“You don’t know that.”
“I’m pretty—”
“Being pretty sure about something and knowing something isn’t the same thing.” I push one side of my hair behind my ear, flashes of that night coming in and out of my mind. “If Aaron hadn’t gotten drunk out of his mind, he’d have had the sense to stay safely out of the road. None of it would’ve happened if he’d made different choices. It started and ended with him.”
Aaron makes the noise again even more loudly.
“But I think I’d have spotted him easier than Tay—”
“It wasn’t your fault!” I shout as I bang my fist on the table. This time, I do lean to my left, where it’s open between Aaron and the wall. “Open your ears, Will Whatever-your-last-name-is! I thought you said you were listening to me a minute ago! It’s not any driver on Earth’s fault that Aaron got killed! He was in the middle of the road in the dark, so open your ears and let the guilt fall off your gorgeous shoulders, man, because you didn’t kill anybody and neither did your stepsister! Quit wasting your time worrying about this shit and go be happy!”
The room falls quiet when I do. Will doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with an unreadable expression on his face, his hands limp on the table.
The quiet is broken when the wet word, “No,” comes from right beside me.
I jump so big my knees bang the underside of the table. Heart pounding with unpleasant surprise, I move my eyes to Aaron.
What?
What just happened?
Did he just…did he just speak?
But no. No, of course not. He’s been silent, except for his gross noises, for a month. Why would he start talking now?
I almost have myself convinced that I imagined it when it happens again. And I know it’s real this time because I’m still looking at him as his mouth forms the garbled, stomach-churning words: “No, I’m not dead because of him or his stepsister.”
Cold horror spikes through my shock.
“I’m dead because of you, Coralie.”
2: Will
For as crazy as I’ve felt in the last month, blaming myself for the untimely death of another human being, I feel the craziest right now in this little chair in this cramped back room of this quaint, family-run shop.
I’m looking at a girl who’s just shouted at me for no reason, and instead of wanting to shout back or just get up and leave, I want to sink my hands into that fluttery, chin-length blonde hair and kiss the hell out of her.
Badly—I want to do it badly.
Coralie Reed isn’t what I expected and I already know I like it.
A couple of days after Aaron Allen’s death, I found out via our town’s gossip network (thanks, Mom) that Coralie was the last person seen with the guy. He was her boyfriend, everyone was saying. I spent weeks trying to deal with my guilt, and when I seemed to be making no progress, I decided I should try to talk to the girl. I thought it would help me heal a little and maybe even do the same for her. I asked my mom if she knew where I could find her and I was pointed to this shop in no time.
I didn’t really know what Coralie looked like. Short with blonde hair was all the description I got, somehow, and I found a girl who matched it when I got here, but she had a wedding ring on her left hand. That confused me because I thought I was seeking out a newly-single girl, but then I learned I was speaking with Catie, her sister. I explained myself and she was very understanding. She said Coralie has been living quietly since Aaron died but she was sure I’d get to talk to her—yet, while it sounded like a good idea to her, she couldn’t promise it would go down amicably.
I was prepared for that. Prepared for a dull shell of a girl. For anger and blame. I was even prepared to see some tears.
I wasn’t ready for Coralie to be so beautiful and so plainly attracted to me. Or for her to say Aaron hadn’t been her boyfriend after all. Or for her to lay her hand on my shoulder and tell me I was guiltless.
I definitely wasn’t ready for her to yell at me that I was guiltless.
Yeah, I want to be close enough to see every little color in those hazel eyes of….
“Are you all right?” I ask as I realize that she’s gone rigid. The aforementioned hazel eyes are staring into space and have gone wide with what looks like terror. Her already-pale skin has gone even paler.
She looks completely different from how she looked just seconds ago. Has something happened?
“Coralie?” My hand is covering one of hers before I know it, and I find she’s cold as ice. A moment later, I notice she’s shaking.
Uh oh.
