by L. E. DeLano
“Do you think I’m a bad sister?” I ask Devon.
He shakes his head immediately. “No. If you were a bad sister, you wouldn’t feel so awful about what you just told me. But you love your brother, so you do.”
“It’s just that—oh, I don’t know what it is,” I sink down on the couch next to him. “I’m still so angry at him for derailing his own life. For wrecking Maya’s life. For making my life harder than it has to be at school, and for leaving me home alone with my parents while we all deal with this.”
Devon puts his arm around me and pulls me close to his side. He stays quiet for a while, just holding me.
“Your brother made a bad choice,” he says softly. “Part of you feels like you’re having to pay for it, too. That’s not easy for you, or your parents.”
He kisses the top of my head, and I sigh.
“Please tell me your family is as dysfunctional as mine,” I beg him.
“I don’t think your family’s so bad,” he says. “Your dad seems to like me. So does Mojo.”
“Dad is easy. He’s too busy to notice if you’re a serial killer. You’re lucky Mom isn’t home. She’s going to have a spreadsheet full of information on you so she can personalize your sales plan and all the inspirational quotes she’ll give you.”
“Sounds scary.”
“I told you—utterly dysfunctional.”
“Every family is dysfunctional on some level,” he says. “And you guys are dealing with something that most people don’t have to deal with. Cut yourself a break.”
“Does your family—” I break off at the realization. “I haven’t really asked about your family.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You’ve been completely dazzled by me. It’s understandable.”
I reach up, and give his beanie a tug down over his eyes. He shoves it back in place and then he leans down to kiss me. I let him, but push against his chest before he can deepen it.
“I’m serious,” I say. “You haven’t told me much.”
“My dad works in cybersecurity for a pharmaceutical company. My mom is a nurse.”
He looks like he wants to say something else about them but then he pauses a moment before he grins and says: “My cat is inherently evil, and farts in bed at night.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bill.”
I give him a look. “Yes, the name just reeks of evil.”
“It’s always the mundane that disguises the true evil beneath.” He reaches for another handful of popcorn, and stuffs his mouth full again. I guess that means he doesn’t want to talk anymore, but I’m determined to learn more.
“Anything else? I feel like you know all about me and I’ve barely scratched the surface with you.”
“My parents met at the beach,” he says, grabbing more popcorn. “What about yours?”
“Huh.” I think for a moment. “I really don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
“They met at college, but I don’t know exactly where. Probably in a class or at a party. And you’re changing the subject. We are talking about you.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Do we have to? I’m just not that interesting.”
“I want to know how you got this.” I reach up and push his hair back, exposing the bruise on his forehead. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
He smooths his hair back down, his face scrunching up when his fingers brush the bruise. “I was hoping you wouldn’t,” he says. “Got it by being a dumb-ass. I tripped down the stairs and hit the railing with my head on the way down.”
“Seriously?”
“Tripped over the cat, if you want the specifics.” He smiles. “Which is oddly appropriate because we named him Bill for the movie Kill Bill. And Bill was an assassin.”
“So you have parents who met at the beach, and a cat that’s trying to kill you.”
He spreads his hands wide. “See, that’s all you need to know about my life story today.”
“Today?” I have to push a little more. “Maya saw you at the hospital. Right before we started dating.”
He freezes momentarily as he reaches for another handful of popcorn, then takes his time putting it in his mouth and chewing before he shrugs. “I’m fine. It wasn’t anything like she’s making it out to be. Do we have to talk about this? I’d rather talk about you. You’re my favorite subject.” He holds a smile but it’s tight. Forced.
“Not that I mind having you over at my house,” I say, giving up the inquest—for now. “But I’d like to meet your parents sometime.”
He nods, chewing on his popcorn until he clears his mouth. “You will. It’s just that things are a little hectic for them right now. Catch!”
He leans back with a piece of popcorn balanced between his thumb and forefinger. I open my mouth and he tosses it. It misses and drops down the front of my shirt right into my bra.
“You did that on purpose!”
He waggles his eyebrows and gives me an evil grin. I laugh, digging the kernel out and then he motions me to toss it back at him. He catches it on the first try.
“Best popcorn I ever ate,” he says, smacking his lips together.
“Guess it’s a good thing we weren’t eating Fritos and bean dip.”
“That would be far from romantic.”
My finger traces a pattern on his knee. “Speaking of romance . . .”
He shifts closer, and his eyes get that look—the one that makes my pulse start to pound. I resist the urge to lean in.
“Valentine’s Day is next week and you still haven’t told me what I can get you.”
His answer is a leer.
“Seriously,” I laugh. “I have no idea what to get you for a present. I mean, do you have an Xbox? Or are you a PlayStation kind of guy?”
He leans back with a sigh. “Video games—the true path to a man’s heart.”
“I could cook for you, if you’re into that.”
“You can cook?” He sits up again like I poked him with something.
