by Sara Ney
“Sorry, sweetie.” She’s not sorry at all, because she looks at us both and sighs contently. “I’ll grab my coat and we can go.”
Caleb’s dad walks to the bottom of the stairwell, grabs the newel post, and shouts upstairs, “Guys! We’re leaving!”
Caleb groans again, and I look up at him. “What?”
“They invited everyone.”
I gulp. “Everyone?”
He nods. “Affirmative. Everyone.”
Oh boy.
~ Caleb ~
One by one, our friends and teammates walk through the heavy wooden doors of The Brewery, a local microbrewery and restaurant on the river, gathering in the hostess area. Collectively, there only ends up being eleven of us total, but given the size of half the people present, it might as well have been thirty.
Abby excuses herself to use the bathroom when we walk into the coat check area, and my parents use the opportunity to discreetly grill me as Blaze and Stephan excuse themselves to secure us a table. I shudder at the thought of having anyone else present when Mom pounces on me.
She is delirious with enthusiasm. “Caleb, she seems so sweet.”
Has it escaped anyone else’s notice that Mom has used the word ‘sweet’ at least three times in the last half hour? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Annoyed, I roll my eyes. “That’s because she is.”
“It didn’t take her long to get ready from the time you texted her to the time you picked her up. Punctual. I like that,” my dad says, taking a toothpick from the container on the hostess stand, unwrapping it, and sticking it between his bottom teeth.
He wiggles it around with his tongue, and it flops up and down as he watches me.
“That’s because she was at church and her hair was already done,” I point out.
My mom covers her heart with her right hand and whispers, “She goes to church?”
I cross my arms, and even though it’s disrespectful, I glare at my mother. “I swear to God, Mom, if you start tearing up, we’re leaving.”
My dad clamps a hand on my shoulder and leans in close. “Give your mom a break, bud.” He’s called me bud since I was little-ish. “We’ve never seen you with anyone. We know you’re not gay, but quite personally, I was really beginning to wonder. Not that it would matter.”
“I want grandbabies,” my mom announces.
Oh yeah.
Every college guy’s worst nightmare, and she went there.
“Mom!” I shush her, horrified. “Stop. Jesus, she could come back any minute and hear you.”
“Fine, I’ll behave.” My mom has the decency to look shamefaced. Sort of. Okay, not really. “I’m just so happy! My little boy finally likes a girl!”
~ Abby ~
After a lot of shuffling around, I end up sitting sandwiched between Jenna and Caleb, his mom and dad on one end of the table, Molly and Weston at the other, while Cubby, Stephan, Blaze and Shelby sit across from us.
It’s not long before the table is covered with appetizers—eight plates in all—and everyone is digging in, the waitress making her rounds and taking everyone’s dinner order.
So far, so good.
That is, until…
Yup. Someone is definitely rubbing their foot clumsily up and down my leg, the rubber sole of a running shoe digging into my calf. As the foot grazes my shin, I look up, immediately fixating my gaze on Caleb, who has his head bent, eyes moving across the menu, elbows resting on the table in front of him.
Nope, not him.
My brow furrows, and I arch my back to get a quick look under the table. “Cubby, are you playing footsie with me?” I ask as quietly as I can across the table and bite my lip nervously. He doesn’t hear me, so I ask again. “Psst. Cubby.” I glance over at Caleb anxiously. “Are you playing footsie with me?” I half-mouth and half-pantomime this last part.
“No! I’m playing footsie with her,” he replies at the top of his lungs, pointing at Jenna with his meaty middle finger.
My roommate laughs. “No, doofus, you have the wrong foot.”
Cubby looks under the table. “Whoops. Sorry.”
He certainly doesn’t look sorry.
“I want to play footsie!” Blaze teases, putting his arm around Shelby and planting a kiss on her blonde temple.
Molly chimes in, “I remember once, when Cecelia came to dinner at my parent’s house, Matthew tried playing footsie under the table with her but ended up rubbing my leg instead.” She takes a sip of water. “He was so embarrassed. To this day he still won’t admit it was him.”
