“So, quickly,” Nick says, swallowing, “before I decide I don’t want to do any work whatsoever tonight, where are we at with the furniture orders and delivery? The floors will be ready Friday.”
I swallow and wipe the crumbs from my mouth. “Well, I emailed Sam a bunch of links. As soon as she chooses, which she promised would be tomorrow since our deadline is creeping up on us, I can get the furniture ordered. The only issue is, delivery will likely be a week from then, give or take. So, I think we should go to Benton on Saturday and pick out the accents, like the rugs and wall pieces—essentially make it a mall day so we can get started on at least part of it. What do you think?”
“Other than I hate shopping?”
I nod.
“Sounds like a plan.” A pickle drops from his burger and he pops it into his mouth. “Anything else?”
Breaking off a wayward piece of bacon, I take a bite, then wipe up his pickle splatter with my napkin. I can’t help it, and when I feel his eyes on me, I look at him sheepishly. “Um, no, I don’t think so. Not right now. I figure once the hard stuff is decided, we can worry about putting the portfolio together. That won’t take much time, and I could really use this in-between-time to study for my GRE.”
“How’s that going, by the way?”
I shrug. “Slow going, but that’s expected. I just wish I wasn’t so stressed out about it.”
“I can see why you would be,” Nick says, balling up his wrapper and dropping it into the bag. Jesse watches him, though he’s still working on his burger, falling to pieces in his hands. “It’s a big deal.”
“It’s like every test has led up to this moment, and I feel like I should be more prepared, but I’m not. It just gets . . . frustrating.”
Nick dumps the rest of his fries out on a napkin and deposits the garbage in the compactor. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks. “Do you have class?”
“Thursdays? No. I work at four, though. Jesse’s off this week for Spring Break, so we’ll likely run errands or something.” I stick the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth. “Why?” Part of me wants to be prim and proper while I’m stuffing my face, but it’s too good to care.
“I think I know how to help you with your exam,” he says thoughtfully. He glances around the counter, looking for something. When he finds a note pad and pen, he jots down an address and slides it over to me. “Meet me here tomorrow around ten or so. Bring Jesse.”
I reach over to their fry pile and snatch one for myself. “Why are you being so cryptic?”
“Because, if I tell you where you’re going, you won’t show up,” he admits, and I don’t like the sound of that. “Bethany, just trust me, okay? I want to help you, and I can. So, let me.”
“You should do it, Beth,” Jesse says.
“Are you still on my side or his?” I ask playfully.
Jesse shrugs. “You’ve been stressing out for, like, ever.”
I pop another fry, drenched in barbeque sauce, into my mouth and eye Nick closely as I consider his offer. “Trust you, huh?”
He nods. “Yeah. Trust me.” His gaze is steady, sincere.
“Okay,” I finally say.
Jesse balls up what’s left of his cheeseburger, like Nick did, and he drops it in the remaining garbage bag. “Before you touch anything,” I tell him, “you better wash your hands, J. I’m serious.”
“I will,” he grumbles and walks toward the bathroom. I pop one last fry in my mouth with a guttural groan. “You’re right, these are pretty awesome.”
Nick winks. “Told ya.”
Unable to stand a messy counter, I pick up what’s left of the fries and the garbage and toss it into the trash. I wet the sponge and start wiping off the counter, all while Nick’s eyes are on me. I feel them. I always feel them. It used to make me uncomfortable in class, like he was judging me, but here, after all that’s transpired between us, it sends a tingle through me. “You’re staring again—you’re always staring.” I finally look at him.
“No, I’m thinking,” he clarifies and leans against the counter beside me.
“Oh yeah? Well, then, what are you thinking about?” I scoot the salt and pepper shakers out of the way and scrub the island harder.
Nick clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. “That I shouldn’t have kissed you the other night.”
My scrubbing falters before I remember myself and turn toward the sink. I wasn’t expecting him to say that.