I give him a deadpan look. “I’m Italian. It’s sort of required.”
“Pasta?”
“I can make lasagna that’ll have your eyes rolling back in your head, and my chicken piccata is nothing less than life-altering.”
“How did I not know this about you?” He asks, clearly amazed.
“Now we’re even,” I tell him. “Only, not really. There’s still tons of stuff I don’t know about you.”
“Later,” he says softly. He draws me in and I’m breathless by the time his lips settle on mine.
He pulls me across his lap, his hand shifting slowly over my side and back while the fingers of the other hand twine in my hair. At the slow press of his mouth on mine, I dissolve, losing myself in the taste and smell and feel of him, in the heated slide of our tongues as they circle and dance, his lips moving on mine, sending delicious tingles down every nerve in my body. It’s a long time before we come up for air.
And later, after I walk him to the door and we say goodnight, I replay our night in my head, every kiss, every stroke of his hands, every press of his fingers. The feel of his body on mine.
I still don’t know much about him, but do I need to, really?
Do I?
24
Devon picks me up for school on Valentine’s Day, and there are a dozen roses on the seat next to him in the car.
“I figured I’d give them to you when I picked you up, so you could put them in the house and not have to carry them from class to class all day,” he says. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“They’re beautiful.” I lean in to kiss his cheek before I walk them into the house and set them on the kitchen counter. Mom looks up from her Joyful Morning Exuberance tea and raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything. Thank God.
&nbs
p; On the drive to school, I can’t help but remark.
“I wasn’t expecting roses,” I say. “They seem so—normal. For you, I mean.”
“I can be a traditional sort of guy,” Devon says defensively. “Roses are pretty. I like giving you pretty things.”
I reach across and put my hand over his on the gearshift. “I love them, I really do.”
“Well, it’s not all I got you.”
“It’s more than enough. You didn’t need to get me anything else. I’m just glad I have you.”
His smile is blinding. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s true for me, too. With you.”
“I’m giving you my present later, with dinner.”
“You didn’t have to do that. Dinner is enough.”
I grin. “I guess we both overdid.”
He turns his hand over to interlace our fingers, giving my hand a squeeze. “No such thing for us.”
After we slide into our desks in Mrs. Linza’s class, I realize how serious he is about that. I reach down into my backpack to pull out my notebook, and when I raise back up again, there’s a card on my desk. I glance over at him, and Devon is staring up at the ceiling and twiddling his thumbs in a circular motion, his face a study in exaggerated innocence. I snicker, unable to help myself.
As Mrs. Linza goes over the parameters again for the upcoming book presentation, I open the card.
It’s a picture of a hamburger with a face drawn on it, and the eyes are hearts.
You’re the only bun for me, it says inside. Also tucked inside is a keychain in the shape of an onion.
I shoot him a sideways glance. “Now that’s more like it,” I say under my breath. He leans back in his seat, clearly pleased with himself. The rest of the class passes as I fiddle with my new keychain.
As soon as the bell rings, I am out of my seat and kissing him quickly. “I love it,” I say, and I mean it.
“It’s an onion ring,” he replies. “Get it?”
I hold it up, jingling it slightly. “Embrace your inner onion.”
“Enjoy your day,” he says with a mysterious smile.
Before I can ask him to elaborate, he’s off like a shot.
I settle into my desk in Astronomy class when Matt Lewandowski walks over and drops a wrapped package in front of me.
“Your boyfriend paid me ten bucks to deliver this,” he says unceremoniously before he walks away.
I stare at the box, hoping there’s nothing breakable in there and rip it open quickly before Ms. Marquette starts class.
The box is full of candy. Starbursts. Milky Way bars. Mars bars. Orbit gum. A Valentine sits on top of the pile—one of those ones you get a pack in elementary school. It has pictures of stars and planets on it and in bright pink bubblegum letters it says: Valentine, you are out of this world!
I set the box down next to my chair, but not before I snag a pack of Starbursts to snack on during class.
I practically jog to the cafeteria because I want to see Devon—and that’s a good thing, because I might as well apply his last gift directly to my ass. He’s seated in the far corner at a table draped in a red tablecloth. A vase with a single rose stands at the center, and there are plates and plastic wine glasses set upon it.
Everyone in the cafeteria is staring at me now, and I take in the venue with wide eyes.
“What have you done?”
“I wanted us to dine in style,” he says. He picks up a bottle. “Sparkling apple cider?”
He says that with an exaggerated British accent and it makes me laugh. Just like always. I slide into the chair across from him.
“You didn’t have anything catered?” I reach for my wine glass, making sure to elevate my pinky.
“I thought about it,” he confesses. “I couldn’t figure out how to keep the food warm all day. So we’ll eat their sub-par offerings, and pretend we’re slumming it with the commoners.”
“How very charitable of us.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
I glance over my shoulder toward the food line. “So what have they got today?”
