Definitely, Maybe in Love

by Ophelia London

  “His sweet butt?” I repeated.

  “Yes, and don’t dodge the subject. This is fascinating. So? What do you do?”

  “Well, when we’re not studying, we talk music sometimes. He was appalled when he learned I’m listening to strictly female singers.” This seemed like a good subject, because Mel perked up.

  “You’re still on that all-chick musical kick?” she asked.

  “I was until he confiscated my phone on Thanksgiving and added a new playlist. All men.” I made a face.

  “Anything good?”

  My left hand was in my coat pocket, my thumb absentmindedly running over the face of my phone. I felt a jolt, almost as if my fingers knew what was in there.

  “Um, yeah, there’re a couple tolerable songs,” I admitted. “I was going to delete the whole playlist right away but thought it would be rude, since he took the time to load it.”

  “Aww, how polite of you. Especially since none of his songs interest you.”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, wishing I hadn’t brought up the subject.

  “I don’t know, Spring. I’ve seen guys flit in and out of your life. To most of them you don’t give the time of day, and the others, like Alex, you treat like your personal scratching post.”

  “Ew.”

  “I’ve never known you to be your real self with a guy. Not lately.” She paused. “Not ever, actually. You and Henry have an interesting relationship.”

  “We’re not in a relationship,” I countered. Mel was starting to bug me. I walked to the mailbox and wrenched the face open.

  “I’ll put on some water for the noodles,” she said, walking up the porch steps.

  I nodded as I sifted through letters. A few seconds later, almost naturally, my attention tiptoed across the street. On the second floor, the window of the second bedroom was glowing yellow. Henry left his light on again. I swear he does that on purpose, just to make me march over there and give him another lecture about wasting energy. I sighed and walked inside my house.

  When I peeled off my coat and entered the kitchen, Mel was perched on a stool with one elbow on the breakfast bar, her hand cupping the side of her head. I didn’t appreciate her inquisitive eye.

  “I’m starving,” I said. “Where’s the food you promised?”

  “Pasta water’s on the stove.” She swiveled around on her bar stool. “But first things first, babe.” She lifted her open hand. “Where’s your phone?”

  Chapter 15

  Stalling wouldn’t be any use, not with the way Mel was staring at me, an impatient gleam in her eyes. Reluctantly, I reached for my coat, wishing I hadn’t shared so much with her on our walk home. I searched from pocket to pocket, though I knew exactly where my phone was located.

  “I told you,” I said over my shoulder, hedging, “I think I might have deleted his playlist already.”

  By the eager smile Mel was wearing, I knew she wasn’t buying it.

  As I pulled out my phone, she hopped from her stool and was at my side in a flash, her palm level before me.

  “Fine,” I said. “You can see it.”

  She grinned with excitement, grabbed my phone, and ran a thumb across the face. A second later, the lights illuminated.

  “Huh,” she said, her finger working the menu. “His playlist appears to be the last set of tracks you were listening to. Crazy, no?” She lifted her twinkling eyes. “Unless you have another playlist entitled Spring’s Education of the Male Voice.”

  “Oh, right.” I rubbed my ear. “I was listening to it a while ago…while I was…waiting to see a professor and…and it distracts my thoughts, which, you know, I need sometimes.”

  Mel ran a finger down the list of ten songs, just as a sizzling sound across the kitchen caught my attention. I left her and went to the stove to turn down the burner. Water was bubbling and splashing from the pan of boiling noodles. I stirred the contents then checked under the lid of the smaller pot of red sauce. Mel continued to examine the playlist, while I chewed impatiently on the inside of my cheek.

  “Interesting array of artists,” she finally offered. “But I don’t recognize any of these titles.”

  I stabbed a fork into the middle of the noodles, twisting it around until a hardy serving broke away. “I think he made them up,” I said, folding the noodles in with the sauce, although suddenly I had no appetite. “I mean, track one is the guy from Fleetwood Mac but it’s obviously not called Meet Me in the Tall Grass. And track two—”

  I shut my mouth when Mel Cheshire-Cat-grinned. A second later, she spun around to exit the kitchen, jamming in an ear bud.