“I don’t mean it like that, Bethany. Don’t take it personally. I just—I think I messed things up, especially with what happened after, and I want you to know that I’m sorry.”
With my back to him, it’s easy enough to shrug off everything that happened, like we’d simply chosen a subpar movie on Netflix last night, not that we’d shared a groping session. It was more than that to both of us, though, that much was clear.
“It’s totally fine,” I tell him. I have no idea what I’m doing as I fidget around the kitchen. All I can think about is that kiss. “I overreacted. We were both tired and stupid—”
Nick steps up beside me, waiting for me to look at him. After a few seconds, I force myself to meet his gaze.
“It was more than that to me,” he says with certainty. “But I heard what you said. I know this isn’t something you want right now, and I’m not going to make everything harder on you by throwing more complication into the mess . . . Nothing has to happen until you’re ready.” His eyes never leave mine, and he takes a step back, somehow sensing the havoc that descends over my senses when he’s around. “I promise. The next move will be yours, whatever you decide it might be. But I’m not going to leave you alone, either.”
Grateful, I lick my lips. “No?”
His head shifts ever so slightly to the left. “I want to be your friend.”
Twenty-Six
Nick
Bethany brings the Range Rover to a stop outside my parents’ house, her and Jesse natural and oblivious to me watching them from the window as they talk and walk to the door. I have no idea if bringing them here was a good idea or if it was completely idiotic, but they’re here now, and if nothing else, I know my mom can help Bethany study.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” my mom says, startling me. She steps up to the window beside me, just as the doorbell rings.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, you seem a bit nervous, for starters.” My mom’s makeup is perfect and natural looking, her hair is perfectly done. There’s even a twinkle in her eyes.
I scoff. “Not nervous, just . . . hopeful,” I say, surprising myself. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a little bit excited.”
“Well, of course I am. It’s not very often I get to meet your friends, not anymore at least, especially the pretty ones.” She smiles knowingly and walks to the front door.
“You know Bethany, Ma. Remember, the whole debacle in eighth grade with her parents?”
“Well, she’s not a little girl anymore, is she?” She winks at me, and I laugh, completely creeped out. “You’re being weird.”
“Just trying to loosen you up,” she says, and nods to the door. “Well, are you going to be a gentleman and answer it, or do I have to do it for you?”
“I got it,” I say and my mom turns for the kitchen.
“I’ll pull out the pitcher of iced tea.”
Bethany’s smiling at Jesse when I open the door. I love her smile, I realize, and I don’t see it nearly enough. “Hey,” she says happily, if a little bit uncertain.
“Hi.” I open the door wider. “You guys came.”
“I told you we would.” There’s a hint of amusement in her gray eyes, like she’s surprised I questioned it. Truth be told, I’d assumed something would come up with her parents or she would decide she didn’t want to trust me after all.
“Yeah, you did.” I glance at Jesse and wave them inside. “Hey, kid.”
&
nbsp; “What’s up?” Jesse says, and I silently rejoice a little bit at the hope that he really is warming up to me.
“Not much, just excited to hang out with you for a bit,” I admit. Knowing his penchant for collecting things, I have a feeling he’ll be the only one to appreciate my childhood assemblages upstairs.
They both peer around the entry, into the living room, and up at the landing. “This is a beautiful house,” Bethany starts. “But where are we exactly?” The hesitance in her voice tells me she has a good guess already.
“This,” my mom says from the kitchen, “would be Nick’s childhood home.” She steps out of the kitchen to join us. “And you must be Bethany.” She hurries over. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, sweetie.” She wraps her arms around Bethany’s shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug.
Bethany’s eyes meet mine, and I can tell she’s contemplating fight or flight.
“I’m Leslie or Mom, you can call me whichever you like.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.” Bethany takes a step back from her and smooths out her t-shirt.
