Before I’ve even been inside the house for a whole give seconds, Al greets me from his armchair with a "Hey, kid, grab me a beer from the fridge, will ya?" Normally I'd tell him to get off his fat ass and get it himself. Tonight I oblige, and grab myself a Pabst plus my half-empty bottle of whiskey. Yes, when it comes to alcohol, everything is half empty, not half full. I'm pretty sure Al would agree with me.
"The Big Bang Theory?" I ask passing him his beer and sitting on the thirty-year-old sofa.
"Yeah, it's funny as shit. You ever see it?" He takes a massive gulp.
"No but the Rams game is about to start," I tell him so he flips the channel. I lean my head back and the thoughts of Amelia start to trickle in just as Jules Sanchez starts singing the National Anthem.
I wonder what Amelia’s doing right now. Her car was picked up yesterday, and I made damn sure I was on my lunch break when it was picked up. I told Roger to make the job a priority and bill it all to me. I’m lucky he’s such a great guy. He even agreed to let me work it off by taking on more hours.
Knowing that my little, masochistic, head-game has started, I chug my beer and get another. When I sit back down, Al is shouting and throwing cans at the TV because the Baltimore Ravens already scored a touchdown. Just another night at the Bartlett household. I keep downing beers and taking shots because Amelia does that to me. She lingers in my thoughts all night. I don't think I've ever felt so sorry in all my life. When I close my eyes I see her doll face crying. Screw it. That thought alone warrants the rest of the bottle.
The last thing I remember is finishing the bottle. I don't wake up until 10:30 am the next morning.
12
–– Amelia ––
The bells on the door jingle and I’m hit with that familiar smell of dust and old furniture. I sigh with relief. I’ve only been gone for a week, but I've missed this place. I finally talked Mom and Dad into letting me start up work again. I'm healing really well and quickly, which the doctor said to expect since I’m young and healthy.
I got grilled with questions when we got home from the hospital, all of which were about Todd. I made up lies for all of it, and then the other day, when they asked where he has been, I lied again. I told them he was on vacation for a week or so. Camping in Montana without cell service. They believed me.
They also believed that whenever I cried the first day (okay, okay, the second day too...and a little on the third) it was just because I was in pain. Todd hasn't bothered to come by the studio to see how I am. I know that because I've asked Mr. Frank almost every day when I called to tell him I wouldn't be coming in. I'm an idiot for wanting him to care. I'm an idiot for believing that he even might care. Of course he doesn't care about me. Why would he? We've talked all of four times, and we argued every single time. We don't get along--heck--I don't even like him. So why do I care so much? He's nobody to me. I rest my head on my arms on the counter. I feel the familiar tingle in my eyes from getting so frustrated with him, and with myself for letting him get to me like this. I know I have to come clean and tell my parents the truth. I'm just not ready yet.
The other part of me feels insanely guilty for whacking Todd. His face had turned completely white and he’d immediately started to sweat. I thought he was going to puke from the pain. I'll never forget that look on his face. I never meant to cause him actual, deep physical pain. I just wanted him to stop acting like a pervert. I've never had anyone's thing practically touching me. I haven't even seen anyone's thing. The experience was horrifying enough, and then he goes and tells me that I'm the one that had that effect on him. I freaked out. I've never made any guy get a boner. I mean, how is that even possible? I wasn't even touching him like that. These thoughts have been parading around me and consuming me for the last week. I feel angry toward him, but also guilty, then sad, then angry again. He hates me. I can't decide if I hate him or if I truly feel guilty for hurting him. I also felt turned on which adds a whole other layer to the equation.
After an hour of staring at the wall of photos in front of me, the door bells jingle. My mouth falls open. It's him.
13
–– Todd ––
I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I am, and the look on her face tells me I definitely should be. I shove my hands in my pockets, and look at her for a minute longer, trying to figure out what to say. The entire three-mile walk here, I practiced how I was going to apologize, but the second I look up at her scowl it all flies out the window. She's pissed, and clearly not ready to forgive. Maybe it's too soon. I cross over the threshold, and wipe my feet on the ratty old mat even though my feet aren't wet.
