First Love (Winning at Love Book 2)

by Gillian Jones

  But neither forgets.

  Me: Sorry. ’Nite, Keat. We just took an Uber, driver’s name was Jett.

  It’s nights like this that do my head in and lead me to believe I’ll never, ever be able to play the Moving On game to my fullest potential if there’s even the slightest chance that Keaton has feelings for me, too. I think it’s these late-night text wars that are keeping my head and heart in limbo.

  Turning off my lamp, I roll over and pull my light-pink comforter up to my neck, despite the early summer heat. I wipe away a tear I’ve allowed to escape.

  But, shortly after I start to drift off, my phone pings in the dark.

  Keaton: I’ll be there at 10 to take you for breakfast and get your car from the bar. Sleep. Getting harder to pretend sometimes. ’Night, Kam.

  I don’t bother to answer. He knows I’ll be ready.

  Knowing I’ll see Keaton tomorrow, I can finally toss my phone on my nightstand and drift off to sleep with a tummy full of flutters and an ounce of hope blooming deep inside me.

  I hope my SOS worked. Or that maybe it doesn’t, and he brings tonight up?

  Honestly, I’m not sure which option I’d prefer.

  What I am sure of, though, is that the next time I come home from a night of drinking my phone isn’t going to be invited back to my room. And that’s for damn sure!

  11

  Wakey Wakey Eggs’n’Bakey

  Kami

  There’s a knock at the door and I jump. I’ve never felt this anxious about seeing Keaton before, not even the night we celebrated the opening of Inkredible and I made such a fool of myself. I think it’s because after last night’s texts I worry I might have opened the door to talk about the one thing we never do: us.

  Steeling my nerves, I tighten my ponytail one last time, and take in my appearance while standing in front of the mirror in my small hallway.

  I look as hungover as I feel.

  I pull the door open, and the nervous feeling begins to dissipate as soon as I see Keaton.

  “I brought reinforcements. A traveler, if you will, for the drive,” Keaton says, holding out a medium cup of Tim Horton’s coffee. I notice the grease pencil markings on the lid—just the way I like it: Double Double.

  I grab the cup of steamy goodness and sigh.

  “You really should be wearing a cape,” I say. I meet his eyes for the first time, and the kindness I see there almost makes my knees buckle.

  He really is such a great guy. No wonder I can’t get over him.

  “Who’s to say I’m not wearing one?” Keat replies, raising his left eyebrow. I feel my pulse kick at the thought of what might be hiding under his clothes.

  “I am so not going there,” I say, rolling my eyes. As I attempt to compose myself, I hear him mutter something like, “I wish you would,” but I can’t be sure.

  “Let me grab my bag,” I say. I lock the door behind me before falling in step behind Keaton.

  The drive is quiet; we’re both tuned in to the voice of Thom Yorke as he croons with the rest of Radiohead. It plays softly from the speakers, the volume set just low enough to avoid aggravating the remnants of the headache with which I had awakened. Keaton pulls into a spot at Eggcetera, and I smile. They make the best chocolate-chip pancakes ever.

  “Your stomach up for this?” Keaton says, turning my way before killing the ignition. I nod happily.

  He laughs. “I figured you’d suffer through. It is Eggcetera after all.”

  “You always take such good care of me,” I say, and almost immediately regret my honesty. But seeing a flash of something like agreement cross Keaton’s face, I decide to own the compliment. “And I’m always game not to have to cook after a night out.”

  “Yeah, I’m always down for someone else making me breakfast, too,” Keaton says, and I’m not so sure we’re talking about eating out anymore.

  I can feel the good mood from things seeming normal between us suddenly evaporate. Just. Like. That.

  Keaton sees it, too. “Shit, Kam, I didn’t mean it how it sounded.”

  “I know.” I shake my head sadly and reach for the door handle, then pause before opening it, deciding to let him off the hook, as he has done for me so many times. “Make it up to me by feeding me a yummy sausage.”

  I break out in a fit of giggles.

