by Mariah Dietz
“She seemed really nice. I really liked hanging out with her at the birthday party.”
“She liked you, too.”
The information paints a private and shy smile on her face that is authentic and reveals that this is significant to her.
“I’m glad. I hope she comes to our Friendsgiving event. I think it’s going to be a lot of fun.”
Caleb nods again. He isn’t trying to give her a hint and tell her to leave him alone, it’s just he’s an introvert himself and has never been one for small talk.
Poppy extends a smile, this one tight-lipped and exposing she’s starting to feel uncomfortable. She takes a step and then stops. “Oh, by the way, I brought something for you.” She slides her purse down to the crook of her arm and rifles through its contents. “I know you’re studying forensic psychology, and my mom said this is one of the most underrated books in the field. I can’t attest to any of it, but I brought you a copy in case you didn’t have it.” She offers him a hefty paperback.
Caleb looks at her and then the book. “Thanks, Poppy. That’s really cool of you.” He looks at it again. “I know the author. I actually heard an interview he did. I had no idea he wrote a book.” Excitement raises his tone. “Oh shit, this is signed,” he says, flipping over the front page. “I can’t take this.”
Poppy shakes her head. “My mom has like a dozen copies and she was happy to make room on her bookcase. She offered me to give you one that she co-wrote with someone as well, but it seemed all kinds of awkward to give you a book signed by my mom.”
Caleb grins. “No. That’s cool. Are you sure about this?”
Poppy nods. “Positive.”
“Thanks. This is really nice. I’ll definitely read it.”
Her smile grows, restoring to the fuller and brighter version that I’ve noticed is often present in moments of security. She looks up, noticing me, and her smile falters for a second like she’s embarrassed I just witnessed their exchange. “I’m going to get something to drink,” she says to Caleb and then continues toward me.
On these days, our fake relationship is most effortless because we’re not putting on a show. We hang out and do homework and talk about things, learning about one another.
“I hope you brought your appetite.”
She pauses and lifts her nose, and closes her eyes. “Wow, that smells good. What are you making?”
“Chicken piccata with garlic parmesan mashed potatoes.”
Her eyes round, and she takes another look at the stovetop. “Are you taking culinary courses on the side?”
My grin is unstable. She likely already knows this, but still, I tell her about where my comfort in the kitchen was born. “I grew up cooking with my parents, especially my dad. We’d talk shop and cook together.”
“My mom was the order-in type.”
I grin. “Mine likely would’ve been too if they could’ve afforded it.” Poppy knows we didn’t grow up with the kind of money most kids at our high school had. We attended the same private school because our mom taught there.
“It’s a good life skill,” she says. “Girls like a guy who can cook … as you likely already know.”
“I only cooked for Candace a few times.”
“A few times?”
“She didn’t like coming over here, and her house had almost nothing for cooking, and the few times I tried, they got mad about the smell and the mess it made while I was cooking.”
“They were missing out. I’m still thinking about the alfredo you made me last week.” She moves closer to the stove. “I’m hoping the smell of this latches on to me. I could wear this as a perfume, and I’d be the most popular girl at school.”
I grin. One of my favorite things about Poppy is how she doesn’t like to talk crap about anyone.
“Can I help with anything?” she asks.
“No. It’s just about ready. I just need to deglaze the pan so we have a sauce for the chicken and potatoes. It’s usually served with pasta, but I heard you say you like mashed potatoes when we were at Catalina’s, so I thought this could be a good substitute.”
“Wrong. I love mashed potatoes.”
“Why are girls always embarrassed to eat in front of guys?”
Poppy looks at me. “Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing wrong?” She grins to show she’s joking. “I don’t know. I think it’s likely because we’re nervous, and we don’t want stuff stuck in our teeth. Probably also because there are still a lot of societal norms that we want to defy, but still feel the weight and impact of.”
I grab the mixture of parmesan and cheddar cheese that I’d shredded for the mashed potatoes before she arrived and move it closer to the stove before taking the potato masher and creaming the boiled potatoes.
“Your turn. Why do guys take so long to reply to messages?”
I shake my head. “Depends.”
“On?”
I consider how to answer this without making every guy sound like a complete dick. “I don’t know. I’m probably not the best person to ask this question because I try not to play mind games. If I’m interested, I’m interested. Maybe it’s because of Maggie and Rae, but that shit just complicates everything. I think, in general, guys will take a while to respond because they’re waiting to see if another girl messages them first, FOMO effect. Other guys I know have been worried about coming across too eager.”
Poppy’s quiet, considering my answer. I want to ask what prompted the question—if it was a who or a particular situation that drove the conversation in this direction. “Did you text Mike?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s just a generalized question.”
I know this isn’t true. With Poppy, there are no generalizations. But I accept her answer, realizing she may not want to talk about it. “We should eat. You want to grab some plates?” She looks relieved to have a task and immediately moves to the cupboards, opening three before she finds the dishes.
“I forget how unfamiliar you are with things here. It’s kind of weird.”
