by R. R. Banks
I don't know if that was supposed to be encouraging or not. The truth is, saying the Laurence family “has money” is one of the biggest understatements I might have ever made. The family is exorbitantly wealthy. They could own all of Magnolia Falls if they wanted to. They might already, for all I know. As it is, the sprawling home they live in, its expansive grounds, and the several smaller properties that accommodate offshoots of the main family tree, take up almost half of the island. I'll admit I'm impressed by the luxury, but it's never changed the way I look at Dean. He never acts like his money makes him special, or different from me, even though he is. I understand what Mom's saying, but I don't want to tell her that. She's already convinced I'm either going to become so obsessed with the Laurence family and their wealth that I'll destroy myself in pursuit of that type of life, or get myself pregnant and snare one of the brothers.
That would be a feat. I've never even kissed a guy. I spend all my time studying, working on extracurricular activities for my college applications, and working at the little ice cream shop in town. I don't have time for anything else, especially not dating. The time I spend with Dean on projects for the theater department is the closest thing I have to fun most of the time. I met him on my first day in the theater department when he introduced himself as the student assistant to our teacher, and we've been friends ever since – even though he’s two years older than me. My eyes slide across the room to the pennant pinned on my wall. It's for my dream school – Duke – and I've had it pinned there since I was old enough to start thinking about going to college. That's why I work as hard as I do. Even as a freshman in high school, I devote every possible second of my time to making myself into a more appealing candidate for the application process. Unlike the Laurence family, who can easily send all five of their sons to their respective Ivy-league schools, I'm on my own when it comes to financing college. My sister, Carina, has never been interested in school beyond graduation. Like a lot of the people born and raised in Magnolia Falls, Carina thinks her future is here.
That's not me. I love Magnolia Falls, but I know there's so much more to the world than this little place, and I want to see it. I look forward to leaving home, going to college, and experiencing life on my own. If I'm going to do that, though, it's up to me. My family can't contribute anything to the cost of me going to school, and even though I tuck away almost everything I make at the ice cream shop, my modest savings don’t even come close to covering the cost of tuition, housing, and the necessities. I have to get a scholarship, and that means working my ass off every day to make myself as appealing to Duke as possible.
"I'm not going to lose sight of the life I have in front of me," I reassure her. "Speaking of which, I have to get going. We’ll need all the time we can get if there’s any chance of finishing this by tomorrow."
Mom steps out of my way, and I pause in the hallway to kiss her cheek. "If it makes you feel better, I’ll ask Dean to give me a ride home when we're finished."
"That will make me feel better. You work way too hard, you know," she says with a slight smile that tells me she's proud, but also wishes I didn't have to push myself this much.
"No such thing as working too hard," I say.
Even as I say it, I know it isn’t true. Of all people I could say it to, Mom knows that better than anyone. She's done it for as long as I remember.
I can smell rain in the air as I make my way down my street, making sure to wave at the neighbors out in the lawns. People take lawn care very seriously here, and many of the waves I receive in return are with floral-pattern gloves, and behind various landscaping implements.
As I make my way into the village, the smell of the bay mixes with the rain in the air to create a fresh, bracing saltiness. Tugging my sweater closer around me, I look down at the gray water. It's a pristine image, broken only by the houseboat slowly gliding by. On that boat is Carson Boon. He lives almost exclusively on the Oh My Damn, and only occasionally comes ashore for the supplies he can't order. I've often wondered about the story behind the name of his boat, but that, much like Carson, is an enigma.
The wind whips up around me, and I quicken my steps. The Laurence house is on the other side of the island from mine, and I’d really like to get there before the sky opens up, and not make the final part of the trek in the pouring rain. It's spring, but the temperatures aren’t high enough to take the chill out of rain this late in the day, and it will be miserable if I get caught out in it. I duck my head into the wind, pushing myself to go a little faster. I’ve just made it onto the winding stone pathway that leads up to Dean's house when the first sharp droplets of water begin to hit. Clutching the sketches and my bag closer to me, I run up the walkway and hop up onto the porch under the overhang protecting the front door. It opens before I'm even able to ring the doorbell, and Dean looks out at me with his wide, friendly smile. He must have been watching through the window.
"If you wanted to take a swim instead, you could have just told me," he jokes.
I roll my eyes at him as he steps back to let me inside.
"Hilarious," I say. I look down at myself. I'm soaked.
"Why don't you go into the bathroom and grab a towel to dry off? I'll meet you in the living room."
"Thanks," I say.
I hand him everything I brought with me, and start up the steps toward the bathroom he indicated. I've only been to the second floor of the house a few times, and I always feel underdressed when climbing the stairs. This is the type of staircase that should be reserved for ball gowns and debutantes making their first appearance into society. An awkward teenager, soaked down to her plain white bra and panties, definitely doesn’t belong on these steps. I would feel more comfortable shuffled back to the hidden servants' staircase I'm positive is around here somewhere.
Once I'm at the top of the steps, I hear a voice drifting down the hallway toward me. He’s singing a song I don't recognize, and curiosity tugs me. I shouldn't follow it. I should mind my own business.