“Catie?” I call loudly as I stand up from my chair. “Catie, come here! Hurry!”
God, what did I do? How did I scare her? Could she tell what I was thinking somehow? Did she sense that I want to kiss her even though I’m here to talk about her late boyfriend—I mean, not-boyfriend?
Catie has just dashed into the room when Coralie sucks in a deep breath and…
…composes herself…?
I stare at her, confused, as she relaxes and exhales steadily. She’s looking at me again now, her eyes no longer full of fear.
“What is it?” Catie asks as she kneels by her sister’s chair. Her hands grasp for her in clear worry. “I heard shouting a minute ago, but I just thought—”
“I’m fine,” Coralie interrupts evenly. She looks away from me and gives Catie half a smile. “Sorry. I’m fine. Just got emotional for a second.”
I raise my eyebrows so high I think they go off my face. ‘Emotional’?
“Are you sure, Cora?” Catie pauses and flicks a look my way. “Do you need to be alone?” I can hear the real question there: ‘Do you want me to tell him to leave?’
Coralie shakes her head. “No, he’s fine. I’m fine. I like him.”
Those last three words have my heartbeat skipping like I’m a teenager again.
“You’re sure?” Catie asks again.
Coralie nods.
Sighing, Catie stands and rubs a hand down the back of her sister’s hair.
Damn, I’m jealous.
“All right,” she says. “Holler if you need me.” She and I lock gazes. Although she gives me a friendly smile, her eyes say I better not do anything to hurt Coralie. I acknowledge it with a nod and a smile of my own.
After she’s gone, my smile fades and I drop back into my chair. “What really happened just now?” I ask. “Did I scare you somehow?”
Coralie regards me with the same interest from earlier. It doesn’t match the flat way she says, “I’m not scared of anything.”
Yeah, tell that to the look that was on your face. “Come on. Tell me.”
“Nothing happened.”
I lower my voice as I tap at the hand still underneath mine. “Then why are you shaking?”
I watch her realize I have a point. A hint of unease touches her eyes.
“Why are you still shaking?” I ask even more quietly.
“Cold,” she whispers back.
I give her an unconvinced look.
“It’s snowing outside. It has to be cold for it to snow. It’s snowing. It’s cold. I’m cold.”
“Did I scare you or not? Just spit it out.”
She spits out, “No, you didn’t, damn it.”
“Then what did?”
She pulls her hand out from under mine and mutters that this is the stupidest birthday of her life.
Intrigued in a new way, I ask, “Today’s your birthday? How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
I’m surprised by that. She doesn’t look any older than maybe twenty, even with her dark eye make-up, double-pierced ears, and tiny nose ring. “Really? You don’t look it. But happy birthday.”
“Yeah. Thank you.” She takes a long drink of her coffee.
I notice her tone is a little nicer since I’m not asking about her mini freak-out, so I decide to keep away from that for now. I might’ve liked it in some weird way when she unexpectedly yelled at me, but
I like it a lot more when she’s talking to me normally. I like the sound of her voice. “Got any exciting birthday plans?”
“No.” She gazes at where she’s tapping a fingernail against her coffee lid.
I’ve never been a very forward guy when it comes to girls, but I’m struck by the urge to put myself out there this time. Before I can talk myself out of it, I ask, “Can I take you to dinner later?”
Her brow knits and she glances up at me. “You’ve got to have a girlfriend, so no.”
“I don’t have one.” I’ve been alone for a while now. Getting cheated on by my last girlfriend was rough and no one else around here has appealed to me very much.
No one until Coralie, anyway, who’s saying, “A wife, then.”
“I’m quite unattached.”
“Okay, well, how exactly do you know that’s true for me?”
Oh. I guess her not dating Aaron doesn’t mean she’s not dating someone else. Damn.
I clear my throat. “Hey, yeah, you’re right. I don’t know that.” With utmost sincerity, I say, “I apologize.”
