’m reading on my laptop, I close the tab and power it off, setting it on the small desk that butts up against my even smaller bed.
The call goes to voice mail but it looks like he’s hit his patience limit for being ignored because the phone starts ringing again only a minute later.
“What are you doing?” he says as soon as I answer.
“Talking to you apparently when I should be studying for my History of Italian Film exam tomorrow. Don’t you know how to text like the rest of the civilized world?”
“But then I wouldn’t be talking to you, would I?”
The deep breath he takes reaches through the phone and raises the hair on my arms. It also puts a reluctant grin on my face. No one has the ability to disarm me as effectively as Reagan can. I was all ready to be aloof and mysterious but no, I’m smiling like a goofball. It’s kind of exasperating how easily he decimates every attempt I make to keep some distance between us with only a few sweet, well-timed words.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls.”
I’ve missed him. I don’t want to argue anymore and I’m even willing to forgo an apology to keep the peace. Ignoring his claim, I steer the conversation elsewhere. “Are you still on the bus?” The team traveled to Palo Alto for a game against Stanford yesterday, and I know they lost because I checked.
“No, just got home.” He sounds down so I don’t press for more about the game. From what I’ve been told the division is super competitive and Stanford is already two wins ahead of us. Us…I think of the team as us now.
“So I’m watching Justice League and I have to tell you, no contest, not even a shadow of a doubt, the best character is the Flash.”
“Mmm. Bold assertion. And this very important business couldn’t wait?”
“Friends don’t let friends walk around clueless, Bailey. It’s one of the pillars of friendship.”
Friendship. Why does that word make me a smidge bitter. That’s not really a question. Reclining in bed with my hand tucked behind my head, I take the olive branch he’s offered. “Wonder Woman.”
“Alice…”
“Reagan…”
He sighs loudly. “Fine. She’s hot. I’ll grant you that. And she’s got a neat lasso. But she’s not funny. She’s not really, really fast. Which is awesome. And frankly she’s sort of a stuck-up bitch.”
That earns him a horrified gasp. “You did not just say what you said.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“I am so disappointed in you, Reagan Archibald Reynolds. She’s so much more than a hot chick with a neat lasso. And she’s not a bitch––she’s regal. There’s a very clear distinction.”
“Archibald?” He snorts. “That’s not my middle name.”
“I know. But since you won’t tell me what it is I’m going to keep guessing until I score.” I get a whole bunch of tension-fraught silence in return, and the realization that I might’ve misspoken creeps up on me.
“You wanna score, Alice?” he murmurs, pitch low, whispering in my ear as if he were tucked up against me in bed. It’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard, kick-starting a slow-moving heat that works up my neck, slides down through my limbs, and pools between my legs. I’m throbbing. “I may be able to help with that.”
I’m sure he could. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him to come over and do that. Except…only friends.
The skin from my toes to my hairline is on fire, feverish and sweaty. This taunt will not go unpunished, however. We’ve been dancing around this, whatever this is, for far too long and I’m tired of it. My patience with all the mixed signals he keeps sending is wearing real thin. I have goals and responsibilities just like he does. Unlike him, however, I’m willing to make room, to carve out a space for him because he’s that important. That’s the difference between us.
“Oh really? You’ll set me up with one of your friends? How nice of you,” I volley back because two can play this game.
“Uhhh, no, Bailey. Not even if it was on your Make-A-Wish list.”
“Aww, that’s okay, BD. Don’t sweat it. I can find my own dates.”
A deep slow chuckle filters through the phone. “Did you just call me big dick?”
“What? No. No, I called you BD as in Big Deal. Remember when we met and you said you were ‘kind of a big deal’?”
“No.”
“Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
He laughs. “And when you say dates you mean the pasty, emo dude I caught you making big eyes at?”
In truth, Simon is exactly my type. At least he was before an annoying water polo player almost ran me over. “I do not make ‘big eyes.’”
“He wears skinny jeans, Bailey,” he continues right over me. “That’s your type? A guy that models himself after a vampire book? Is he going to want a blood oath at some point in your relationship?”
I tap the phone to interrupt his rant. “First of all, Simon’s a nice guy and we have a lot in common––” Like capital letters and sunscreen. “And yes, he is my type. Second of all, I like those vampire books and who cares what he wears. Why am I even arguing with you?” My patience is so gone. “Oh yeah, because I thought you were calling to apologize for being riiddiicuulous,” I annunciate clearly with my mouth attached to the bottom of the phone. “I’m hanging up now.”