I look toward the bathroom. That's where I should be going, but I'm not. Instead, I creep my way slowly down the hallway, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. The singing gets louder as I turn the corner and see a room several feet ahead of me, the door hanging open halfway. I move a little faster toward the door and press myself against the wall, my heart pounding nervously in my chest. This feels nowhere near as smooth and seamless as it seems in the movies. I hear my own breath, and my wet clothes are making me shiver wildly. I turn my head just enough to look through the gap and into the room. Inside is Dean's oldest brother. A senior, Grant Laurence is basically the Golden Boy of the school. Everyone looks up to Grant, and all the teachers dote on him. Athletic, brilliant, gorgeous, involved in everything, and “going places” straight from the womb, Grant is what the faculty refers to as "impressive."
He's what I refer to as mmm.
That's especially true now as he stands just a few feet away from me, shirtless, his muscles flexing as he does curls with a barbell and sings a nameless tune. His dark, inky hair falls just long enough to curl at the base of his long neck, and around his ears. I can envision his dark, simmering eyes even though I can't see them.
He stops and glances down at a stack of papers on his bed, and I realize he must be rehearsing.
How long have I been standing here?
I gasp at the realization that I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, enraptured by him, and Grant lifts his head away from the papers.
Oh, shit!
I scramble away from the door, and back down the hallway toward the bathroom. Dipping into the spa-like room, I grab a towel from the shelf and start rubbing my hair with it frantically.
Did he see me?
No one is in the bathroom with me to be convinced of the eagerness behind my drying, but soon my blonde hair is standing on end, and I've rubbed my arms until they’re pink and stinging. Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway toward me, and my stomach drops. Grant’
s coming after me. He’s going to call me out for being the weird little freshman standing outside his door, watching him rehearse shirtless. And on top of it all, I look like a blow-dried rat, which will only make being judged for my creepiness all the more uncomfortable.
The sound of knocking on the door makes my heart feel like it’s standing still. At least he has the decency not to just bound through the door after me. Did I even lock it? Probably not. I’m not great with the whole concept of common-sense self-protection. A serial killer could burst into the house, and instead of trying to protect myself, I’d probably just gasp and reveal all my vulnerable spots.
“Yes?” I manage to croak out.
“Emma?” It’s Dean. I sag in relief. “I brought you some clothes to change in to. They might be more comfortable.”
“Thank you,” I say as I open the door a few inches and reach out for the sweatpants and T-shirt he pokes in toward me.
“I’ll see you in a minute,” he says.
I make a purposeful movement to lock the door before stripping down. Just because that was Dean doesn’t mean Grant isn’t lurking out there somewhere. I’d prefer not to get lambasted while bare-assed. That’s a humiliation I’m not in the headspace to take.
I slip into the warm, dry clothes, roll the waistband of the pants, so they don’t slide down, and fold up my wet outfit. I’ve managed to dry off and change, and it seems Grant isn’t coming. Now I'm just in the uncomfortable position of standing in the middle of the bathroom with a towel I don't know what to do with.
Finally, after delaying to the last possible second, I decide to make a run for it. Folding the towel neatly, I set it on the counter, and head downstairs. While I was “in the bathroom,” Dean has spread out the sketches across the table, and a tray of snacks sits beside him.
"Feel better now?" he asks as I walk in the room.
"Yeah," I answer, nodding. "Thanks."
Dean gestures at the tray with his partially-eaten sandwich.
"Eat something."
I'm not sure if it's an invitation or a command, but I reach for one anyway as I settle onto the floor across from Dean. Pimento cheese on thick, crusty bread. This beats peanut butter anytime. I take a bite, and gesture at the sketches with the sandwich like he had.
"What do you think?" I ask.
"I like them," Dean says. "Did you do one for the tavern yet?"
I nod and sift through the papers until I find the right sketch.
He starts to say something, but the sound of footsteps coming into the room stops him, and he looks up toward the door. I glance over my shoulder, and my heart jumps into my throat. Grant stands at the door, tugging a shirt down over his chiseled abs. His eyes lock on me for a second, and I feel a heat creep up the back of my neck.
Does he know?
Oh, he knows.
Shit. I am so not stealthy.
"Hey, Emma," he says.
My mouth won’t let any sound out, so I lift my hand in a weak wave. In my mind, I have all kinds of brilliant things ready. In the perfect world, I'm witty, flirty, and charming. Then I look at him, and poof, the best I can come up with is a tense smile and wave.
This is what they call a slow burn, I tell myself.
"Dean, with as much as she’s been around these days, you might as well go ahead and ask her out."
Damn. A really slow burn.
"Shut up, Grant."
"What? She's here all the time, brother." He looks over at me again. "She's really cute. You better ask her before someone else does."
I feel myself melt a little, and I hope he can't see the color on my cheeks. Desperately trying to look casual and busy, I pick up a colored pencil and begin filling in the nearest picture. A few tense seconds pass before I realize it’s not even the same color. Shit. Grant chuckles, and then walks out of the room.
"I'm sorry about that," Dean says.
"It's fine," I say, shaking my head.
"Don't mind Grant. He thinks he's so funny."
I look up at him.