She hands me the plates, and as I take them, my fingers graze hers. Her skin is warm, and her nails nude. As I look up, she’s staring at our crossed fingers and then startles out of whatever thought was holding her attention and pulls away and goes searching for silverware in the drawers. “Is this weird?” she asks, looking at me over her shoulder. “I mean, you know we can always call things off if it’s starting to feel weird.”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that it’s surprising because we’ve known each other for so long, but you don’t hang out here very often. Sometimes I forget that you were Rae’s friend first.” We stare at each other for a long second, neither of us moving or talking. Maybe she forgets sometimes, too.
Poppy resumes her search for silverware. “I’ve been thinking we should look at our schedules. Compare them. Also, should we invite Caleb to eat with us?”
“He’s meeting Julie in an hour.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, eyes wide like this makes her nervous.
“Lincoln bought a bottle of wine. I’m pretty sure it’s for their anniversary. Maybe we should drink it?”
This dims her gaze. “Because that would go over well.”
I shrug. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
At this, she grins. “I’ll get us some water.” She locates two glasses and fills them from the water kept in the fridge. “Do you miss that scene?”
“What scene?”
A furtive smile exposes her uncertainty.
“You mean drinking?”
“And partying.”
I shrug. “More at first. I miss the energy that came with going out. Everyone was always excited and pumped, and no one gave a shit about anything but feeling good. I know you and Rae like to have these meaningful conversations and discussions about feelings and pasts and heavy shit, but sometimes it’s nice to just be around people who don’t care about any of it. They don’t care if I play football or if my dad fucked up or
if I’m good enough to get drafted…” I shake my head. “It’s all jokes and sarcasm and turning the world off.”
Poppy blinks like she’s considering the world I’ve just painted for her. “Does it ever feel lonely?”
“Lonelier than people constantly telling me whether they think I’m good enough?”
A wince pulls at her lips. “Celebrity status must suck sometimes.”
I shrug. “I can’t complain. I have a chance to change my entire life because I’m good at a sport. Not many people can say that. I have nothing to bitch about. I just sometimes need an escape from all the noise.”
“Not to sound like my mom, but maybe through this, we can find some healthier ways for you to find that escape.”
I grin. “Where’s your notebook?”
Her smile turns broad as she pulls out a notepad and pen from her purse. “Let’s do this.”
16
Poppy
Tuesdays, Pax and I don’t typically hang out, but after comparing our schedules, we found some crossovers that made it convenient to meet on campus. The weather is cooler. Fewer people gather outside, but there's still an audience as Pax approaches me, a conspiratorial smile on his face that anyone else would mistake for being flirtatious.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm and gravely as he gets close enough that I smell his cologne. Some guys drown themselves in cologne, and you can smell them from several feet away, but with Pax, you have to be close, and even then, I sometimes have to focus on catching the hints of cedar and pine and sweetness that makes me take longer and slower breaths when I’m near him.
I tilt my head, knowing he’s going to kiss me, and ignore the way my pulse flickers. I wonder if this is how Hollywood actors feel when they’re on a set and have to pretend to be in love? Is it natural? Forced? Or can they just compartmentalize and realize it’s a role? Paxton’s hand spans across my waist, his warmth heating me like a portable sun. Our kisses have all been chaste, attributed to him catching me off guard and likely my nerves and several month hiatus from kissing. I’m trying to remember the steps when his mouth greets mine, warm and gentle this time, a note of patience like he can hear my thoughts going over the rules and instructions of how to kiss someone. His lips ply at mine, gentle yet forceful, taking the lead like he’s explaining the directions to me.
His fingers press into me, securing me to this moment in time. Then, his tongue grazes mine with that same tender yet assured pressure, coaxing me to silence my thoughts and just fall into the rhythm my body knows. My nerves flicker and course with each nip that drives us into a deeper kiss, and each time his tongue becomes more artful as he explores my mouth. His grip constricts each time this happens, urging me forward like a silent approval. I feel dazed, mesmerized by the heat and pressure of his mouth, the flawless kiss that proves that I was wrong about Paxton and his kissing skills—he isn’t a lousy kisser. No instead, he is an outstanding, expert, lethal kisser. I pull away first, a groan stuck in my throat. His eyes stay closed for a second, and I stare at him, willing myself to remember this expression—every perfect detail.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the sudden thought.
Pax opens his eyes, a dazzling smile on his lips and touching his eyes like he knows he just earned the Emmy for best kiss. “I brought you a green tea,” he says, passing me a cup.
The warm liquid warms my hand, and he earns the People’s Choice Award for having kissed me like that with only one hand.
“I’ll see you later,” he winks, and then he’s gone.
Wednesday, I arrive at Mario’s with more assuredness. Dominic greets me by name with a smile. I am starting to enjoy our study dates. Being here is easy and fun, and the pizza is fantastic.
“Your girl’s here!” Dominic announces as I come inside.