  …

  I sat alone at the bar for as long as I could stand it, my dinner untouched on the counter.

  “Oh, my holy mother of crap.”

  At least Mel was talking now, if only rhetorically. It was the ten minutes of preceding silence that was really getting to me.

  “Are you joking?”

  Her outbursts from the living room were similarly irritating. Finally, after her third eruption, I took my bowl of vegetarian spaghetti and walked into the living room. All the lights were out. Mel was curled at one end of the couch, knees pulled in. She didn’t notice me, too busy concentrating on whatever song was playing, a confused expression wrinkling her face. I could tell by the way she moved her finger across the face of the phone that she’d started that particular track over. A smile pulled at a corner of her mouth.

  I lowered myself into the arm chair across from her, taking a bite of noodles, chewing slowly, watching her advance to the next song. It played for about five seconds before her jaw dropped. Tearing one ear bud from her head, she called toward the kitchen. “Springer! Get your butt in here, pronto!”

  “I’m sitting right here.”

  Mel shrieked and jumped.

  She stared at me as I calmly took another bite of noodles, chewed, swallowed, then dabbed the corners of my mouth on a napkin.

  “So you…you do realize what this is,” she said at last.

  I thought for a moment then shrugged, slurping in a single noodle.

  “Have you asked Henry about these songs?”

  “I thanked him when he gave me back my phone the next morning, but he hasn’t brought up the subject since.”

  “Spring.” She rolled her eyes. “For someone with all your brains, you can be exceptionally dense.”

  She’d lost me.

  “Babe.” She held up the phone. “These are make-out songs.”

  Now was my turn to wear the stunned expression. “No, they’re not.”

  “Babe.” Her voice was unbelieving as she pointed down at the thin, silver rectangle in her hand, as if its mere existence were evidence.

  “Henry Knightly did not make me a playlist of make-out songs,” I maintained.

  “Yes, he did.”

  I snagged the cell out of her hand. “No.” I stared down at it. “There’s no Marvin Gaye or Prince or…or Barry White.”

  “Is that your idea of kissing music?” she asked. “Not very original. Not like Henry’s list. Shhh, new song.” She pressed a hand over the one remaining ear bud. “Daaamn.”

  She had it all wrong. I knew this, because I knew Henry. At least I thought—

  “He’s a genius,” Mel blurted. “These are way more subtle than Marvin Gaye. Trust me.” She skipped to the next track. “Ohh, double damn. Come here.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me down beside her. “Put this on.” She jammed an ear bud into my head then started a song. “Listen to this while picturing Henry, then I dare you to look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel like straddling him.”

  I did as she asked, if only to ease my own mind. When I felt the first uncomfortable sputter of my heart, I glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, head back, fanning her face. “Minty freshness,” she murmured.

  More like cranberry sweetness, I almost corrected.

  “I’m deleting these,” I snapped, pulling out my ear bud. I went to grab my phone, but Mel held it over her head, out
of reach. “Melanie Gibson,” I said through gritted teeth. “Give it to me.”

  She stood up and shook her head, her brown ringlets bouncing as she took a step back. “I’m probably totally wrong about it,” she insisted. “I’m sure your nice, respectable, Republican neighbor didn’t mean anything by it.” She smiled like an idiot.

  Choosing not to continue the debate, I walked my half-eaten dinner into the kitchen and dumped it down the sink.

  Later, after Mel left for home, I sat in the dark living room, tucked in two ear buds, and played track one, with Mel’s theory on my mind. Before the end of the first chorus, my throat had gone dry and I stared down at my phone, amazed at how completely dense I’d been all this time. I skipped to track two, then three. By the time I’d listened to the entire playlist, my palms were sweaty and a funny, impatient feeling spun inside my stomach and chest. It might have been lust, it might have been panic.