"It's fine," I repeat. "Really. I know he was just kidding."
Dean stares back at me like he's trying to decide if I'm actually fine. I wonder if he suspects I have feelings for his brother. Grant comes back into the room, and I quickly look away at the papers in front of me. I wish I didn't feel so awkward.
"So, Dean, if you ever do get around to asking Emma out, let me know. I've been meaning to give Carina a call, and it might be fun to double date. The kids are still doing that these days, aren't they?"
Grant flashes another one of those smiles that belongs on a card for any one of the several sports he plays, and my heart seems to freeze and melt at the same time. My stomach turns, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes, even as I try to fight them. The last thing I need is for either of the boys to see me cry. I can't believe I've been so stupid. All this time, I've been mooning over Grant, and dreaming of him sweeping me off my feet, and admitting that romantic, lovesick feelings have been smoldering between us all this time. It never occurred to me to include my sister in the equation. My beautiful, smart, outgoing sister in Grant’s grade, and a permanent, card-carrying member of the popular crowd. Of course, he would want Dean to ask me out. I'm not even a blip on his radar.
This burn is turning out to be slower than a match thrown into a snowbank.
* * *
Summer after senior year…
My eighteenth birthday was just the beginning. Soon, I'll be leaving for Duke – I did it! – and moving into my very own apartment. It might be approximately the size of a gym locker, but it's mine.
In a few weeks, I’ll finally be able to start the life I've been dreaming about. Until then, I'm stuck at the same little ice cream stand, counting down the minutes, and adding up the dollars I'll have to bring with me. Finally, successful in cleaning away a puddle of chocolate goo I’ve been working on for a while, I toss the soiled cloth into the nearby dirty towel bucket. The late-morning rush has slowed to a trickle, and the last few customers are staring at the menu like they've never seen the list of flavors before. I step away from them, moving to the opposite side of the stand. The building looks like a swirl of vanilla soft serve nestled in a sugar cone, with the main service window taking up a large section of the front.,
Going to the back means leaving my coworker Diane alone at the service window. I think she can handle it for a few minutes. We've got some time before the next rush of customers. When I was visiting the Duke campus a few weeks ago, I stood at the edge of a huge field positioned between two clusters of buildings, and realized the students scattered across the field, sprawled in the grass, tossing frisbees, and walking with an almost intimidating sense of purpose, accounted for more people than I had ever seen in one place in my entire life. It was one of the most thrilling feelings I’ve ever experienced. I can't wait to get back to campus and be a part of that.
I open the rarely used back window, and look out over the salt-worn boardwalk. I feel like the mustache guy in The Wizard of Oz. Waving as Carson glides by on his houseboat in the distance, I let out a sigh. The appeal of crawling into the freezer to avoid the furnace blast of heat outside is growing increasingly stronger when I see something that makes my brain go numb. Only a few yards away is a tall, broad-chested, dark-haired man I would know anywhere. It’s Grant Laurence. I haven't seen him since he left for college three years ago, and I’m completely stunned at his sudden reappearance. I don't know why. He technically lives here. His entire family is here. I shouldn't be this shocked. And yet, here I am.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Grant turns toward me, and our eyes meet. His lips curve up in that smile that was charming on him when he was a teenager, and is practically panty-melting now.
Oh, hey, head-over-heels crush. Good to see you're still hot as ever.
Except it doesn't feel like a crush anymore. Seeing him swagger toward me, and the tip of his tongue graze his bottom lip, is enough to make my heart pound and my hands shake.
<
br /> Nice to see the slow burn is alive and well.
"Hey, Emma," Grant says when he gets to the window.
His voice has deepened slightly, and I notice the lines of his face are more defined now. His eyes still remind me of cinnamon sugar, and I want to drown in them.
Dear lord, I did not just imagine drowning in cinnamon sugar. What the hell is wrong with me?
"Emma?"
I snap out of my self-loathing.
"Hmm? Oh. Hi, Grant."
"Hi. I was just saying I barely recognize you not sitting on my living room floor, surrounded by drawings or set pieces."
I smile and glance around, holding my hands up to indicate the shop.
"My natural habitat," I say.
He nods with a broader grin.
"Yes. I seem to remember a few sightings of you when I was out here on safari... Ok, I might have lost control of that metaphor."
"Maybe a bit," I admit.
I laugh softly, realizing this simple exchange feels far too good.
"Well, either way, you look good doing it." There's that burn again, only this time, it's all in my cheeks. "What are you up to these days?"
"I just turned eighteen," I say, feeling the need to slip that into the conversation, "and I'll be leaving for school in a few weeks.”
"That's awesome. Congratulations."
"Thank you. I'm guessing you're home for a break from school?"
"Yep. I've taken classes every other summer, so this one I decided I was actually going to take the time to myself. I've been doing a lot of traveling, but I couldn't have time off without coming home for a little while."
"When did you get back?"
"A couple weeks ago."
"Oh. I haven't seen you around."
I definitely didn't see a Grant signal lit against the night sky to let me know he’d returned. What the hell?
"I've been laying pretty low. Mostly spending time with my brothers. This is actually the first time I've ventured away from the house other than the first day I was here."