“Vegetarian chili,” he says with disgust. “I’m sticking with the salad bar. I need to eat light—got a big meal coming later.”
“Yes, you do,” I agree. “Four courses, plus dessert.”
“Four courses?” His eyes widen with delight.
“Plus dessert.” I give him a wicked, sultry look. He returns it, and adds a wink.
“I’ll be thinking about that all day.”
“That’s my exact intention.” My voice turns husky, and full of promise.
The school’s chili isn’t bad, but I limit myself to a small salad. Like Devon says, I’ve got a big meal coming later. And a hot date. A bowl full of beans is not a stellar idea.
Third block begins, and I nod to Maya as I take my seat. Twenty minutes into class, there’s a knock at the door, and the Theater Arts club has arrived to deliver their singing telegrams.
I resist the urge to sink down in my chair as I wait, half in fear and half in excitement. My telegram is number three on their list. They break into a two-part harmony rendition of A Whole New World from Aladdin, surrounding my desk as my cheeks turn red and I stare at my metal onion.
As the song ends, one of them reaches behind their back and sets something on the desk in front of me. It’s a square of red carpet—one of the samples you would get if you are out carpet shopping. Painted on it in glittering gold letters is: Fly away with me!
This is getting entirely out of hand and I love it.
Pre-Calc is my final class of the day and not generally full of excitement, but today I’m looking forward to it. My steps are quicker as I walk down the hall, wondering what awaits me when I step through the door.
I have no idea who delivered this one. Whoever he paid off made their exit before I got to class. The bouquet stands at least two feet tall. Set in a heavy terra-cotta pot, there are large plastic spikes jammed down into the floral foam. Attached to each spike is a bag of snack food, arranged in a semicircle fan. Alternating bags of popcorn, and Fritos. There’s a card, and despite everyone in class looking at me, I can’t suppress the smile that splits my face as I open it.
Looking forward to more snack adventures, it says.
Me, too, Devon. Me, too.
After school, I run to the parking lot to meet him, setting the bouquet on the ground and then throwing myself into him, pinning him to the side of his car with my kiss. We have to break it off before a teacher intervenes, since it starts getting decidedly too enthusiastic for school property.
We make the drive home laughing and snacking on Fritos. He pulls up in front of the house, and leans in to kiss me.
“You sure I can’t come in and help?” he asks.
“This is my present to you,” I remind him. “You’ve been doing stuff for me all day. It’s my turn now, so no, you can’t help.”
“I can sit in the living room with Mojo. I won’t make any noise.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom is home.”
“I need to meet her anyway.”
“You will,” I assure him with a grimace. “But let’s do it later so it doesn’t cast a shadow over a dinner I’ve slaved a few hours to make.”
“You’ve got me terrified of her,” he replies. “You know that, right?”
“She’ll devour your soul, but she’s going to dinner with Dad tonight, so I get you all to myself for a while. I want to keep it that way.”
He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, okay. Six o’clock?”
I lean in and kiss him again. “Don’t be late.”
“Not by one millisecond,” he promises me.
At twenty minutes to six, I’m putting the dressing on the salad an
d the table looks spectacular, if I do say so myself. I got the best china out of the hutch—the stuff mom only uses for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The gold damask tablecloth matches the gold chargers set under each plate. I’ve even got Mom’s good Waterford crystal wine glasses, and the polished silver candlesticks she got as a hostess gift for some home party she threw a decade ago. There’s a mulled wine scented candle on the warmer, but you can’t really smell it right now over the garlic bread and chicken piccata, which is sheer perfection and very nearly done. The water for the pasta is almost boiling, my ungodly delicious tiramisu is chilling in the fridge, and I am ridiculously pleased with myself.
I set down the bottle of olive oil and balsamic vinegar salad dressing and reach for my phone as it vibrates. It’s Devon.
Hey babe
I’m so sorry
I have to cancel tonight
promise I’ll make it up to you
can’t get into it rn
call you later
I stare at the phone in shock for a good thirty seconds. I reread the message. Reread it again. He’s bagging out on me? On Valentine’s Day? What the hell!
what’s going on?
is everything okay?
are you okay?
He’d better have a bodily injury if he’s blowing me off tonight, of all nights. After all I’ve done here. I stare at the phone, waiting for his reply. A minute passes. Two minutes.
Screw it, I’m going to call him.
His phone rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail. I hang up.
I call again. Same thing.
I open up a FaceTime call, but it only rings and keeps ringing.
I text him again.
answer your phone
what’s going on
He doesn’t answer. I sit down at the table with my head in my hand, torn between being really pissed off that he stood me up on Valentine’s Day, and genuinely worried that he’s hurt, or in trouble. Then I go back to pissed again because, as usual, he won’t tell me a damn thing about what’s really going on in his life.
I try texting him one more time, repeating my previous question, and still, no answer.