"Um–"
"Where on earth have you been?" She hisses at me. "You do realize that my parents think we're dating, right? Our agreement?"
My eyebrows pinch together in confusion. I completely forgot about our agreement.
"That’s what you're pissed about? Our fake dating agreement?" I ask, genuinely in shock.
"Yes! You've been M.I.A. for a week! I had to tell my parents you were camping in Montana and didn't have cell phone service. I mean, I'm also mad at you for being so freaking rude at the hospital. I was trying to help you, and you were being a pervert!" Her hands are bracing against the counter like if she doesn't hold on she'll walk around and hit me again.
"You fucking hit my cracked ribs!"
She instantly calms down and relaxes her grip on the counter. Her entire body caves inward; the exact opposite of her previous stance. I was expecting much more of a fight.
"Look, I am really sorry for hurting you. Honestly, I have been feeling guilty about it all week. I know we don't get along, but still, we had our agreement, and I didn't know what to tell my parents, so I lied. I'm sorry about that too." She looks down at the counter. I honest to God did not expect an apology out of her. The fact that she's been feeling guilty all week makes me feel even worse. I walk until I'm standing right across the check-out counter from her, and I look straight into her watery eyes.
"Amelia, I am so sorry for saying those thing to you, and talking to you like I did. For that, I deserved to be hit. As for the other thing...my–um–uh," I fake cough, "boner, I–it just–uh, um. I didn’t do that on purpose. It’s kinda got a mind of its own sometimes, but I'm really sorry I made you uncomfortable." I scratch the back of my head out of nervousness, and take a quick glance at her bright red face. I can feel the heat on my own face. I can't remember the last time I blushed. It’s obvious this is extremely awkward for both of us. I've never had to explain my boner to anyone, much less an innocent virgin who's probably never seen a dick. "I'm not going to lie and say that I'm a complete gentleman. I play the field, and pretty much only do one-night stands or casual sex. I don't know how to date, and I never know the right thing to say. So, I can't promise I'll be the best fake boyfriend."
She leans back in surprise. "Wait...you don't hate me? You're still in on our agreement?"
"No, I don't hate you. I thought you hated me. And yeah, I'll go along with the agreement if you still want me to, but like I said, I'm not good at that kind of stuff," I admit. I shrug my shoulders and look at her. "It's your call, Sweet Cheeks."
14
–– Amelia ––
I stare at him standing on the entrance mats with his thumbs hanging on the back pocket of his jeans. I can't believe he came here to apologize. A part of me really didn't think I would ever see him again.
He’s wearing his usual leather jacket over an open flannel shirt and plain black t-shirt. His golden hair is getting a little curl at the end. I wonder if he's growing it out. Then my eyes move back down his body and I can’t help but notice that his dark jeans hug him in all the right places.
"Hey, Sweet Cheeks, my eyes are up here," he states with a cocky grin, interrupting my thoughts. If he's trying to drive me nuts again, it's working. I turn bright pink, and jump straight to defending myself.
"No, no, that's not what I was–I was just–looking–I mean, I was just thin
king about things. Everything that’s happening right now." I take a deep breath and try to calm down my nerves. I wasn't even having dirty thoughts about him (yet), and he had already called me out about it. He's such an arrogant asshole. I sit down on the barstool and lean my elbows on the counter, deep in thought.
Do I really want to pretend to date Todd Bartlett: slut and new-found enemy? Should I just come clean, and tell my parents I lied? Is it really worth all this trouble just to prove to my parents that I am capable of dating anyone I want, whenever I want?
"Time’s-a-tickin'," he warns me.
"Shut up. I'm thinking." I place my hands in a fist under my chin.