  Either way, I did not feel in control of my emotions. And I needed to be in control—that was the whole point of my making all the big changes last year. I was taking control, steering my life. And if Henry’s choice of a simple Rob Thomas song from ten years ago made me feel so severely out of control that I really did want to straddle him instead of study, then it needed to go.

  Right before I left for campus, I plugged my phone into my computer and deleted all ten tracks.

  Chapter 16

  The muffled curse from outside my window made me laugh.

  “You okay down there?” I called.

  “Fine.” The hammering started up again.

  I snickered and packed a pair of jeans and two sweaters into my duffel bag. No Doubt was quietly streaming from my laptop on the floor.

  With only the moon and a small flashlight to guide him, Henry was outside, having volunteered to fix the loose rung on the rope ladder that hung outside my window. Then he went on to MacGyver some hooks to keep it secure against the house. Every once in a while the hammering would abruptly stop, and I’d hear murmurs of swearing.

  After about twenty minutes, Henry’s fingers curled around the edge of the sill, and he was halfway through my window, hammer between his teeth, like Rapunzel’s prince. Once inside, he slid the glass closed.

  “You’re sure it’s done?” I asked skeptically, hefting my bag toward my open bedroom door. “If you’ve booby trapped it to unravel under my weight, I’ll sue.”

  “You’d never win,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’d bury you in technicalities.” He set the hammer on the ledge of the window, glanced around the room, and rubbed the back of his neck. He seemed distracted, which was odd for Knightly, though this glimpse into his awkwardness was not entirely unappealing.

  “The burden of proof is on the state,” I defended, wondering if a little more lawyer talk would make him more comfortable.

  “Precisely my point, I’m good friends with the D.A.’s office.”

  “Aren’t you the legal eagle,” I said, crossing the room, pushing in drawers as I passed.

  “All packed?” he asked, finally stepping away from the corner by the window. He’d been in my bedroom once before, so I figured his preoccupation had nothing to do with his surroundings.

  “All packed, you?” Henry nodded. “Do you want a soda or something? There’s plenty downstairs.”

  He shook his head. “Do you?” he asked abruptly, like he’d suddenly remembered his manners. “Or would you like to go out? Get something to eat?”

  “It’s almost midnight, Knightly.” I pointed at the neon red numbers on the alarm clock. “We’ve both got to leave at the crack of dawn.”

  “True,” he said, finally smiling, though he still seemed preoccupied. “I’ll go.” A bit hesitantly, he turned toward the window.

  “You can use the front door, everyone’s awake downstairs. I think they’re going out later. Or you can stay up here for a while. Hang out, if you want. Unless you’re tired.” I fanned my face. “I’m wide awake. Leftover adrenaline from my last final.”

  “Same here,” he said. We turned in unison toward my window, hearing sounds of night-before-vacation soirées down the street.

  Henry smiled again, more genuinely this time. “Definitely staying.” He shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath was a black sweater with gray, blue and green argyle diamonds on the front.

  Argyle is something of a lost art, I thought as I watched him drape his jacket across the back of my desk chair. But dammit all if Knightly doesn’t pull it off.

  “Mind if I change the music?” he asked, pointing at my laptop, though he didn’t wait for an answer. Lowering to the floor, he ran a finger over the touch pad. “Where is my playlist?”

  “Corrupted,” I said. “The tracks suddenly wouldn’t play, so I had to delete them.” I really hated to lie, but honestly, after what Mel had insinuated, Henry’s songs kind of freaked me out.

  “That’s strange.”

  I picked at my thumbnail. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well then, I guess these will have to do.” He sat back on his heels and continued scrolling through my iTunes library. “Janis Joplin,” he said, wincing. “Seriously?”

  “Sometimes it makes me happy to be furious.” I sank onto the floor beside him. “Now, if you’ll allow me.” I reached over and took control of my laptop. “I will educate you.”

  Two hours later, my sweater was off. So was Henry’s. And his shoes. My glowing laptop screen and the street lamp outside my window were the only sources of light in the room.

