by Sally Henson
52
Regan
Lane knocks and walks in the door. “Hey.” He’s wearing his turquoise trunks and a T-shirt.
“That was fast.” He must’ve driven like a mad man on his way here. He looks around the kitchen and peeks in the living room.
“They're outside on the patio.” I continue making sandwiches, spreading peanut butter and jelly on bread. I look up at Lane and lick the peanut butter off my thumb. Lane's watching me. “What?”
“You look so ...”
I hold my palm up, stopping him before he starts making fun. “I know. I know. Just drop it, okay? I shouldn't have put this makeup on and stuff.” I sigh and continue cutting the sandwiches.
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.” Lane leans his forearms on the counter across from me.
Maybe I don’t, but the way he’s looking at me makes my insides jittery. I move to the sink so I can wash up, rolling my eyes along the way.
Lane steps around the counter, following me. “You look so pretty today. Your hair ... your dress ... your cute, little painted toes.”
I drop my head down and look up through my lashes. “Seriously? I felt like the girl with cooties everyone stared at this morning.”
He chuckles. “Really. Sometimes you are so oblivious. I'm not the only one who noticed how amazing you look today. Paul was this close—” He measures a half an inch between his finger and thumb. “—to getting a bloody nose.”
“If you start bloodying people's noses, they're going to think something is going on between us. Besides, I felt fake the whole time.” I flick the towel at him, snapping his bicep and laughing in triumph.
“Oooh, you’re gonna pay for that,” he warns, chasing after me.
I don’t get far. Like two steps, but I hold the towel behind my back. The towel is wound around my hand so it won’t slip through my fingers if he tries to take it away. Lane moves into my space. Those fiery eyes and smile of his turn my insides into goo. They must emit the gaseous form of the truth serum mixed with a laughing agent because I feel like spilling my guts and I can’t stop giggling as he reaches around my waist.
“All this,” I say, uncomfortable, giggling awkwardly, though it keeps coming out of my mouth anyway. “I did all this, for you, to get your attention, I guess.”
That's a stupid thing to say, Regan. I drop the towel and press my palms against his chest to keep him from getting any closer.
Instead of going for the towel in revenge, Lane slips his hands around mine. I look down at them, at the craziness of him and me, together, as boyfriend/girlfriend. What Paul said pops in my brain again.
The laughing has stopped, but the truth continues to spill out. “Yesterday at the pool, at home last night—even this morning when I woke up, I keep thinking about you, what you said we've become.” His eyes keep the truth river flowing out of me. “Even when I tried to work on my college plans yesterday, my mind goes back to the shed, surfing, the night of the blue moon.” I pause. The honesty's so scary, but I can’t seem to stop. “I've never been like this before. It still feels strange. And I don’t know if it’s because I feel this with you, my best friend, or not.”
“So … you’ve been thinking about me.” Satisfaction covers his face.
“Something Paul said today—” I start, but pause for a second.
His smug smile quickly morphs into something more of a snarl, and he grumbles, “Don't listen to anything Paul says.” Lane shifts, moving his weight from one leg to the other. Paul isn’t one of his favorite discussion topics.
“It stuck with me. He asked who was going to take your place when you leave.”
“Oh.” His face and tone drops.
My head shakes back and forth. “Lane, I don't want anyone to take your place.”
We look at each other in silence for what seems like minutes. He asks softly, “What does that mean?”
Flutters bounce around the inside of my chest. Even if he is my best friend, this is hard to admit. Especially out loud to the person I have the feelings for. “I'm not completely sure yet, but this honesty, this possibility of you and me as more than friends feels—dangerous to me.”
His hands slide up my arms and down my back to my waist, bring me closer. “I know. It's like putting your heart and ego on the chopping block.” The muscles in his neck flex as he swallows. “I don't want to be laughed at, or made fun of, either. I'm afraid you won't accept the way things are between us. Afraid that … that you don’t really feel the same way I do.”
We stand here until the quiver of fear in my chest kicks in. “Let's not wait for my parents to walk in and see us like this.”
With a sigh, he lets go and shuffles back around the counter.
“Thank you,” I voice and continue to speak telepathically, hoping he can hear my words in his mind—for being honest, for telling me I'm pretty, for letting me go. My heart wells up a little. How can he be so uninhibited?
I hand him a plate with two sandwiches.
He flashes his dimples as he takes the plate from me. “You can't dress like this on Sundays.”
I laugh. “What?”
“All I want to do is look at you. I can't concentrate when you look like this.” And then he mumbles under his breath, “I’m not the only one who noticed.”
I continue to laugh. His reasoning sounds so ridiculous.
Lane’s eyes grow wide as he stares at me. “Please, I'm serious.”
His comments bring to mind Friday night when I scooted over and mimicked his luring purr. I can’t help but smile at the power I felt doing that.
“That’s dumb.” I take another bite of my PB and J. “I felt like everyone was staring and laughing at me today anyway, so it's not likely I'll curl my hair and put on makeup for a while.”
He just shakes his head as if I’m the one who’s crazy.
“So, what's the deal? You wanted me to say yes to swimming but you don't want me to change to swim? I don’t get it.”