“Nah, don’t. I’m quite unattached myself.”
I’m surprised by her answer, especially since her tone is still on the flat side. I was just feeling sure I’d hit on someone else’s girl and now that worry is null.
Thinking she’s funny, I laugh. But, weirdly, she looks like it hits her right in the soul, and it shuts me up.
Once again, her eyes lift from her coffee lid, but they stick on me this time. Her intent look makes me feel breathless.
After a few moments of those eyes scrolling over my face, she asks, “Does this work for you? Do you successfully get girls by approaching them to discuss sensitive matters and then asking them out to make them feel better?”
I shake my head and learn how to breathe again so I can say, “I didn’t ask you out to make you feel better. It’s just that I came here expecting to meet one girl and I met a completely different one, and I don’t want to go home in five minutes and never see her again.”
For a time, she just looks at me. Her expression is wide open and I can see, as plainly as I can see the thick purple stripes across her black shirt, that she wants to say yes.
But then her eyes grow dimmer. “I’m sorry, but a date isn’t a good idea.”
I look at her quizzically because there’s no way that’s true.
“You don’t want to be involved with me, Will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You just met me and I didn’t,” she counters. “I think I know whether or not a date with me would be smart.”
I have to chuckle. “Okay, good one, but—”
“No.” She frowns at me. “Just no, okay?”
I frown, too, genuinely perplexed. “Why not?”
“Because.”
As I recall something she said a few minutes ago, I say more softly, “You think I’m gorgeous.” With a slight shrug, I amend, “You think my shoulders are gorgeous.” Which is amusing, by the way. I’ve never heard that before.
“Yes on both counts, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Why not?” I repeat, my frown deepening. “We’re both single and I think you’re gorgeous, too. And dates exist in the first place so you can find out if you want to be around someone, right? You’re attracted to someone and you go on a date to see if you work together or not.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, what, after you’ve bought me dinner, you’ll realize you don’t like me? You’ll realize we don’t ‘work together’? I’ve never met anyone so eager to waste money before, Will, Jesus. How rich are you?”
“Coralie.” I lean over the table and, more boldly than I’ve ever done anything in my life, slide a hand into her hair. Damn, it’s every bit as soft as I thought it’d be.
Her eyes close as she inhales in sharp surprise.
I’m going to get slapped. I just know it. There’s no way she’s going to let me get away with this. And, honestly, I deserve a slap for daring to touch her this way, because this isn’t as innocent as her shoulder touch had been. Hell, even my touching her hand earlier had been more innocent than this.
What is going on with me? Why is this girl making me do things I normally wouldn’t do?
But she doesn’t slap me. Doesn’t even jerk away. She just sits still and breathes out an almost inaudible, “Oh.”
I have to say I’m stunned. And I can’t help staring. I stare and stare at how this delicate yet feisty girl looks enjoying having my hand in her hair. At how the light strands look spilling over my fingers.
How have I lived in this town my entire life and never come across her before today?
I lick my suddenly dry lips and tell her, “Say no to me because you aren’t interested, not because you think I’ll regret asking. I’m twenty-nine. I’ve lived long enough to know if I want to spend an evening with someone or not.”
Her eyes reopen and find mine. Just as before, I can tell she wants to say yes.
Please say yes. Please don’t say you really aren’t interested.
She doesn’t respond right away, which makes me want to fidget. But soon, she wraps a hand around my wrist. It doesn’t encircle it completely and, for some reason, I love that.
I don’t love how she pulls my hand from her hair and lowers it to the table, but oh well. Can’t leave it there forever.
“Where and when?” she asks. “For dinner.”
Oh, thank you, Jesus. “Anywhere you want, birthday girl,” I say with an easy grin, as if my pulse isn’t wild with excitement.
A smile tugs at her lips.
It’s my life’s mission to get a real one out of her tonight.
“The Thirsty Bastard,” she says. “Their food is delicious.”