“If he wouldn’t admit it was him, who does he say that it was?” Shelby wants to know.
Molly shrugs. “He just pretends it never happened. But I’m telling you, his foot was up my pant leg. I thought I was going to gag when I realized he had his shoe off. Cecelia was horrified. Of course, that was when they hated each other.”
“Didn’t take long for that train to derail,” Weston says with a laugh as the waitress comes to take our food order. She lingers over Weston, pen poised above her notepad, smiling down at him with stars in her eyes as he continues. “Two months later they’re shacking up. Who would have thought that douche canoe would be domesticated?”
I remember Cece texting that night, both horrified and delighted that Matthew was finally starting to put the moves on her. And, although my best friend wouldn’t admit it—not to herself or anyone else—she had already fallen for Molly’s brother at that point.
“So, Abby, tell us more about yourself,” Mrs. Lockhart—Wendy—says after closing her menu, ordering, then handing the menu to the waitress. “How did you and Caleb meet?”
I clear my throat, readjust the napkin on my lap, and clear my throat again. The waitress catches my eye from across the table and her brows raise. Is she waiting for my answer to Mrs. Lockhart’s question, or for my dinner order? I’m not quite sure.
“How did we meet?” I ask, glancing over at Caleb. He’s blushing too, and he’s staring holes into his napkin. Great. No help there. “We met, uh… How we met. Um.”
Rob Lockhart tilts his head and studies me as I struggle to string together a perfectly normal sentence, like a normal human being, and my palms begin to sweat. Profusely.
I mean, I can’t very well tell him I met his son when I climbed out the window of the neighboring fraternity house. He’ll think I’m a… a… slut. Or a puck bunny, or whatever it is they call those girls who chase hockey players for the popularity.
“They met when she climbed out the second story window of the shithole next door.”
At this pronouncement, all eyes go wide and everyone gapes at Blaze as he innocently pops a loaded tortilla chip from the appetizer platter into his mouth, chewing and gazing up at the ceiling.
Jenna swallows her water too hard and begins coughing. “Was.” Cough. “Not.” Cough. “Expecting.” Cough. “That.”
Wendy and Rob hesitate for a second, but then both start laughing. Maybe I’m being hypersensitive right now, because I’m not quite sure if it’s regular or laughter of the uneasy variety. The kind of fake laugh you push out when you’re hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.
Laughing, laughing, laughter.
Oh god. I’m hysterical. Someone slap me.
“Good one, Blaze,” Mr. Lockhart says with a chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corner. It’s not really a smile, but it’s good-humored.
Caleb stiffens beside me as Blaze winks at us, popping another chip into his mouth, watching me with those hooded green eyes as he chews. It’s unsettling and unguarded, but also hard with an underlying meaning, almost like he’s challenging me to tell the truth.
Wendy’s attention is back on me, her eyebrows now raised into her hairline as she waits patiently for an explanation. In fact, glancing around the table, I realize we now have the attention of our entire party. Our friends, who only moments earlier were ignoring us completely in favor of their own conversations, are now riveted to what I’m about to say.
>
Caleb beats me to it. “We met when Abby was walking by the house one Saturday morning. Then I bumped into her again that day at Wal-Mart, and we started talking.”
Thank you, God. Have I mentioned I’ve never liked him more than I do at this moment?
“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mrs. Lockhart asks, relief that maybe I’m not a hussy spreading across her features.
“That’s what she said,” Cubby cackles, slapping his palm against the tabletop.
“That’s what she said,” Shelby repeats, disgusted. “Why do you always say crap like that?” A sneer mars her pretty face.
Cubby snorts. “Der. Because I like it.” He throws a handful of salt packets at her. “Besides, Weston does it too.”
Molly nods. “Yup, he does.”
“That’s what she said is my all-time favorite.” Weston inhales a cheese curd, licking some ranch sauce off his thumb. “That, and pissing off her brother. Oh, and taco dip.”
Cubby smugly turns to Shelby. “See?”
