But when I walk outside, there she is, sitting in the grass and grinning up at me like I should be excited to see her. I acknowledge her with a single nod and head straight for the parking lot. She slings a red backpack over her shoulder and half skips, half springs across the courtyard to catch up to me.
She slows down and walks close to my side, too close, as if we’re friends. I inch away onto the grass and tug the rim of my cap lower on my forehead.
“So, what’s your story?” she asks as we walk to my car.
“I don’t have a story,” I grumble.
“Everyone has a story. At the end of the day, you do something,” she says.
I open the passenger door of my hatchback to let the confined air escape. I walk to the other side and open the driver door, careful to avoid touching the metal handle since it would scorch my fingers. We stand there for a minute, facing each other across the car, waiting for the air inside to cool down to a degree below Hell. Being a slight coward, I turn the question back to her and ask what her story is.
“It always changes,” she says. “These days, I’m a novice photographer.” She catches a piece of loose hair and tucks it behind her ear.
I widen my eyes with mock surprise. “Oh, you’re only a novice? You mean, you weren’t professionally hired to capture the stunning cement courtyard?” I slump down in the car and she sits next to me. We’re both quiet for a few seconds while we suffer in the heat.
“Sarcastic. Good to know,” she says thoughtfully, as if she’s tallying observations about me.
I grab my water bottle and take a swig from it. When I’m finished she reaches over, without asking, takes it out of my hand, and helps herself to a drink. So I’m your tour guide, chauffeur, and beverage provider? I shake my head and start the car, blasting the air conditioning. It feels like a furnace blowing heat in our faces, but at least it gets the air moving. She makes herself at home, stretching her skinny legs out and resting a dirty sneaker on top of my dashboard. I raise an eyebrow at her sneaker and ask her if she’s comfortable or if she’d like a pillow or maybe a strawberry margarita.
She thanks me but tells me no, she’s just fine, and I tighten my lips together to fight a smile because I won’t give her the satisfaction of thinking she’s amusing me. We pull out of the parking lot and I drive toward Tempe, a town close to Mesa and Scottsdale—suburbs that make up the sprawling metropolis of Phoenix.
She rambles on, telling me she doesn’t have a story yet. That’s why she drove out here for the summer, to find one. She tells me life is a story. We can make it a Harlequin romance, a mystery, a memoir. We can make it pamphlet-size or an ongoing series.
“I want mine to be exceptional,” she says. I tell her good luck with that.
“How long have you been playing guitar?” she suddenly asks, and again I question this girl’s sanity. Am I escorting my stalker on a tour of the city?
“How’d you know that?”
She shrugs at my inquiry, as if it’s obvious. “Your hands,” she says. “The fingertips on your left hand are callused.”
I stare down at my hands, impressed with her observation. There are rough calluses on the tips of each finger from hours of practice—one of them is starting to peel away. If she weren’t sitting next to me, I’d chew it off.
She studies my hands. “It looks like you’ve been playing a lot,” she notes. I don’t argue because she’s right. I’ve been playing more than I care to admit—four to six hours a day. It’s a little sad that my closest relationship in life is with a guitar. It’s an escape, a way to avoid my parents.
I look back at her and imagine her analyzing thoughts (a superpower all women appear to be born with). He has no ambition. Or maybe he has no friends. Earlier today I’d thought her eyes were brown, but now I notice they’re layered—dark brown on the outside, golden brown inside, and an unmistakable ring of bluish-green near the center. Her brown hair has tints of red in it, when the sun catches it right. She has dots of freckles on her nose and a dimple in her left cheek. Her front bottom teeth are a little crooked. She doesn’t wear any makeup that I can see, except for Chap Stick that she’s now applying over her dry pink lips. She always looked ordinary from a distance, even odd. But as I gaze at her now, there’s something about her that’s striking.
“What’s your name?” I ask her, because for the first time I want to know. She grins at me and her one dimple stands out.
“Dylan,” she says.
“Dylan,” I test the word on my tongue. “I’m Gray.”