"Nobody has ever taken anywhere close to this long to think about whether or not they want to be with me," he brags impatiently. "You were the one that was pissed at me for–"
"If you stop talking, I'll be able to think easier." I glance at him, and he raises his eyebrows unamused. He turns slightly to look at some portrait on the wall. He seems so rough on the exterior––a leather-clad, motorcycle riding ladies’ man––but just looking at him in the low light while he nonchalantly looks at a photo, he seems so completely unintimidating. Sweet, almost. Almost. "Okay," I say without even realizing it. He turns to look at me again. I nod my head. "Let's do it. Might as well. My parents already think we're dating so we might as well keep going with it," I say cooly.
He nods and walks toward the counter. "Okay, so how does it work?" He leans his hip into the counter, and rests his chin on his elbow. His fingers find the strap to my camera, and he starts to play with it, running it through his fingers. His hands are wide and look like they're permanently a grayish color from all the oil he deals with, working on cars all day. The wrinkles and recesses are more defined because of the stains. His fingernails are short, but I can tell that the tiny spaces where there is room between his nail and finger is dirt or more perma-grease. I should be grossed out, but I'm sort of intrigued. He has beautiful working hands. I want to photograph them. "Amelia?"
"Hmm?" I tear my eyes away from his rough hands, and look up at his caramel colored eyes.
"How does it work?" He repeats himself, almost timidly.
"Oh. Um, it's not as hard as some people think, but more complicated than some people think at the same time. Half is technical and half is having an eye for composition." I take my camera, and he lets go of the strap. "Here, let me see..." I look around for something soft or delicate for him to hold. The only thing I can find is my lace scarf so I pull it off from around my neck.
"Uh, Amelia, what are you doing?" He asks genuinely confused.
"Here," I pull one side of the scarf tight around one of his hands. "Squeeze it tight enough so I can see the muscle in your hand. Perfect, just like that. Then take this scarf, and open it, let the lace linger down and flow through your fingers a little like your letting it rest delicately in your hand, just keep it relaxed," I instruct him.
He's an excellent model because he does exactly as I say. I move his hands a little closer, feeling a buzz of excitement. Whether it's from touching his warm masculine hands or from getting ready to take an awesome photo, I'm not sure. I adjust the camera's ISO, and make sure it's in focus. I lean down slightly, and snap a photo of his hands splaying perfectly in the middle of my frame. I stand up on my tip-toes, and take a shot from up above. I take another from each side, and after about ten photos, I'm almost positive I have something good.
"You can relax now, I think I got it." I set my camera down next to us, where it was before. I look up at his face, and he looks stunned like he has no idea what just happened. I can't help but giggle a little. "Sorry, I took over your hands and made them my model. I guess that's sort of how it works. You see something that inspires you, and you go for it." I shrug my shoulders. I look up at him only to find him staring at me with intrigue, and amusement dancing in his eyes. He's wearing a half grin, and if I don't figure out what he's thinking at this exact moment I feel like I'll always be left wondering.
"You see something that inspires you, and you just go for it? I can see how that makes sense when it comes to dating," he concludes. My eyebrows turn inward in utter confusion.
"What do you mean dating?"
"I asked you how it works. How dating works. And then you got all weird with your camera and my hands. I get it though now. I guess I've just never been inspired enough to ask anyone to date me," he explains casually while his eyes scope out the details of the messy counter: the dusty cash register, the three pairs of scissors lying around, the heaps of old newspaper, a scratched magnifying glass, a framed dollar bill and a million other things. Thankfully, he's too busy looking around the counter area to notice my cheeks heating up because of our miscommunication.
"I meant that's how photography works. Um, I wasn't talking about dating. The hand thing was just because I was drawn to your hands," I admit.
He smiles and lets out a small quiet chuckle. "Most women are."
I roll my eyes. "Oh, please."
"Just speaking the truth. Now tell me how dating works. What do I have to do? What's expected of me? What do boyfriends do?" His thumbs are back in his jean pockets which I'm starting to notice is a tell of nervousness.