“I thought I was your type.”
“Negative. I like guys that are nice to me.”
“Bailey––”
“Don’t call again unless you have an apology ready.”
“Al––”
Click. Whatever else he was about to say falls away as I power off my phone, punch the pillow, and pray sleep finds me quickly.
Chapter 18
Alice
My bedroom door opens and Dora steps inside. She’s wearing a smile so big and bold it could shatter a Guinness record. Meanwhile, I’m not smiling. I’m sprawled out on my bed, an open textbook before me, busy studying for a History of Television exam that is imperative I ace and not making much progress.
“Guess what?” She does a strange little dance and a wiggle of her curvy hips. Then, hand on a Bible, she attempts to moonwalk. I am so bummed I did not catch this on video.
I am, however, getting the feeling that whatever she’s smiling about deserves my undivided attention so I close it.
“You’re a really bad dancer?” I say, biting down on my quivering lips.
She stops and pouts. “That’s not nice.”
I admire her one piece at a time. Her pin-straight auburn hair is in a slick ponytail. Peach lip gloss that complements her coloring. Cropped faded boyfriend jeans, a tight white t-shirt, and bright red flip-flops with black toenail polish.
In other words, the Mayfield factor in full effect. She’s come a long way since the pleated khakis and oversized polos she was wearing when I met her.
“What is it, Dora? What’s the news that has you dancing like a spaz and keeping me from studying for this godforsaken exam.” I sit up, cross-legged.
A smile explodes across her face, full of white perfectly even teeth. “My dads got me a car for my twenty-first birthday! It’s not for another week, but they couldn’t wait to give it to me so they drove up from Del Mar to deliver it today!” There’s no pause. Not even for a breath. She shimmies her shoulders. Does a little finger point to the sky.
On replay, my brain picks up a major plot point. “Dads?”
Her amusement drops. “Oh…yeah. Didn’t I say?” She chews on her bottom lip.
I’m actually not that surprised. Dora’s pretty reserved about her personal life, less likely to put it all out there than Zoe. Although Zoe, I suspect, has her own well of secrets too.
“Mnnno. I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered that detail. You’ve called them ‘the parents,’ or sometimes ‘the rents.’ You’ve mentioned that your dad is a DEA agent. But that’s about it.”
She sighs. “My other dad’s a high school art teacher.” She stuffs her hands into the back pockets of her jeans to stop from fidgeting.
“Hey, I think that’s really cool. It’s not a big deal.”
She shifts on her feet, her shoulders soften. “It was when I was g-growing up.”
She’s not exactly comfortable discussing it so I drop the subject. “And what about this birthday that you also never mentioned.”
Her mood immediately brightens. “Yeah, well, ’cause, c’mon, can you imagine what’ll happen when Zoe finds out? I’m going on the record now, Alice. No male strippers. I mean it. Please, please, please.” She presses her palms together, a supplicating look on her face.
That elicits another grin. “Can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.”
My door swings open. Zoe sticks her head in. “Coffee run. You hookers coming?”
“Oh, oh, oh!” Dora jumps up and down screaming. “I’m driving!”
Ten minutes later the four of us are standing in the parking lot, staring at Dora’s brand-new mint green Fiat 500. I’m smiling. Dora’s beaming, petting the hood. Blake is hiding her chuckles behind her hand, her gold medical bracelet glimmering in the sunlight. And Zoe just looks…bewildered.
“It’s not a car, it’s a Skittle on wheels,” she mutters out of the side of her mouth.
“Isn’t it effing awesome?!” Dora shouts.
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Effing? Oh, Lord.”
“Shotgun,” Blake calls out.
“I guess I’ll ride on the hood,” Zoe grumbles.
“You’ll make a beautiful hood ornament,” I tease.
Smirking, Zoe walks to the head of the car and sits on the end of the hood. Her hands go to her waist. She tucks her bent arms so the elbows point backwards and arches her back. “Let’s go.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” Dora tells her.
“Some of us aren’t the size of a garden gnome, Dora,” Zoe fires back.
“I’m five feet three inches, thank you very much. Hardly a g-garden gnome. And size doesn’t matter. Bernadette is beautiful.”
Zoe’s eyes snap open wide. “You did not name the car.” She turns to Blake and whines, “Blakey, she named the car.”