I half expect her to already know this about me, but her eyebrows crease in puzzlement.
“What’s your first name?”
I roll my eyes. “That is my first name. Who introduces themselves by their last name?”
She argues that plenty of people do, like James Bond, and doctors, and she’s pretty sure in some remote villages in northern England they still do, places where they wear smoking jackets with elbow pads and wool bowler hats.
What the hell is she talking about? I just frown and point out that none of those examples relates to the current situation.
Dylan insists on knowing the history behind my name. I sigh and recount the story for the hundredth time. My mom named me Gray, I tell her, because she’s from the northern coast of Oregon, where it rains every single day. The sky is a continual gray. The ocean, the ground—even the air is saturated in thick gray fog. She named me Gray because it reminds her of home. I thought I’d grow into the name, but I hate having to assure people that my mom made this decision in a marijuana-free state of mind. Dylan tells me she loves it. It’s unique. Girls have always liked my name. I guess that’s a bonus.
“Gray,” she says. “Blue-eyed Gray.”
“So, where do you want to go?” I ask to get the subject off me.
“Anywhere,” she offers. “I want to see everything.”
I thank her for narrowing down the options and decide to take her where every girl in the city flocks—Mill Avenue. I promise Dylan its blocks provide endless boutiques stocked with jeans that cost more than some people’s rent, restaurants with linen napkins and second-story verandas so people can look down on the world while they enjoy a thirty-dollar bowl of lettuce, and coffee shops that sell certified organic, free trade, gourmet, locally roasted, freshly brewed, gold-infused coffee (I’m not sure about the gold-infused part, but I wouldn’t be surprised). One cup. Five bucks. Savor the taste of a liquid rip-off.
I pull up to the curb and park alongside a sushi restaurant with outdoor seating. We look out the window at groups of couples meeting for a late lunch, enjoying mists of water spraying continuously overhead to relieve the cooking stale air around them and to create a cooler Mediterranean climate for their dining experience. The women wear huge bug-eye sunglasses and the men fondle their BlackBerries.
Dylan turns to me and waits. I nod toward the street and tell her to have fun. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” I say. I figure she can blow money galore while I hide in the shade. Her face falls, and the disappointment in her eyes makes me give in and agree to walk a few blocks.
We head down the sidewalk and her camera bounces against her chest, hanging around her neck from a black cord. I want to point out she looks like a tourist, but from my brief observations of this girl one thing is evident: she couldn’t care less what people think of her. Few people are born with a judgment-proof shield that repels critical looks. Dylan’s shield is pretty thick.
We peruse store windows trying to lure us with sale signs and racks of clothes. I expect Dylan to dive inside, but she’s more interested in people watching. Lines of grubby vagabonds and weary travelers line the street, begging for food and money. Some play beat-up instruments, some have skinny dogs lying around their feet. It always amazes me that homeless people have dogs. If they can barely feed themselves, what kind of scraps are their pets eating? On second thought, I don’t want to know.
While we walk she asks me questions. Not your stan
dard interview questions, like What are you studying? or Where do you work? or Where did you grow up? I don’t know where she pulls these from. Do you think the army should start training for intergalactic warfare? Who invented liquid butter and why? Does anyone actually find wool clothing comfortable? We’re arguing about the pros and cons of leaf blowers when I check my phone and realize we’ve been walking for almost an hour.
On the street, shiny convertibles parade by and determined shoppers weave around us, reeking of perfume and cologne, their hands pressed protectively around purses and bags.
We pass a homeless man holding up a sign that asks CAN I HAVE A JOINT? I lean toward Dylan and whisper, “At least he’s honest.”
Dylan stops and asks to take his picture. He nods and she takes a few shots while I watch from the side. She asks the man where he’s from and, to my surprise, he sounds competent. His blue eyes are bright and his silver hair is tied back in a ponytail that runs halfway down his back. He tells us he hitchhiked from Colorado, where he was working on an organic farm. He tells us he has a college degree but he hates the Man, because the Man invented the System, which invented Capitalism, which invented Consumerism, which is destroying Mother Earth. He’s never paid taxes but he’s never stolen a thing in his life. He lives one day at a time, he says. He lives better than most people. He smiles a goofy grin at us, gaping with missing teeth.