“Yes, it is.” When I add, “Deep dish pizza,” I hear her say it at the same time.
I almost get the real smile from her now, but she fights it tooth and nail. Literally. She bites down on her bottom lip and then curls her fingers against it, too, hiding her mouth from me. “Meet me there at 7?” she suggests.
I nod. “I’ll be there.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t stand me up,” I half-joke.
I still don’t see it because of her hand, but I have the distinct feeling the smile is finally there.
Maybe my goal for the night should be to get her to laugh. I’ve got chill bumps just thinking about it.
*
My mom was a single mother until I was twenty, but she was always a damn fine parent. When I was still dependent on her, she kept me sheltered, fed, and clothed. In spite of her gossiping ways, she’s always been a good woman and she raised me to be a man I’m proud of. Respectful. Patient. Honest. Responsible.
After I park in the lot at the bar, I look out at the snowy night and give myself a little talk. The thought of Coralie being out with me sets my blood on fire, but I need to remember who I am. I wasn’t my most respectful, patient self at Tokens Of Love. I didn’t take no for an answer from her and I touched her without her permission. That wasn’t like me at all.
I did those things because I just didn’t believe she wanted me to leave her alone, which sounds bad and isn’t an excuse. I really could sense it, though. I believed she was nervous about something—frightened and frustrated—but I honestly didn’t think it had to do with me. Still, I practice an apology for when she gets here. I owe her that; I don’t think I deserve a date with her when I feel like less than the gentleman I was taught to be.
At 7 sharp, we meet up in front of the building. I take in how the frigid wind is blowing the hair not covered by her thick gray beanie. And the confident way she’s standing with her hands in the pockets of her black coat, like she’s not tiny compared to me. And the purple-pink color she added to her lips since I last saw her.
She says, “Take a picture, huh?” but it’s soft. Not sassy as one would expect.
The wind blows some of her hair across her lips and I resist the urge to move it.
She looks at me like she knows I’d rather not resist—and, I daresay, like she wishes I wouldn’t.
Yet I do resist, and I tell her, “As great as you look and as happy as I am that you’re here, you should know I’m genuinely sorry I pressured you into this. I should’ve left it alone when you told me no the first time. I’m not usually so tenacious and, frankly, I’m embarrassed. I was rude.” I breathe deeply for the hardest part. “If you’d rather not have dinner with me, I understand and won’t bother you about it again.”
The wind dies down, allowing her hair to fall back into place at the exact moment that a full, perfect smile blooms to life across her lips. It touches her eyes and touches me in more than one place, because God.
“If I didn’t want to be here,” she says, “I assure you I wouldn’t be. But thank you.”
Well, okay. I trust that. I nod and stare at her smile some more, trying to figure out what to say.
I don’t come up with anything before she steps closer, closer, closer and adds with her head tilted up at me, “You look great, too.”
I grin and manage, “Thank you.”
Her smile turns into a grin, too, and I nearly die.
“Pizza?” she asks.
I shake myself and echo, “Pizza.” With a better handle on myself, I turn and offer her my arm.
I halfway expect her to make fun of me, but she doesn’t. She just asks with confusion, “You want me on your arm? For real?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Look at me.”
“I am.”
“Then you can see I don’t belong on your arm like some classy lady you’re bringing home to meet your mama.”
I remember what she said back at her job: that I don’t want to be involved with her. Did she say that just because her style is different from mine—because she doesn’t fit the girl-next-door mold? If so, I’ll just have to continue working to prove her wrong.
But instead of making her touch me, I drop my arm and open the door to the bar. I step aside so she can walk through.
As she trudges forward, her eyes drop to the ground…and I think I see disappointment in them. She thinks I agree with what she said.
That’s how I know the words sitting on my tongue are the right ones to say: “You belong wherever you want to be, you know. On my arm or not on it. Here or somewhere else. With me or with some other guy. Or girl. Or no one at all.”
Pretty Guilty Page 2