  “I quite like your coffee house girls,” he said. “Your Sara and Ingrid.”

  “Better than Fiona Apple?”

  Shoulder to shoulder, we lounged on my imitation sheepskin rug in front of my laptop. As I reached to adjust the volume, Henry grabbed my wrist. His hands were more calloused than I would’ve thought, yet his grip was gentle. A surprisingly nice combination. I didn’t mind it anymore when he happened to touch me. It didn’t mean anything. We were friends, study partners…who happened to have shared one kiss about a million years ago. Since Masen had approved the second draft, my research sessions with Henry were probably over. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  “Much better than Fiona Apple.” He grimaced, hadn’t cared much for Fiona or Hole or early Alanis. Too much blatant feminist angst for him. “Your people can do better.”

  “My people?” I said, sliding my hand out from his hold around my wrist. “That’s an incredibly chauvinistic thing to say.”

  He groaned. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  I screwed up my eyes, fighting back a teasing smile.

  “Another of my idiosyncrasies requiring improvement?” he asked. I nodded. “Duly noted.” He winked and rolled onto his stomach, reaching to scan to another song.

  Since that incident in his dark hallway, Henry and I hadn’t shared another romantic moment. Not even close. I considered that a blessing—after all, I couldn’t be expected to take studious notes while he talked if I was constantly wondering if he tasted like cranberries. Things were better this way. Like I’d told Mel: a maturing experience.

  Most of the time, Henry was pretty entertaining to hang out with. His constant oozing of self-confidence had been annoying at first, but the more time we spent together, the more natural that feature was. He wore his convictions well. Relaxed and confident was not an altogether disgusting combination.

  He was reading off the track list of an album, making critical yet pretty hilarious comments under his breath while I silently gazed down at the back of him stretched across my white rug. I couldn’t help it. He was right there, making me stare.

  He wore jeans tonight. A rarity for him. And a pleasure for me. Earlier in the evening, he’d pulled off his sweater, and what remained was one of his million-dollar plain white Tshirts. It was V-neck. Fitted. Very nicely fitted. His hair was as tousled as I’d ever seen it. He had a cowlick in the back that was always smoothed down with gel. Tonight, dark curls poked up in some places while falling carelessly in oth
ers.

  He turned a bit, and the profile of his jaw and cheek caught the light.

  Zowie.

  Weeks had passed since I’d allowed my thoughts to remember him as that stunningly beautiful guy outside Julia’s window. To me, he’d become like a faceless and bodiless Unix. Tonight, however, any blockhead could see that Henry Knightly was chiseled from the very stones of Mount Olympus. Bedeck him in chain mail and fleece and he was Adonis, Hector, Odysseus…with just a touch of Fifth Avenue.

  “Knightly?” I whispered to his back, though I had no idea what I wanted to say.

  “Honeycutt?” he answered.

  Nope, not a clue.

  “Yeees?” he replied a second time.

  Still watching his profile, I sighed again and finally responded with, “You’re clueless.”

  He craned his neck to leer at me over his shoulder. “And yet you’re here with me in the middle of the night. What does that say about you?”

  “That cluelessness isn’t necessarily indicative of intellect?” I rattled off, having a difficult time thinking straight or seeing anything but his twinkling brown eyes. His tousled hair. His mouth.

  Henry chuckled. “Appalling habits we share, don’t you think?” he said as he rolled onto his knees.

  “What habits?”

  “Presuming too much,” he began. “Wrongfully judging. Doubting our own eyes.” He rubbed his jaw. “That’s the worst of the bunch, isn’t it?” He pressed play, and music filled the space between us. He’d just downloaded a new song. Bruno Mars.

  “I…” My mouth was suddenly dry. “I just remembered something.”

  Henry blinked up at me when I stumbled to my feet. “What?”

  “Um…Coos Bay is getting a lot of moisture this winter,” I said, backing up toward my door. “I’m just going to run downstairs and get my raincoat so I don’t forget to take it home.”