“I heard.”
Zoe’s attention returns to Dora and a stare-down happens, which Dora loses when her lips begin to twitch into a smile.
“Get in the car, Zoe,” Blake orders, putting an end to all the shenanigans.
We stuff Zoe in the back seat and laugh our asses off when her knees touch her forehead.
“Judging by your sad coma, I take it he hasn’t apologized?” As usual, the Slow Drip is packed––a minor miracle we managed to snag the corner table by the window. Zoe’s voice still manages to rise above the din of the crowd.
My gaze climbs up and runs into Zoe’s hard, unblinking hazel stare. One perfectly groomed brow hitches up.
“Well?”
I take a sip of my steaming hot mocha and my tongue smarts. Okay, fine, I’m stalling, deciding how much to spill and not because I don’t trust them. I absolutely do. It’s because Zoe’s basically a loaded handgun. You have to be extremely careful where you aim her or you could unleash havoc.
I was so worked up over Reagan’s failed attempt to patch the rift between us that I told the girls everything. And they couldn’t have been any more awesome––ordered pizza, listened to me bitch about it for hours. All the earmarks of true friendship. I’ve never been a sharer before. Hence, I’m only beginning to understand how effortless it can be with the right people. How it all boils down to trust.
Something I assumed I shared with Reagan.
“Nope,” I take no pleasure in admitting. The p pops out of my mouth hard.
Am I still mad? You betcha. I’m more than mad––I’m done. I deserve someone who doesn’t belittle and embarrass me in public. But most of all, I deserve someone who wants me.
“Did he crawl on his cowardly belly till it bled?”
“That’s gross,” Blake comments. She’s only voicing what we’re all thinking.
“Nope.”
“Men are swamp garbage.” Zoe sits back, arms crossed, offended on my behalf. Go, girl power.
“Not all of them––” Dora quietly argues.
Tea cradled in her hands, Blake pulls her lips away from the edge of the cup to speak. “I’m with Dora on this one.”
“My dads aren’t,” Dora blurts out. The words peter out, as if she immediately regrets the admission. Doesn’t matter. She might as well have dropped a very loud mic.
Zoe blinks, her face morphing from one expression to the next. You can literally see it on her face, her brain working to accept this information. “Wait…wait…wait,” she mutters each time her confusion-filled gaze circles around the table. “Did you say…dads?”
“Don’t say anything mean,” Dora warns her. No pause, no stutter. It infuses my chest with secondhand pride.
Zoe’s face finally settles on surprise. “Ramos, you were marginally cool before. Now you’re on a pedestal. You were here”––she motions with her hand somewhere around the middle of her chest––“now you’re here.” The hand shoots above her head.
“Thanks for the visual. We wouldn’t have understood otherwise.” Blake smiles wryly.
Planting both palms on the table, Zoe leans in. “I need to know everything. Do they make out in front of you, and can I come over and watch?”
“Awww, Zoe,” spills out of me.
“C’mon, Zo,” Blake adds.
Dora rolls her eyes. “I’d rather not contemplate my parents’ sex life––and, no, you can’t.”
A loud rap at the window startles us. Outside, on the sidewalk, Reagan and Dallas wave. Dallas’s expression is all happy, sly mischief. Reagan’s on the other hand is straight-up determination.
All I need is another public scene.
“Speaking of assholes and idiots,” Zoe absently mutters.
I snort. “That’s not what we were discussing.”
“We are now. Game face on. Do not be nice to him.”
“Zoe…”
As soon as they step inside, Reagan heads for our table while Dallas makes for the register. I’m getting the full treatment, the unblinking stare, all of his undivided attention. Try as they may, not even the whistles and shouts of his loyal fandom can distract him.
Resentment and longing flood my veins, every fiber in my body feeling the effects of it. And by effects I don’t mean good ones. My pulse races while my stomach twists into knots and bows.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches our table.
I finally allow myself a good, hard look. His white t-shirt offsets his tan. His silky black track pants…well, frankly, they outline things I shouldn’t be looking at. He seems to have grown even more tempting in the separation. Wonderful.
Dora and Blake return a tight, “Hi.” Zoe opts to go with a disgruntled face.
“Hello,” I add a long moment later because I won’t allow him to turn me into a rude person.
He aims a smiling glance at the girl sitting on the bench at the next table and she immediately perks up. “Do you mind,” he says to her. “I need to sit with my friend.”