He’s lost in his own thoughts for a moment. “I just ...” He takes another bite of sandwich. “I had to find a way to get over here right after church. Since it's so hot today, I came up with the idea of a family swim at the cliffs. I didn't want you to change so I could check you out a little longer.” He shrugs as if him telling me he wanted to check me out in my dress is no big deal.
I ignore his embarrassing words. They’re probably a compliment, but they sound foreign. “Your family’s coming over to swim? Mom, Dad, sisters?” I'd be surprised to have either set of parents swim out there.
“I asked them to do it for me since I'm leaving and all.” He walks to the fridge and gets out the milk.
“Huh, I just realized what a manipulator you are.” I move to the cabinet for a couple glasses.
“If that were true,”—he steps behind me, setting the milk on the counter—“I’d have your lips on mine every chance I get.”
With just his presence he has me wedged in the corner and I have nowhere to move.
The air around us stirs when reaches to shut the cabinet door in front of me. I close my eyes and breathe in his cologne. He can’t see what I’m doing, so I’m safe until his fingers comb through my hair. He does this sometimes, pulling it over my shoulder. I don’t really know why other than he likes my hair. But this time he leans his nose against the delicate patch of skin behind my earlobe. “You smell so ...” He draws in a slow breath, savoring the hint of perfume I dabbed on this morning. “Good.”
My body turns toward his voice. The side door opens. I freeze. Lane jumps back on the other side of the kitchen.
“Hello?” It's Mom.
The kitchen is off to the right when you walk in the side door. We’re tucked away out of sight, at least for a few steps.
I take a deep breath, act like nothing’s going on, and pour milk into the glasses. “Right here.” I try to keep my voice even.
She steps in. “Oh. We've been waiting for you two to come out.” She stands by the k
itchen table looking at us.
I turn around, facing Lane with the glasses of milk, avoiding her gaze. “We were just getting something to eat first.”
Lane’s leaning against the counter, staring at me when I hand him the glass of milk. He immediately takes a drink, turning toward my mom, almost chugging it.
“Bring your food on out to the patio and eat with us. Would you bring the pitcher of tea too, please?”
“Sure, Mom.” I take a drink too, trying to hide my awkwardness.
“Yes, ma'am.” Lane puts down his empty glass.
I stifle a giggle at the milk mustache left above his lip. He reaches for the fridge, and Mom stands there for a moment. She eyes us, trying to decipher something her intuition is hinting at, and then goes back outside.
As soon as the door shuts, Lane shuts the fridge door and puts the tea on the counter. His eyes are sparkling a glint of sunshine, and those adorable dimples frame his milk-mustache smile.
I lean back against the counter, gripping it as if my knees are going to buckle. He can be so dreamy sometimes. I quickly shake my head. “That was too close.”
He steps toward me and leans over, leveling his eyes with mine, bracing himself with his hands on either side of mine on the edge of the counter top. “We could just tell them.”
I reach over for a paper towel and press against his milk mustache. “Let’s not.”
He stands tall, wipes his mouth, and gives me a big grin. “Let's get out of here, then, before they come back in looking for us and you have me pinned in the corner kissing me.”
53
Regan
Both Lane’s parents and my parents jump off the cliffs. Once. It’s hilarious. They act like it wasn't their first time, though.
It feels more like July than August today, with the temperature reaching the upper nineties, but the water keeps us cool. Lane and I race up the side of the cliff, jump off, and swim the length of the pond. When we’re too tired to do anything more, we float around on rafts.
Everyone else leaves to get cleaned up for our evening meal, but we linger behind, soaking up the late-day vitamin D, floating in the middle of the giant water-filled hole.
“Lane?”
“Hmm?” He’s in somewhat of a slumber.
I want to ask him about the future, ask him if he will follow me to the coast. “Do you think I'm crazy for wanting to become a marine scientist?”
“Why would I think that? You've been dreaming about it for a long time.”
“Just checking.”
He's forgotten all about asking me what I've been keeping to myself, what I hide in my head. We're having such a good time, no weirdness, no pretending to be more or less than we are, just us—I think maybe this is the way we should be. “How can we make this day last?”
He turns his head, chin resting on the raft, and peers through squinted eyes into mine. “Make it last or make it memorable?”
“Both.” I pull my float closer to his and move my hand from his raft and touch his scraggly damp hair, combing through it with my fingertips.
His eyes automatically close, and he lays his head back down. “That feels good.”
I continue the hypnotic endearment. “I don't want this summer to end.” It's a faint sound, but it echoes in the small space between us.
After a few moments, he agrees. “Me either.” His lids open half way, speculating, then leans up on his arm, the other sliding off with a splash.
Right in my face. “Oh!”
“Sorry.” He laughs. “I didn't mean to splash you.” He tries to wipe the water away with an already wet hand. “Really, I didn't.”
I prop up on my forearms, deciding whether that’s true or not.
Suddenly, his eyes round with excitement and just as quickly soften to a dreamy squint. His mouth follows suit from dimples to ornery grin. “Speaking of sorry.” He pauses, holding on to the front of my raft. “I think it's time to pay for you to pay up. You owe me from Friday night. Don't you?”
