One more deep breath is all I allow myself, and as if I’ve been shoved while rushing the stage at a BTS show, my feet stumble their way forward. I catch the short smirk that lifts the right side of Caleb’s mouth as he sees me trip over my own size nines. Undeterred, I push ahead. The old me would have gone flush, then gone home. New me focuses on the butterflies in my tummy. That curve his mouth makes is so damn cute; parenthesis spread from cheek to cheek.
I’ve gone into my mental zone where every sound around me is muted. It’s a trick I’ve always used for test taking and started deploying it to my little social dares. Locked in, I brush the shoulder of a girl as I enter a circle of cool kids I would have run away from two weeks ago. These are the students at Woodcrest High who get all the attention—the girls who wear all the best clothes, who start trends and change them on whims. And the boys everyone pounds fists with in the hallways, the ones who make out with a different girl every week. Caleb doesn’t do that, though. He’s faithful. His lips have only been on Abby Summerland’s for the last three years.
Until two weeks ago.
When they broke up.
And I got a fortune cookie.
Caleb’s mouth straightens out as I near his personal space. Two seconds separate my now from a carefully plotted after. Less than two seconds. A breath--
And suddenly, Abby.
“Excuse me.” The words sound indifferent as they slip from my mouth, and I’m not even sure I said them aloud. My body moves past Caleb, along with my gaze, and I’m momentarily drunk on the richness of his Gucci scent. His hand brushes back the dark blond hair that’s fallen over his right eye, and I’m pretty sure I caught a glimpse of his arched and curious brow as I promenaded through the middle of the It crowd as if they were ghosts who were merely in my way.
What am I doing?
My feet are on autopilot, eyes acting as radars, scanning the darkened room around me, ruling out the row of chairs against the wall and the exit to the right. Sound starts to break through my muted barrier, and my pulse begins to race as the panic seeps in. I’m failing. This was a fail. Abby is here with him, which means … well, who knows what that means really. It’s too late to stick to the plan. I need a new plan. I need to turn left.
With a quick change of direction it takes my eyes a single blink to spot a haven. He’s new and in my third hour as of Monday. I think his name is Devin, or maybe it’s Kevin. It rhymes with heaven, that much I’m certain of, which is maybe why my brain and eyes are in cahoots right now in deciding to carry my body right into his. My hands fall into line next, one meeting the right side of his jaw, which is warm and unshaven. My left presses against the other side of his face, taking in his green and so very wide eyes.
He’s shocked.
Hell, I’m shocked!
This is freaking shocking!
My eyes close but his don’t, and I bet they aren’t going to. It’s just a hunch. I’m doing this. My toes lift me up, my chin raises and my hands pull his face toward mine until my lips part and take in the soft warmth of his mouth.
“I’m so sorry.” This, of course, is only being said in my head. He can’t hear it. All he hears is the pounding in my chest and the puff of air that just left my nose as all breath was knocked out of my lungs. I’d breathe through my mouth, but it’s busy kissing a boy whose name I just threw a mental dart at.
This plan has gone off the rails.
This is certain death.
But Devin Kevin sent from Heaven…he’s kissing me back.
TWO
I’M NOT REALLY a runner. I’m the girl that speed-walked the mile in freshman PE just to come in under the ten-minute mark so I could maintain straight A’s. But last night, when my heels came back down to earth and my eyes opened on the stunned—and probably traumatized—gaze of Devin Kevin, I busted out of that gym laying down times that would probably turn heads at the NFL combine.
I was too embarrassed to rehash every misstep with Shay when she showed up at my house a full thirty minutes later. Refusing to unravel myself from my favorite quilt, which I’d wrapped myself in like a burrito, I pretended to sleep long before I actually did. Shay knew I was faking, but she eventually gave up, or grew bored of trying and popped in her AirPods and drifted off for real.
It was naïve to think that burrito thing would work forever. When my eyes finally popped open the next day, Shay was waiting, and I’ve been trying to worm my face back into the cool sheets ever since.
“Did he like … talk?” This is the hundredth question she’s asked in the last four minutes.