Dylan hands me her camera and asks me to wait a minute while she sprints inside a swimsuit store. I stand outside next to the bum and stare at the ground. Now she gets the sudden impulse to shop? Two minutes later, Dylan runs back holding a pair of blue flip-flops. She hands them to the shoeless man and asks him what his name is. He looks surprised, and then he grins and tells her it’s Sam.
“Here, Sam,” she says. “I think these will fit.” He grabs the sandals and sticks his brown toes between the thongs. He nods and thanks her. He calls her an angel. I raise an eyebrow at the compliment. I still vote for “crazy” as a fitting description.
We continue down the street and Dylan stops only to catch photographs of people when they’re too distracted to notice. She snaps a picture of a mother and three daughters who are window shopping, all wearing matching pink capri pants with bright white tennis shoes. “Team Capri,” she whispers to me.
I almost smile, and just when I discover I’m enjoying myself, I catch sight of someone down the block. Standing under the shade of an awning is my old high school best friend, Brandon Stack, with a tall blonde. He waves and my mouth tightens into a frown. I knew he still lives in Phoenix; he got a full ride to play baseball at Arizona State. I exhale sharply and walk toward him. Brandon extends his hand and thumps his fist against mine.
“Dude, it’s great to see you,” he says. I nod but I don’t reciprocate the feeling. The timing sucks. Brandon can’t help who he is—a physical reminder of what my life is and more important what it isn’t. I spent so much time carefully packing up my past. Sealing it shut. Storing it away. Seeing Brandon makes that box fall open and all the memories spill out at my feet.
Dylan leans against the building in the shade, next to the blond bombshell. She looks like a shabby street kid standing next to a sparkling celebrity.
“Oh,” Brandon says. “This is my girlfriend, Kim.” I reach out my hand to shake Kim’s, and she looks up from her cell phone long enough to make eye contact. She offers me a limp handshake in return. Her bright white teeth greet me through pink shiny lips, and her blue eyes meet mine under a black coat of mascara. I gawk at her because I’m a guy and it’s what we do when women dress like they’re hoping to be discovered by Victoria’s Secret. Kim is universally beautiful. Platinum blond. Breasts the size of dodge balls, spilling out of a bright blue tube top. A silver hoop is pierced through her tan belly button. She could be a Playboy centerfold, but she knows it, which makes her off-limits to the average guy. Brandon used to go for tomboys, or for the quirky, funny girls that made him laugh. He always claimed looks didn’t matter. This girl is proof he sold out.
I look back at Brandon, and even though we haven’t spoken in months, I know his life is the same (other than his new supermodel sidekick). When everything comes easily to you, it never challenges you to change. He was our high school homecoming king, starting shortstop of our state-winning baseball team. Good grades. Charismatic. Worshiped. He even has looks on his side. Rumor has it he’ll be the starting shortstop at ASU as a freshman.
I introduce him to Dylan, and she nods and offers a half-grin but doesn’t extend her hand. She keeps her fingers tucked inside her pockets, and I notice her eyes narrow as they pass between Brandon and me.
Brandon quickly looks her up and down. He glances back at me, skeptically. I don’t blame him. She’s dressed for yard work, and in Phoenix, looks define you. His face turns serious and my stomach buckles. Oh, no. Please don’t go there. Not right now.
Dylan
I lean against the brick building and watch the tension rise between Brandon and Gray. It’s so thick, I could wrap my fingers around the air and wring it out. I’m tempted to try.
The Brooklyn Decker clone next to me adjusts her tube top and sighs. I noticed Gray drooling over Kim when he shook her hand. I can’t really blame him. Kim has the face for a billboard and her body curves like a human hourglass, but I’m not intimidated and here’s why: The first thing I notice about people are their eyes. It gives them away. You can tell how alive they are. How genuine. How deep they feel and how much they wonder. Kim’s eyes are dull and glazed over like they’re empty, like she doesn’t really see people. She just sees herself.