"Oh, um..." It's not until I'm about to answer that I realize I don't really know what boyfriends do either. "Um, they...open doors on dates and..."
"You don't know either, do you?" He catches my awkward attempt at explaining, and I deflate.
"No, not really," I admit. He chuckles.
"We're already a great pair," he casually jokes. "Let's start with how things are in the movies. I pay for dates, that's a given. I open doors, apparently."
I nod my head and grin. The fact that he's truly trying makes my insides warm, so I decide to pitch in. "You surprise me with flowers or chocolate chip cookies. You text me before I go to bed at night, and when you wake up in the morning."
"Okay, now you're just making things up. My sister is the only person on the planet I text more than twice a day if we even text that day. And I don't bake chocolate chip cookies. What's next?" He crosses his arms, but remains leaning on the counter with his torso facing sideways.
"Beat people up who hit on me, and come to Sunday dinners," I spew out quickly.
"I–do what? I'm sorry––what's this about hitting people? And Sunday dinner? Like with your judgmental parents? Every week?" His eyes open wide in disbelief.
"Yeah, Todd, we're fake dating to make a point to my parents. For the plan to work, they need to see us together," I remind him.
He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "How long is this charade going to last?"
"Three weeks?" I ask, already knowing before I get the suggestion out that he’s going to flip out at the answer.
"Three weeks?!"
Called it.
"They have to know I'm serious. Plus on days when we don't have anything planned we don't have to see or talk to each other," I reason with him.
"Anything planned? Like dates? How many of these outings are we going to have in this three week span? I'm a twenty-two year old auto mechanic. I'm not exactly made of money to be taking you on dates every day." He rushes the last part out, and I can tell a part of him is embarrassed that he had to admit that he doesn't have a lot of money. I wish he knew it's not something I care about.
"We don't have to go out every day, and we don't have to spend money on every date. What if we do, like, three dates a week? Maybe for one of them we can actually go out, like a date-date. And then for another, we can go somewhere without spending money. And if we count Sunday dinner with my family, that’s three. Our third Sunday dinner can be our last date."
He pauses to take this into consideration. "Three dates a week? That still seems like a lot. And the other days we...what?"
"We just live our lives. We don't even have to talk to each other if we don't want to. I do need your number though." I reach for my purse, and begin to dig through it.
"Oh, yeah, okay."
He pulls his cell out of his leather jacket pocket. "When does this whole fake dating scheme start?" He fumbles through his phone, and I can feel him stare at me while I'm still digging through my purse. "Oh no. You're on of those girls, aren't you?" He asks me with a hint of horror in his voice.
I stop digging momentarily to look at him and ask, "What do you mean one of those girls?" I ask mimicking his disdainful tone.
"One of those girls that can't ever find anything in their purse."
"No," I pout. As soon as I feel the shiny rectangle I yell, "Aha! Got it. See? I found it." I smile smugly but he looks skeptical. "Here, put your number in my phone." He grabs it and his fingers linger on mine for a nanosecond, but just long enough to confirm that I like it when he touches me. It makes me take in a deep breath.
After we exchange numbers he tells me, "I have to go to work. I haven't been able to put in a lot of hours this past week, and now I also have to work off a massive bill so I'll be at the shop a lot. Haven't been able to ride my bike yet either because of my ribs, so I've been walking everywhere."
My jaw drops. “Walking? This city was not made for walking, and the bus system is a joke. My dad picked up my car yesterday. I don't know how you managed to have it all done in a week, but thank you. Seriously, Todd, thank you." I don’t want to tell him quite yet that I ended up buying a new-to-me car, and we’re keeping the repaired one for Josh.
"Yeah," he says uncomfortably. "Let's not talk about your car anymore."
"Hey, take my car to work, and then when I'm off you can come pick me up and we can go on our first date."
He grins at me. "You trust me to take your car after all this bullshit?"
I nod. "Yeah. Honestly, I never even thought about it. Just don't forget to actually pick me up after."
Wrong Place, Right Time Page 6