Pax looks up from where he’s seated at the same table from Sunday and shares a friendly grin. I hear his thoughts. See, he believes us. I remind myself I should be taking the same inventory list, ensuring that people are buying our lie, but I’m tired and hungry. I overslept this morning and didn’t have time to eat or put on makeup or do anything with my hair.
I unpack my laptop and sit across from him, pulling up the assignment I completed late last night. Too late. I knew it would need thorough proofreading because I wrote much of it with only one eye open.
“Pizza and garlic knots?” Pax finally asks, shaking his head slightly, then placing an empty cup in front of me. “Just pizza? Just garlic knots?”
“Both,” I tell him. “I skipped breakfast to make it to class on time.”
“You mentioned your class schedule for Wednesday sucks.”
I nod. “An early class, a late morning class, and then a late afternoon class.” I sigh. “It’s like having your days off being split up. But, it works well for being able to come and see you.” It’s not meant to sound like it does. Like I’m flirting or that it’s more than happenstance. He grins but I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“You want to go to a party on Friday?”
My brow lowers. “You have a game on Saturday.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious, for that report. Now, do you want to go?”
“Feed me first. Sarcasm and hunger are too much to take on at once.”
He chuckles and heads to the counter where he places our order with Dominic before returning to his seat. He pulls out a textbook, laying it on the counter so it touches mine. I glance at the header and see “Professional Communications.”
Pax is looking at me with a sly smirk on his face.
“Why are you smirking?”
“We’re having another study date. We’re doing good with these rules.”
“Are you behind in any classes?”
He does another dismissive shrug. “Only in my marketing class.”
“Because you don’t like it?”
“Because it’s on Fridays, so I miss it with away games, and the professor’s a dick and won’t post shit online.”
“You should find someone who can share their notes with you.”
“I also hate the class.”
His admission makes me laugh. The timer for our pizza goes off, and Pax heads to the counter. The tray he drops off has two mammoth-sized slices of pizza, loaded with olives and cheese that is lightly browned and a half dozen garlic knots. My mouth waters, and my stomach grumbles as he slides a side of pesto to me.
“Thanks,” I say, offering an appreciative smile.
Pax nods, his gaze already on his textbook as the pizza cools, so I take the opportunity to study him for a moment. Pax has really great hair. It’s several shades darker than Rae’s, a dark dishwater blond, and it always looks tousled and perfect.
I turn my focus back to my own homework, munching on a garlic knot as I read the text.
Eventually, Pax grabs his own garlic knot.
We study in near silence, eating and reading and occasionally typing until my alarm sounds, telling me I need to leave for class.
“Find someone in your marketing class who will email you notes, and I’ll go to the party,” I tell him as I start to put my things away.
Pax grins. “I guess it wouldn’t kill me.” He packs up his things and walks me to my car. I’m nervous, wondering if this is going to be like our kiss yesterday, but before I can overthink it, Pax opens my door for me.
“The party is a little north. No dress code.”
“Thanks for lunch.”
He grins. “Anytime.” He smells like pizza instead of his usual scent as he leans close and drops a gentle kiss against my forehead. “See you Friday.”
The fifteen-minute drive isn’t long enough to digest whether the others will be at the party or if I should ask Rae or consider why I’m thinking about Paxton’s kiss that lacked all signs of intimacy.
“Hey,” Mike says, sliding into the seat next to mine. I look at him and then the empty chairs around us. When did it become so awkward talking to Mike? Was it before we broke up or after? “How�
��s it going?”
“Good.” My voice is too high and too chipper. I think about my appearance again and how messy my hair is. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. “How are you doing?”
“Did you know our moms hang out?”
I turn my attention to him, wondering if this is a trick question. Of course, I know. Did he not? If he didn’t, why? Does he really pretend like I never existed in his timeline? Do his parents? He’s wearing a black Nirvana shirt today, but it’s not any shirt—it’s a shirt I gave to him for Christmas senior year. My thoughts spiral. Why does he still have it? Why is he still wearing it? Is he wearing it intentionally?
No. Guys don’t do that. He probably doesn’t even remember I gave it to him. “Yeah...” I say too late, trying to recall the original question about our moms hanging out.
His eyes warm. He’s smiling without smiling. It used to be one of my favorite expressions of his because it felt private like he was letting me in on a secret that no one else knew. “How’s your boyfriend?”
I wonder why he doesn’t use his name? “Pax is great.” I cringe a little, wondering if I sounded defensive to him or just in my head. “How’s Maddie?”
“She’s adjusting to the West Coast.”
His response sounds more believable because he gave a short yet legitimate answer, whereas mine was defensive and was only three words.
I consider elaborating, but I don't know what part of our week to dissect, and before I can think of anything that seems adequate and not overly revealing, our professor enters the room, seizing my chance.
Paxton: What’s your favorite color?
I read the text twice, thankful for the distraction from my homework as I watch Dylan play a video game.
Me: I don’t have a favorite.
Paxton: How is that possible?
I don’t have a good answer.
Me: Maybe yellow?
Paxton: Maybe?