Butterflies make a flash appearance in my stomach. “You aren't going to forgive me?” An innocent expression covers my face. I knew he wouldn't forget that.
“Oh, I forgive you, but there are still consequences for your actions.” He pulls us closer. His aquatic eyes hold my focus, neither of us able to look away.
It's going to happen again, anyway. It's just us, the way we are. Kiss him. I lean closer. My heart begins to palpitate, the butterflies kick up a notch, beating against my chest, and heat spreads from my core up my chest, neck, and to my cheeks shading my skin like a thermometer.
His eyes dance in anticipation but never leave mine.
Inching closer, I touch the tip of my nose to his.
“Kiss me already,” he pleads softly. His eyes are so pretty.
I hear a rumble of an oncoming vehicle interrupting my growing eagerness. In a flash, I roll off the raft into the water and swim away, sobering my thoughts. When I come back up, I'm ten feet away, and the truck rolls slowly by. I'm relieved we're not close together. After the scathing pictures with Cameron, I can imagine what could’ve happened with an actual kiss. That's all I need, more gossip floating around about me.
When I look back at Lane, he's sitting up with his arms folded in front of him, legs hanging off either side of the raft, and a sour look on his face.
I can't help but laugh at the sight of him. “Are you pouting?”
“Every time, well, except for the first time,” he smiles wryly, “someone or something interrupts us.” He maneuvers back to his stomach on the raft and starts swimming toward the shore.
My heart skips a beat. He looks like a surfer on his board paddling to catch a wave. I swim back for my raft and follow him. He's drying off when I reach the bank. I try to hide a smirk as I walk to the truck, dripping wet. He reaches in his truck for my towel, swapping it for my raft to toss in the bed, and throws his towel over the tailgate. And then he just stands there, watching me.
Without our families around, I'm able to really look at him. Disheveled hair, no shirt, no shoes, eyes I never grow weary of, his faith, kindness—he is the whole package–the guy you search your whole life for.
Dried off as much as possible, I traipse over to him. “What's the restitution for being sorry three times?”
He puts his shirt on and grabs for my towel. “Hold still.” He gently wipes under my eyes to remove remnants of the unfamiliar mascara.
“Thanks.” I consider reaching up for him, to kiss him, but hug him instead. His shirt gets wet in the process.
“Sorry three times in three days? I'm gonna have to give that some thought.” He presses against my wet hair with his lips. “You may not like the price.” I hear the smile in his low voice, and goose bumps pop up as if he whispered icy breath down my skin. “See, we can do us without being weird or wrong.” He squeezes me and I squeeze him back. “Us to the second power is better.”
I'm amused at his choice of words and smile, nodding in agreement. “Let's go, unless you want the Cary-Stone inquisition?”
Always the gentleman, he opens the door for me and guides me in.
54
Regan
Despite Dad's disregard for my privacy, rummaging through my bag and perusing my notebook Sunday, I continue adding details to my preferred college list in between volleyball practices today. For his benefit, though, I start a new page in my notebook with a couple universities in Illinois and majors I have no interest in. I want to write a title on the top, “Crap Future,” but feel that might destroy the whole misconception of it all. I really don't like misleading my dad, but if I don't do what he wants, he's going to make my life miserable. He doesn't seem to understand how important this is to me.
The doodle of Lane's eyes on my page has me daydreaming. Ever since that day he kissed me, my body seems to flood with flutters and excitement when he’s around. Access to the internet would keep my focus on college better. It's the twenty-first century, and internet access is still not po
ssible out in the boonies. Even cell reception around my house is sketchy. I usually use Tobi's computer when I need something, but she's out of town this week.
When I come home from practice, I'm thinking the week is half over. I can handle volleyball without Tobi a couple more days.
Dad hears me come in. “Regan, come in here please.”
His voice sounds off. Maybe he’s going to apologize for his dream killing spree he went on the other night. He used to be fun when my brother and I were kids … fishing and swimming and walking through the woods.
“Be right there. Getting a drink.” I sigh and walk into the living room downing a tall glass of water.
He folds his paper on his lap, gesturing for me to sit down. “I had an interesting phone call this evening.” His eyes are bright and there’s a curve to his lips. “A young man called to ask permission to take you out on a date.”
“What?” I choke on my water, coughing, trying to catch my breath. “Who”—cough, cough—“would do that?”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, my body stiffens. My jaw clamps tight. I know who would—Lane. If Lane told my parents or his parents about us being more than friends I'm going to strangle him.
“Why are you upset? It's refreshing to see a young man ask permission to take a man's daughter out.” My dad's old-fashioned in some ways, and this is one of them.
All the muscles in my body have seized into a tight mess, including my hand which is now balled into a fist in my lap. “Who?” My voice is full of hurt from the betrayal.
Just say it! I'm screaming on the inside.
Dad quirks his eyebrow up for a second, reacting to my behavior. It doesn’t last long and he’s all smiles again. “Paul Frak.”
My jaw drops.
“Bill and Darla’s boy, from church,” he says, as if our church is so big we don't know the people we see every week.