Both Wendy and Rob ignore the bickering. “With these yahoos hanging around, I don’t blame Caleb for keeping you to himself. Although a text telling us about your existence would have been nice.”
Rob looks pointedly at his son but shoots me a grin.
“Not to mention a little reassurance to his folks that our boy here isn’t batting for the other team,” Blaze adds. “Swing batter, batter, swing!” Shelby elbows him in the gut. “Ouch, I’m kidding, like it matters. But trust me, he’s hetero. It doesn’t happen very often, but we’ve all seen Showtime getting his rocks off.”
Shelby nudges him again, the pointy end of her elbow digging into his ribcage.
“Shit, stop,” he says. “I’m kidding.” But the entire time he’s shaking his head and mouthing, I’m not kidding, to the rest of the table.
He’s kind of a dick, pardon my French, but kind of difficult to resist. Under the table, Caleb’s hand finds my knee and gives it a squeeze.
“It’s so nice to know Caleb has such a lovely new friend. He’s always been so shy and focused on sports. We’ve always worried he keeps too much to himself.” Wendy’s smile hasn’t left her face, and she directs her next comment to Caleb. “Honey, do you remember the last person you dated? Oh, what was her name… Sherri? Savannah…” She searches for a name.
“It was Sarah Schroeder,” Mr. Lockhart supplies with a chuckle.
Caleb’s face turns bright red. “How do you remember that? You know what. Never mind.” He looks at him mom, pleading. “Just please stop. That was in eighth grade.”
“Eighth grade, Showtime? Yeesh.” Blaze turns to me. “So do you see now why we wonder about his sexuals?”
Wendy doesn’t stop. “But sweetie, you were traumatized. Remember? When Daddy came to get you from that dance, he had to come inside just to coax you out of the bathroom stall.”
Caleb mumbles angrily under his breath, to the amusement of the entire table, about mean girls and harassment.
“What? Speak up, bud,” his dad says.
“I said I was not. Traumatized. Sarah and her friends were just… overly aggressive.”
Cubby shoots him a look of disdain, two plastic drinking straws dangling out of his mouth like a walrus. They flop around when he speaks. “An overly aggressive eighth grade girl? Is that even a thing?”
“They were pushy, okay?” Caleb practically shouts, crossing his ripped arms defensively over his muscular chest. He takes a few deeps breaths. “Whatever, I’m not going to argue.”
Everyone at the table laughs, and Cubby lets out a loud, obnoxious snort, straws still sticking out of his mouth.
“Cubby, could you just shut the fuc—” Caleb glances at me and his mom, clamping his lips shut and scowling. “Let’s just drop it.”
His mom wipes a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. “Oh, honey, you always were too serious for your own good.”
~ Caleb ~
So all things considered, that went well.
It could have been worse. My mom could have told the story about the time I started pee-wee hockey at the tender age of seven and used to cry during practice to the point where it was distracting for the other kids, and Coach had to hold my hand while I skated.
Oh shit. That’s right—she did tell that story.
Fucking. Hilarious.
She also told everyone about the time my childhood buddy Aaron thought it would be an awesome idea to bring ripped-out pages from his dad’s pervy catalog of Hot Naked Russian Teens to school and pass the pictures around on the bus. Of course, he didn’t get caught with them by the bus driver—I did. School called my parents, they thought I was a closeted, masturbating little freak, and in turn—because I was sensitive at that age—I didn’t talk to Aaron for three weeks after he let me take the blame.
Of course, Weston and Blaze spend the rest of dinner with my parents speaking and talking above everyone in these horrible fake Russian accents. Cubby, on the other hand, spends the remainder of dinner doing a made-up Swedish Meatball accent, sounding a lot like Chef from The Muppets—you know, since he’s such a freaking moron.
And apparently it was the funniest goddamn thing anyone has ever heard, because they were falling all over themselves laughing.
Then they laughed at me because I wasn’t. Laughing, that is.
Assholes.
I remove the hat from my head and give my hair a shake, running my fingers through it and tussling it before pulling the cap on backwards.