“Gahhhh!” All I’ve been able to respond with are grunts and muffled groans.
She tugs at the corner of the blanket, exposing my eye. I strain my sight upward to watch as she runs the tip of her index finger along my eyebrow. She grimaces when my eye meets hers.
“Your brow was a little cray-cray.” She shrugs, and I purposely snake my hand up my body to mess it back up.
“I liked it that way.” I scowl with one screwed-up eye so she can see just how serious I am. I’m just being difficult, and the longer I stare at my best friend, the more my guard—and quilt tortilla—break down and I start to see how absurd all of this is. I snort out a tiny laugh that ignites a real one from Shay, and soon we’re both rolling with laughter and sliding until both of our heads fall backward off the end of my bed.
“Do you think he’s British?” Shay asks.
I bunch my face at her question. Her golden hair is knotted as it hangs from her head, and the green eye shadow she wore last night has bled toward both temples. It’s stark against her pale, freckled skin.
“I can honestly say that hasn’t crossed my mind since I did what I did.”
“Since you kissed a stranger, you mean?” Shay is loving this. She’s always wanted me to color outside my lines. I’d say last night was akin to scribbling.
“Yeah, since I kissed a stranger. But why would he be British?”
I roll my head to the right, the rush of blood making the room tilt as my own tangles cascade across my eyes. I blow my field of vision clear.
“His hair is red … like Prince Harry.”
My lips pucker with repressed laughter.
“I don’t think you can call Harry a prince anymore,” I say, as if that’s the biggest flaw in her logic.
“Oh, he’s still a prince. I mean … ” Shay folds both of her hands over her heart and sighs.
I’m about to join her when a rapid knock against my half-opened bedroom door sends my feet over my head into a full somersault. I stick the landing but flop forward, dizzy from the maneuver.
“There’s a boy here, Frankie.” My dad is holding a bowl while he stabs at whatever is inside with a wooden fork.
“There’s a boy here, Frankie.” Shay’s voice trails off with her teasing tone. My dad glares at her, unamused. When he leaves the room, I scowl next.
“Wait here,” I order.
“Not a chance.”
I figured it was a long shot.
Scurrying around my room, I find a questionably clean Harvard sweatshirt on the floor that I dive into to cover up the thin T-shirt I sleep in. It’s so long that it covers my sleep shorts, making it look as if it’s all I have on,--something I don’t realize until I’m two steps down the stairs with my friend trailing me closely.
His shoes come into view first. Vans, plain … white. Classic. I like classic.
A half-hearted rolled jeans cuff circles his sockless ankle, and the slim fit crawls up a pair of long legs. Up until this point I’ve convinced myself that these jeans, and the legs within, could be anyone. But when my eyes take in the emblem on the navy blue sweatshirt, I pause, just before I’m able to see his face. Shay crashes into my shoulder blades, and we both shout “Ouch!”
We’re wearing the same damn sweatshirt!
“What is it?” Shay’s whisper is hardly a whisper at all. It’s one of her flaws, and the reason she’s terrible with secrets. Her whisper betrays her
every single time.
I swallow hard as the boy breathing about ten steps below me bends forward. A set of vivid green eyes and a wry smile greet me from underneath the angled first half of our stairs.
“Nice shirt.” He tugs his out from the center of his chest, as if I need the visual.
“You, too.” Shay laughs at my answer and I swing my elbow back, tagging her boob.
She whispers “Ouch” again; we all hear it.
A few awkward seconds pass and eventually my friend worms her way around me. My feet are suctioned in place, and all I can think about is how crazy-ass wild my eyebrows probably are right now.
“You don’t have an accent.” My friend stops in front of my mystery kisser, arms folded over her chest as she levels her pointless accusation. Somehow, she found the time to put on her glasses and twist her blonde hair up into a cute knot on top of her head. And she’s in pants! Where did she find pants?
“I do not…unless you count Arizonan as one?” His right brow arches as his mouth tightens. The movement of his face draws my focus to his jawline, and I robotically begin to curl my hands at my sides from the memory of how that jaw felt.