  “Jesus, Kami, you can’t say shit like that.” He shakes his head and hops out of the car. All I can do is keep laughing.

  “We’re such a mess,” I tell myself, finally opening the door to join him in the parking lot.

  Once inside, we’re shown to a booth and, like always, when we eat here, I plop myself down on the same side as Keaton so we can both face the TV that always plays European football games on the weekends, games I used to call “soccer” until a certain someone set me straight.

  “Manchester United playing Liverpool today?” Keaton asks, like he always does. It’s his way of letting me know I’m full of shit pretending to be in any way knowledgeable about what he calls “footy”. He always announces who’s playing, so as soon as we’re settled and I excuse myself to use the restroom, I’ll know which two teams to quickly Google to give me some BS to spew when he grills me later on. I smile at him, and head down the hall towards the back of the restaurant.

  “Chocolate pancakes today?” Keaton asks, when I return to my seat. I slide in close beside him, and I tell myself it’s so I can better see the menu he has open.

  “Nah, you know I don’t really like those things,” I say, playing the game we always do.

  “Funny,” he quips, “seems like last time we were here you managed to eat most of mine.” He nudges me with his elbow, his lips pulling into an easy smile.

  “No clue what you’re talking about. Must have been someone else,” I joke, and instantly regret having put the thought in my own head.

  “Nope. Was you, for sure.” His eyes drop to my lips. “I don’t take anyone out for breakfast—except you. Not even my sister. It’s our thing.”

  He turns to look at Pam—our regular server—when she approaches.

  “Our thing,” he’d said, like it was obvious. I melt a little on the inside. This is our thing.

  I want to loop my arm through his and share the things I now know about today’s teams while kissing and snuggling. But instead, I turn to Pam and order the Wakey Wakey Eggs’n’ Bakey, with extra crispy bacon.

  Keaton places his usual order for the Chocolate Overkill pancakes, only this time, he adds the Get Eggy With It omelette—along with a side order of sausage—making me laugh about our earlier “sausage” exchange.

  We spend the next forty minutes sitting side by side, sharing the pancakes while eating our eggs, watching a sport I still know next to nothing about. I almost manage to convince myself I know what the hell I’m talking about when I recite some recent stats, and gossip about Man U’s goalkeeper, David de Gea, about how he’s become a Premier League star (whatever that means) and also plays for Spain’s national team. Keaton just nods wisely, gives me a wary eye, and glances at my phone, which is still open to Wikipedia.

  We may not be snuggling or kissing, but I’ll take what we’re doing any day, because what we are doing is something that is only ours.

  12

  Welcome Home, Pumpkin

  Keaton

  “Look at you all dressed up, lookin’ the part,” I gibe at McCoy, my best friend, as soon as I spot him at a table near the back of The Real Deal sports bar, where we’re meeting for lunch this Tuesday afternoon. It’s been years since Coy and I have been able to meet like this midweek, and it’s something I look forward to being able to do on a regular basis now that he’s moving back to Guelph from Brockville. I add another jab when he rises and comes to greet me: “Nice suit.”

  I chuckle at what complete opposites we are. Here I am, dressed in a black-and-purple Jimmy Hendrix T-shirt, black jeans, a pair of red Chuck’s on my feet, while Coy’s all suited up wearing a tie and a vest, with some hanky shit sticking
out of his chest pocket. And not a scuff on his shiny black Oxfords. Totally not what I was used to seeing my friend wear.

  “I had to trick them into believing they weren’t making a terrible mistake by giving me the job,” he jokes, pulling me in for that age-old, traditional greeting—the man-hug—followed by a few firm thumps on the back before we both take our seats.

  “Did it work, at least?”

  “Yeah, I totally fooled them. Must have been the suit. I still have the job.”

  “Scary thought,” I laugh, “but totally worth that ridiculous getup if it convinced them that you’re still the best choice.”

  “Exactly. You wanna beer?” he asks, signalling in the server’s direction when I nod yes.

  “Thanks. You officially all moved in and settled now?” I ask, referring to the condo I helped him move his stuff into last weekend, unbeknownst to Kami, my parents, or my sister.