We’re standing in the shared driveway between the Kappa O and Omega houses, waving good-bye to my parents as they back down the drive, when Blaze turns to me and claps a hand down on my shoulder, saying, “I need a drink. Wanna hit the bars?”
I huff. “What the hell do you need a drink for? I’m the one who had to deal with your bullshit without losing my shit.”
Shelby laughs. “He’s got you there, Blaze. You and Cubby were really obnoxious.”
Cubby fans himself with his hand and bats his eyes. “Aw, I’m flattered.”
Blaze scoffs. “Whatever. Are you guys coming or not? We’ll go somewhere else, maybe to O’Malley’s. Lone Rangers is getting played out.”
I turn to Abby, who stands next to me, biting her pinky finger and looking up at me with wide eyes. “Up to you,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t care either way.”
Actually, I do care. I could give two shits about going downtown and spending my Sunday night in a crowded bar. I’d much rather spend some time alone with Abby since we haven’t had any. Every time we try to do something, we’re either ambushed or rudely interrupted.
And being alone in my room so she could take a pee during a house party doesn’t count. And dry humping in the bedroom of a rented cabin hardly counts, either.
Not really.
Shelby is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, grabbing Abby by the arm and whining, “Please! Please! You have to come with us!”
Once again, Abby caves. “Um, I mean. I don’t usually go to the bars on Sunday night, but… I guess it’s okay to make an exception?”
Shelby claps with glee, looking Abby up and down. “Yay! Why don’t you run home and change quick and we’ll meet you out in a half hour. Mkay?”
Abby looks down at the front of her feminine gray sweater. I can read her mind as she furrows her brow and glances back up at me with bright red cheeks and her lips part in a surprised ‘O.’ What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?
Nothing. Nothing is wrong with what you’re wearing, I want to say. Shelby is kind of being a bitch.
“Maybe we should just stay home,” I suggest with a hopeful voice.
“No! No. That’s okay. I’ll just go home, and, uh… change. Then we’ll go.”
“Are you sure?” I ask her.
“Really, it’s fine.”
“She said it’s fine, Showtime. Why are you being weird about it? Get your shit together and let’s go.” Weston smacks me hard on the ass and shouts, “HeYaw!
”
And just like that, we’re back at Abby’s house and I’m leaning against her kitchen counter, waiting for her to change—yes, change—even though I told her countless times on the walk over that she looks great and not to kowtow to Shelby.
It’s the most words I’ve said to her all afternoon.
“First of all, what’s kowtowing?” she’d asking, laughing at me. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Whatever it is, I’m not doing it. I’m just… changing out of my sweater.”
Abby emerges from her bedroom a few minutes later, looking cuter than she did when she went in. My breath hitches, because man, is she adorable or what?
Propping a hand on one denim-clad hip and chewing slowly on salted caramel I found on the counter and popped into my mouth, I take her in from head to toe, not missing a single detail. Having changed out of her boot-cut jeans and into dark skinny jeans, Abby stands in the doorway of the kitchen, fingering the thin silver belt threaded through the belt loops and knotted on the end. It hangs jauntily off to the side, emphasizing her slim waist and long legs. The hem of her tight white V-neck tee is neatly tucked into the waistband, and naturally, my eyes land on her boobs.
I mean, shit. I did just mention it was a tight shirt, right? Hey, I might be a socially awkward bastard, but I’m still a guy, and I haven’t gotten laid in…
Never mind. That’s not anyone’s damn business.
She is still wearing her hair down and has the silky strands pulled over one shoulder.
Abby is classy, understated, and sexy.
And smart.
And clever.
And sweet. Well, except in the instance where she was climbing out the second story window of a seedy fraternity house, then getting pissed at me for helping her not die—but that’s hardly my point…
My parents loved her. I know this because my mom hasn’t stopped text-bombing me to drill in the point.
Mom: Abby is a doll.
Mom: Make sure you act like a gentleman. Hold her doors open. And tell her how nice she looks. She’s so pretty.
Mom: Talk. Don’t just mumble.
Me: Mom. Stop.