“Hardly,” Shay huffs.
Her exaggerated disappointment must amuse him. He laughs, and it’s warm and raspy. I’m starting to get really hot in this stupid sweatshirt, but I don’t dare take it off.
“Sorry, we thought you were an exchange student.” I screw up my mouth and scrunch my eyes, wishing I didn’t lump myself in with Shay’s lame reasoning and assessment.
“Because I have red hair?” His furrowed brow begs for my response. I nod briefly, and my cheeks burn amber.
“Haha, that’s funny. There are redheads in America. Like…some of us are born here.” His eyes kind of dance when he talks, and he chews at his lip like he’s rethinking the words he just said. His tall body bounces where he stands as he pushes his hands deep into his pockets and looks down at his feet.
He’s adorable. And he’s nervous.
“I’m Frankie,” I begin, reaching my hand forward and forgetting move my feet. I’m reminded by the sloppy tumble I take down the steps, switching my outstretched palm for a full, double-fisted superhero dive. I’m caught in a pair of very warm—very strong—arms before I face plant. My nose is close enough to soak in the faint dash of cologne he bothered to splash on for this unannounced visit. The smell of wood and honey lulls me under a temporary spell, breaking the second I feel his index finger flatten out my disheveled eyebrow. Correction…eyebrows. He does them both.
Shay snorts out a laugh. I give her a sideways glance.
“Nice to meet you, formally, Frankie.” His left hand is still cupping my shoulder as I steady my feet and find my balance. The fingers on his right hand hover clumsily near my face, as if he’s searching for more things to straighten out like he did my eyebrows.
“Hudson,” he blurts out. The two syllables are so short that they blast by my ears. I don’t register his name at first, not until I’m tugging down my sweatshirt while searching for something clever to say to make him stick around. I might have missed it all together and gone on with my Devin Kevin Heaven rhyme if my dad—whose bowl mixing has not been out of earshot since he came to my room—didn’t invite himself into the conversation.
“Hudson, nice to meet you. I’m Frankie’s dad, Mike. Retired PD. You new ’round here?” My dad continues to mix vigorously, even as Hudson—that’s not even close to Devin or Kevin, by the way—reaches out to shake his hand. He waits a full five seconds before dropping the spoon in the bowl, matching Hudson’s grip with a flexed forearm, showing his PD tattoo.
“My dad’s about to retire from the force back home. It’s just my mom and me here right now, but when he’s done next month, he’ll sell the house and join us.”
I can practically taste the love affair as it unfolds before me. Mystery Hudson has quickly shot up to my dad’s top prospect slot for suitors. If he drops a few stats about Pacers basketball or Ball State University, I’m as good as betrothed.
“What’s his department?” my dad asks, handing me the bowl. The mixture is soupy, so I carry it to the kitchen to add more pancake powder. I need to busy myself while I eavesdrop and freak out over the fact that this is all literally happening right now.
“Arizona State Troopers. He put in twenty-four years, only got shot once.” My eyes flutter closed. My dad’s been shot twice. He’s going to brag.
“That it, huh?” I don’t even have to turn around to picture the tilt of my dad’s mustache that marks his braggart grin. Mike Torres doesn’t miss an opportunity to show off the scar tissue on each bicep. Double Guns—that’s what the guys at the department called him. Six years working undercover gave him those scars.
“Lord graced you twice, huh?” Hudson says.
I glance over my shoulder just in time to see my dad’s gaze fall to the bigger wound of the two. Hudson’s words just resonated with him; I can tell by the slow breath he draws in through his nose as he lets his mouth relax its smile.
“You like pancakes, Hudson?” My dad’s instant invite sends my best friend’s elbow into my ribs and way too much pancake mix into the bowl. I pour more water in and continue mixing as everyone crowds into the kitchen. My mom is gardening at the side of the house, her Saturday morning ritual, and I kind of hope she somehow misses this entire thing, because at this point one more person in my present situation will send me running. My wish is too late, though, and before anyone can make introductions, my mom slaps her gardening glove at my thigh and manages to find a way to make this stressful moment even more embarrassing.