  If I’d thought Eastlyn and Kami were mad at me the last time McCoy had secretly come to town for the day and I didn’t tell them, I know they’re going to tear a strip right off my ass once they find out I’ve known about McCoy’s plans to move back to Guelph permanently for months, and that I’d even helped him move. I’d managed to get my sister to cave and forgive me for keeping quiet about his visit, a lot sooner than that stubborn-assed Kami had. The silent treatment lasted for almost a whole week with Kam, and, surprisingly, only for a weekend with my pain-in-the-ass sister. They still insist I should have warned them McCoy was going to be in town, and I had to hear all about how I’m always loyal to Coy over my own sister, blah, blah, blah, the same old story. How was I to know his snooty ass would go shopping at the same independent grocery store as my snooty sister? Even though Kami and Eastlyn would do the same exact thing to cover for one another, it didn’t matter, I still got the shun. I’m just happy it’s over—for now.

  I don’t know why it bugs the shit out of me so much when Kam and I don’t talk, all I know is it does. It had driven me crazy sending unanswered text after unanswered text. It reminded me of how things were for a while after that one night we almost kissed at Brass Tapps a couple years ago. Kami had ignored me afterwards for way too long, and it took about a month to get us back to where we are now. In limbo.

  Kami is a tricky nut to crack, but I’m doing what she asked—pretending—even if I think it might be starting to wear on me. Still I wouldn’t have her any other way. I love our games, especially ones where she thinks she’s winning. Like last Wednesday morning when I showed up at her house expecting us to finally talk about my sister, McCoy, and Holly while on our morning run, only to find a snippy note taped to the front door.

  Every text I’d sent had gone unanswered. By the end of the week I was determined to do whatever I needed to get her to talk to me. I was ready to ambush her either at home or at her work, prepared to bribe her with greasy takeout.

  Luckily for both of us, she came around. I knew inundating my sister with texts about Kami would be the secret to my success. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and after days of radio silence I was admittedly pathetic. I’m used to texting Kami at least a few times a day, and seeing her at least once or twice a week. Not having that fucked with me more than I’d like to admit. Seeing her Saturday morning—when I took her hungover ass for food and to get her car—settled something in me, something that had been off. Even if she was feeling and looking a bit rough—her hair a mess, wearing an oversized Marianas Trench concert T (one I’m pretty sure is mine from the show we caught last year, now that I think of it) she’d thrown on, a pair of grey jogging pants, and some pink Adidas slides—it did nothing to hide how adorable she is. Seeing her open her front door, scowling up at me and squinting in the bright sunshine, gave me what I’d missed the week before. It righted my world, the world I’ve grown used to over the last few years, the world with Kami in it. I needed that time with her, even if it was only a few hours. Especially after her drunken texts the night before.

  “Jett”. Her insinuation that a man had just left her house fucked with me in a way that caught me off guard. The idea of another man seeing her playful side when she was tipsy nearly did me in. I hated thinking I was missing out on a moment of it, and more so when she let my imagination run wild with the Jett story. Emotions suck, and these feelings surfacing for Kami are becoming a pain in my ass. A week without talking and seeing her is something I can see I just don’t handle very well. It’s a pain I don’t know if I’m ready to sit and analyze yet, a pain I should probably just bury because Kami and I can’t be anything more than friends.

  McCoy’s voice brings me back to the present. “Yeah, I got a decent start at settling in. The major things are done. Kitchen, bathroom. Unfortunately, I didn’t think of the simple things, like clothes. I only brought painting clothes with me—and this monkey suit this trip, of course. I don’t officially move here until Thursday.”

  “Perfect. You’ll be all settled in time for Rory and Clarissa’s stag and doe Saturday. Let me know if you need help with anything beforehand? I’ve managed to book myself in for only half a day.” I say. Knowing McCoy’s brother and soon-to-be-sister-in-law might need some help setting up for the party, I’d blocked off some time and shifted a few appointments. It’s something I almost never do, unless it’s for something really important.