“And you, young man . . .” my mom continues, and bends slightly to Jesse’s level. I’ve told her about his Autism, so she doesn’t expect him to look at her, but she treats him as she would any kid all the same. “You’re a handsome one. Look at those pretty blue eyes.” My mom’s voice is soft and affectionate, reminding me of when I was younger.
“Do you want to introduce yourself to Nick’s mom?” Bethany urges.
“Hi,” he says, distracted as he processes all the new things in the house. “I’m Jesse.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Jesse. Now,” she straightens. “Before we get down to business, why don’t we snag a chocolate chip cookie? I made them fresh this morning.”
Jesse nods, more emphatically than I’ve ever seen before, and follows my mom into the kitchen without a second thought.
Bethany grabs hold of my arm. “What am I doing here, Nick? At your parents’ house, really?”
“Remember I told you my mom’s in the psych field? She’s a retired professor, she’s offered to help you study for the GRE.”
“What?” she whisper-shouts. “Nick, you didn’t have to do this. Why—” she shakes her head, and I know where her mind is going. I know she’s spiraling back to before, to the mess we created and probably the residual embarrassment of it all. Not only does Bethany not like asking for help, she’s a private person.
“Hey,” I say, resting my hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s hard for you to accept help unless your brother is missing,” I say, hoping the playful jab will loosen her up. “But my mom wants to. She needs something to do anyway. Trust me, you’re doing her the favor.” I shrug. “Besides, who better to help you study than someone who’s taken it before, albeit a hundred years ago.”
“I heard that, Nicholas.”
Bethany’s face reddens. “I can’t believe this,” she whispers, and I can tell she’s torn.
“Leave if you want, but I had a fun day planned for me and Jesse, so you’d be screwing him and my mom over by leaving.”
She glowers at me.
With a wink, I nod to the kitchen. “Come on. Have a cookie, it will make you feel better.”
Taking her hand, I lead her into the kitchen. Jesse and my mom are sitting in the nook, macking on giant chocolate chip cookies, each with a glass of milk. “I hope you didn’t eat them all, Jesse,” I say. “These are my favorite, you know?”
“I didn’t eat them all . . . yet.”
I laugh. “Oh, funny guy. I better hurry then.” I grab one off the plate. “Are they any good?”
“They’re really good,” he says with a mouthful. He looks at his sister. “They’re even better than peanut butter.”
I pull out a chair for Bethany to sit beside him. “I’m not sure about that,” she mutters and sits down, taking her first bite.
“She likes the peanut butter cookies best, huh?” I ask, taking the opportunity to learn a bit more about her. I sit down beside my mom, the four of us enjoying a cookie around the card table. “What else does your sister like?”
“She likes the Amazing Race,” he tells me. “She yells at the TV all the time when she’s watching it. And she threw a pillow at a hockey game once.”
I glance at Bethany in time to see her blush. I’m not sure if it’s the purity of her light skin, but her flushed cheeks are the first thing I notice whenever she’s embarrassed.
“It was a bad call,” she mutters.
“Yeah? Note to self—don’t watch sports with Bethany. Or, at least wear a helmet.” I look at Jesse, eager. “What else?”
“She sings Britney Spears in the shower.”
I burst with laughter. “Really?”
“Okay, that’s enough,” my mom chides. “Leave the poor girl alone.”
“Isn’t it bad enough I’m going to gain fifteen pounds hanging out with you?” she holds up what’s left of her cookie.
“He’s still eating junk food, I take it.” My mom purses her lips, as if she didn’t already know.
“Only when I don’t have leftovers,” I tell her. “It could be worse.”
Bethany smiles. “According to Nick, cheeseburgers and BLTs have all the necessary food groups, so they’re good for you.”
My mom wipes a bit of chocolate off her thumb and shakes her head. “Does he?”
“Well, that’s our cue, Jesse.” I shove the rest of my cookie in my mouth. “Let’s go upstairs and let the ladies study. I’ll show you my comic book collection, among other things.” I like the intrigue in his eyes. “Holler if you need anything, ladies.” I nudge Jesse. “Time to show you the bachelor pad.”