“Frankie! Put some damn pants on!”
My mouth sours, the insides of my cheeks twitching as my salivary glands work overtime to drown me where I stand. My hands are shaking so much that I have no choice but to put the bowl down. I turn away from Hudson and tug down my sweatshirt on my way around the corner, defending myself a little before I go.
“I have shorts on, you just can’t see them. I wasn’t expecting company!” The silence left in my wake said a lot. I sounded crazy. I am crazy! I did a crazy thing, and now I must face the consequences. Of course, so far the consequence is a rather cute boy with strawberry hair and emerald eyes and a smile that might actually be better than the one I’ve had a crush on my entire life.
I dash up the stairs and grab black leggings from my drawer, slipping my shorts off and the more modest bottoms on as I hop out my door. The sound of Hudson’s laugh—that raspy one that hits me dead center in the chest—echoes around the corner and up the last few steps before I’m in front of my jury again. I pause to let myself breathe in deep, and with a clearer head, I rejoin the others and take the spatula over from my mom, ignoring the suspicious grin and squinted eyes on her face. It’s the same expression I make when I’m sure I’m right. My mom and I are nearly twins, just twenty-five years apart.
“So, if you aren’t an exchange student, where are you living?” I’m proud of myself for getting a reasonable question out of my mouth. I glance up mid pancake flip and catch his crooked smile. His dimples are delicious. I’m starting to think that might be my biggest weakness.
“We’re staying with my aunt and cousin for now. They’re just on the other side of Main, near the elementary. My cousin actually gave me your address. I borrowed his car.” Hudson barely finishes speaking before Shay casually excuses herself to move toward the front room so she can peer out the window. Meanwhile, I try to focus on not burning the hotcakes while my eyes squint and my mouth puckers. It’s a slight variation on the I-know-I’m-right look—the one I wear when I secretly hope like hell I’m wrong.
“It’s a great Mustang, isn’t it?” Shay drops the hint so she doesn’t have to come right out and say it. That’s Caleb’s car. Caleb Walsh—the boy I was supposed to ask to dance last night. I don’t want to lift my chin but I force myself to, sliding two cakes onto a plate and handing it across the island to Hudson.
Hudson Walsh,
I presume.
Hudson Walsh, and his freaking magnetic—and apparently genetic—dimples.
THREE
BREAKFAST WAS AWKWARD. Actually, wait—I take that back. It was awkward for me. For everyone else that sat around our kitchen table, it was highly enjoyable. My dad pulled out his favorite stories from his time undercover, and my mom gave Hudson a tour of her vegetable garden while Shay and I rinsed dishes. Mom even sent him home with a bag of her homegrown tomatoes.
My best friend kept telling me this was kismet, which made me regret teaching her the definition last week when she questioned my use of it in Words With Friends.
Kismet. Fate. Fortune cookies.
I was still mulling over her theory when Hudson said his goodbyes. That’s probably why I agreed to this date so quickly. I don’t even really remember him asking, and I’m not sure where we’re going. But I said yes, and Shay won’t clue me in on the destination I flaked on hearing. She says it’s better I don’t know, so I can “feel how kismet this all is.”
I told her she wasn’t using the word quite right, to which she relied … yeah—“kismet!” The only clue she let me have was that I needed to be comfortable, which doesn’t narrow things down much. I settled on my dad’s old Ball State fraternity shirt and my favorite cropped jeans with a pair of Vans, my shoe choice admittedly influenced by the ones Hudson wore the day before.
The visual of Caleb’s Mustang rounding the corner and heading down my street is perfect irony. As it slows to a crawl right at the end of my driveway, I remind myself that it’s not Caleb in the driver’s seat. I’ve watched this car peel out of our high school lot with Abby in the passenger side so many times, and I’ve sat on the steps of my porch and imagined it pulling up to my house just as it is now.
Hudson steps from the driver’s side and jogs around the front of the car to open my door for me before I can reach the handle. It’s sweet. I blush a little when he kicks the toe of his white Vans into the rubber edge of mine.
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