  “Great, thanks. I might take you up on that. Must be nice being your own boss,” he snarks.

  “It is. Too bad I had to practically double-book myself all next week to pull it off.”

  “Aw, you poor baby,” he pouts.

  “Well, we can’t all have the summer off, two weeks at Christmas, and then another one to welcome spring without having to make up the time somewhere. But you’re right, being my own boss definitely has its perks. The biggest ones are living only a five-minute drive away from my shop, getting to do what I love most…”

  “I bet. I feel the same. Now to get here permanently, so I can reap the same rewards. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m looking forward to no longer commuting. It’s been fucking exhausting going back and forth from here to Brockville so much,” McCoy says, referring to the four-plus-hour drive he’s been making more and more frequently since planning his move and interviewing for his new job, along with all the different meetings and events leading up to his brother Rory’s wedding.

  “I bet. I hate long commutes. You drive in this morning, staying tonight?”

  “Nah, I came up last night after school. Stayed at the condo, unpacked some, and finished painting the trim in the living room. Figured I might as well be productive and guarantee that I’d be on time to meet with Westwood’s retiring principal, Liza, and the superintendent this morning. Heading back tonight.”

  “So responsible,” I joke.

  “I know. When the hell did we become those guys?”

  “We’re getting old.”

  We laugh.

  “Was it an important meeting?” I ask.

  “Just a formality to make sure I had a good run-down of the staff, provincial test scores, blah blah—all the passing on of the proverbial torch kind of crap that comes with the territory.”

  “Sounds riveting.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “And I thank Christ for that. No way could I do what you do,” I say, and mean it. Despite becoming best friends with McCoy when he moved here in Grade Eight, Coy and I were on opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to our futures. No way was I ever going to wear a suit and hold down a, quote-unquote, nine-to-five job. Me, I always wanted to use my artistic abilities and be my own boss. McCoy had always wanted to work with kids, always wanted to be a role model. His job is probably more of a calling, I guess, and I’m proud of him for that. Like me, he’s achieving the goals he’d set out for himself. McCoy is an incredible teacher, and I bet he’s a kick ass administrator, too. From what he tells me, the students and parents alike are really sad he’s leaving Brockville.

  “What can I getcha?” our server, who’s
introduced himself as Tom, asks while handing us our menus, after rhyming off today’s specials.

  “I’ll have a pint of Guinness, please,” I say. I glance at the menu but then follow suit after McCoy and order the Great Canadian burger special.

  “I’ll get that right in and be back with your beer.”

  “Great, thanks,” I say, passing him back the large, maroon, pleather-bound menu that I’d barely bothered to look at. “So…you looking forward to officially becoming a Guelphite again?” I ask, once Tom’s disappeared.

  “It’s been a long time coming. I need to survive the initial meeting with my new staff next week, and then I think it’ll really sink in that I’m back for good. I’m too in-between right now for it to actually seem real,” he says.

  I let out a low whistle.

  “What?”

  I laugh. “I’m just thinking about how Eastlyn’s going to react when she finds out you’re back in town for good.” I pause as Tom places our drinks in front of us. “Shit, forget Eastlyn, Kami is gonna have a fucking fit. Dude, I’m not sure keeping this a secret was one of our better ideas.” I shake my head, my last stint of the silent treatment from both women popping into my mind. I spend the next few minutes filling him in on the drama his presence has caused already, and in true McCoy Graves style, he only finds it amusing.

  “Of course you aren’t scared. It’s my balls they’ll seek and destroy first, once they piece it all together.” I shiver at the thought, making McCoy choke a little on his beer.

  “It will so be worth it. It’s been years since we got them this good,” he says, and I agree, it has been a long time since we pulled something this epic on my sister.

  “Easy for you to say. They’re my balls. But I must say, I’m completely bummed I won’t be there with you to see East’s and Kam’s faces when they find out you’re their new principal at Westwood. What I wouldn’t give to witness that play out with front row seats and popcorn.”