Twenty-Seven
Bethany
“Just remember, Bethany, you know this stuff.” Mrs. Turner closes the test book. “How long have you been at this, three years?”
“Yeah, of specific study, anyway. Though it seems like a lifetime.”
Mrs. Turner smiles at me and tilts her head. “You’re very passionate about this,” she says, as if it’s only just occurring to her. “Do you mind if I ask what it is that draws you to psychology?” She sighs and leans back in her chair. “For me, it started out with a handsome professor who was offering a beginner’s course.” She smiles and removes her reading glasses. “I guess I decided I liked a lot more than his smile. I changed my major and never looked back.”
“Well,” I start. “When I was a freshman, I took a Psychology 101 course and found it fascinating. More so than interior design. I knew I couldn’t quit design, my parents would’ve freaked, so I decided to double major.” I drop my pencil and sit back in the cushy, dining room chair. “It was because of Jesse, too” I admit. “Ever since he was born, I’ve wanted to understand the mind and how it works.” I stare down at the thick textbooks that have weighed me down over the past four semesters. “I want to understand and help families that struggle with issues they don’t understand. I don’t want other kids with social anxieties and learning disabilities to struggle the way I watch Jesse and my parents struggle.”
Mrs. Turner’s gaze is long and thoughtful. “Well, I think it’s a field that really suits you, even if it’s difficult. Passion is all you need to succeed, really. And that’s not something you’re lacking. Nick on the other hand . . . Well, let’s just say I think he’s finally starting to question what he’s passionate about, which makes me happy.”
Mrs. Turner stares out the window, into the backyard, and I don’t know if she’s thinking about Nick or maybe her own passions in life. Maybe even her disappointments and regrets.
“Well, thank you for your help,” I tell her. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me. I feel like I’ve retained more in the past few hours than I would have with another week studying on my own.”
“It was my pleasure. You’ve got Cognitive down, you just need to take more time to think through the syntax of it all. I know it gets confusing, especially if you overthink a question, but
keep in mind, as complex as some of these questions are, they will always be straight forward. There are no trick questions on this test.” She smiles at me, and her kindness seems to seep into me. “You’re going to do great. You should have no problem getting a 600 on this. Just stay out of your own head, if you can.” She winks at me, and I see where Nick gets his charm from.
I nod, grateful that she’s sitting across from me, eyes smiling with pride and encouragement.
“There’s no need to rush either,” she adds.
“I hate to ask this, since you’ve already helped me so much,” I rush to say before I change my mind. “But . . . do you mind running through this with me again next week, before the exam?” I stand up to collect my things.
Mrs. Turner’s head bobs with an enthusiastic nod. “Yes! Yes, I’d love to. You let me know when, and I’ll make sure we have plenty of snacks. We’ll run through it, like it’s the real thing.”
Uncertain how to show my gratitude, I lean down and wrap my arms around her.
“Oh,” she chirps and hugs me back, more tightly than I expect. She rubs my back soothingly, the way mothers do, and she’s soft and warm, and it almost brings tears to my eyes. My mom would never have the time to sit down and study with me. My dad wouldn’t even consider it.
Remembering myself, I pull away. I straighten with a smile, and stack my books and notecards on the table. “I wonder what the boys are doing upstairs.”
“Getting into trouble, I imagine,” Mrs. Turner says, and when I’m about to crumple up my doodle paper, she reaches for it. “I don’t mean to pry, sweetie,” she says hesitantly, and my shoulders tense. Her expression is curious and tentative. “But, have you ever been tested for dyslexia?”
Shaking my head, I glance between her and my doodle paper, not getting the connection. “No. I’ve never considered it.”
“You know the material we went over, but it’s connecting the ideas that you struggle with,” she muses. “It would make sense why some of these ideas get a bit mixed up in your mind. You speak about it all so clearly, but the process . . .” She points to my doodle page. “You doodle when you’re thinking.”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 82