“How’s your family handling things?” Brandon asks, and his question snaps my attention back. I notice Gray’s face instantly harden.
“Fine,” he says, but his throat sounds constricted as if he has to force out the words. “We’re doing fine.”
“Is your mom okay?” Brandon asks.
He nods quickly. “Yeah. I mean, it’s been hard, but she’s dealing.”
“You thinking about playing baseball again?” he asks.
Gray concentrates on the ground and kicks at an imaginary rock.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says.
“I’m playing in town this summer. If you ever want to practice, you should give me a call. We could hang out.”
“That sounds good,” he mumbles. He’s a terrible liar.
“You doing okay?” Brandon asks. I see Gray’s hands clench into fists, and it makes my back straighten up.
“Yeah, considering. Who knows, maybe I’ll be at ASU this year. I can check out a game.”
There’s jealousy on his face, as if Brandon stole a dream he feels entitled to. Or, maybe it’s Brandon’s life in general: college, baseball, aspiring porn star girlfriend.
“Great,” Brandon says. “I can get you front-row seats.”
Gray grinds his teeth together and nods. “Sounds great,” he mumbles.
Right, I think as I watch his bitter expression. That sounds super.
We all stand there silently for a few seconds. Kim blows a bubble with her gum and pops it between her teeth—her one contribution to the conversation. Gray shifts his weight back and forth on his feet as if he wants to run, and without thinking, I step forward and tug on his hand. He turns to me and looks down at our hands with surprise, and I say the first thing that pops into my head.
“Aren’t you going to tell him the news?” I ask.
“What news?” he asks, wide-eyed, like he fears the response.
I offer Brandon an apologetic smile. “I doubt Gray’s going to be at ASU this fall,” I tell him, and glance over at Gray. “I mean, Duke just accepted you.”
Brandon’s eyebrows fly up. “Really? Out east? That’s awesome.”
Gray blinks back at him.
“And what about Stanford?” I add. “You can’t turn down a full-ride academic scholarship. Besides, there’s a lot more to life than baseball.” I smile victoriously back at Brandon.
“Yeah,”
Gray says. “We’ll see.”
“It was great to meet you,” I say, and pull Gray down the street. Brandon waves goodbye to us, his face frozen with surprise. Kim doesn’t look up; she’s busy inspecting her manicure for signs of distress. We’re a block away before I let go of his hand, hot inside mine. He still looks angry, but there’s a hint of relief in his eyes, even a little amusement.
“You know,” he says, “you should come equipped with a warning button that lights up when you’re about to say something ridiculous. That way people can run before absurdity strikes.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile. It’s the first compliment he’s given me, and it’s a good one.
He frowns at my beaming face and informs me that it wasn’t a compliment. “Why did you say that?”
I look away while I decide how to answer this. Saying I was helping him out would only annoy him. Gray doesn’t seem like the type who appreciates emotional charity.
“I think you should know right away that I have a rare medical condition,” I confess.
He doesn’t look at all surprised to hear this. He watches me closely and waits.
“I suffer from freak creative outbursts,” I say, which is true, and his mouth starts to twitch.
“That’s what you call lying?”
“No,” I refute. “Lying is manipulation. I prefer to call what I did ‘improvisation in times of desperation.’”
“Excuse me?”
I throw my hands up in the air. So much for my rare medical condition. “I was trying to help you out. You were getting ready to punch him,” I say.
He glares at me for making an accurate observation. “No, I wasn’t.”
"Your hands were balled up in fists," I remind him. “And you were grinding your teeth together. I wouldn’t call that friendly body language.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
I shake my head. “Look, I’m sorry I lied. I was trying to save your knuckles.”
And just like that, Gray smiles. It makes his eyes light up. It changes his entire face. I can see the layers of ice beginning to melt away. Wow, I think. This guy needs to smile more often.
First Comes Love Page 2