by Sara Ney
What's even worse: Alex doesn't even play a manly instrument. Nope. He plays the clarinet - and hey, no offense to any of you clarinet players, but come on. He's a guy. But now that I think about it, the guy does wear skinny jeans...
Anyways, whatever - Jenna hates noodles, in any case.
I pull the romance book out of my bag (it's been weeks since I've had time to read anything), slapping it on the table, followed by my iPod and cell phone. Tucked away in a corner booth, I don't know how I ended up at Kyoto, but my Jeep - on its own accord, mind you- seemed to be on auto pilot because before I even knew what was happening, I was driving myself here. Call me crazy. Call me a glutton for punishment. I just couldn't seem to help myself.
So here I sit, admittedly a little glum. Cracking open my book (which shall remain nameless: the title is simply too embarrassing to reveal) I lean back and settle in, forking my plate idly to let the steam out of my heaping pile of veggies and noodles. The steam rises to drift up to the hanging lamp above, and I can't resist musing that if Weston were here, he wouldn't hesitate to shove a forkful into his impatient mouth.
I smile ruefully as my phone pings and the new text, not surprisingly, is from Jenna.
Her: help. seriously. i want to poke my eyes out.
Me: awww, what a good gf u are
Jenna: this isn't funny. omg did u know rachel davenport plays the tuba? shoot me now.
No, actually I didn't know Rachel Davenport played the tuba. Yeah, it is a rather odd choice for someone so short, but what did I care?
Me: u really should be paying more attention. tsk tsk
Jenna: i hate u.
Chuckling, I get back to my book and give my noodles a little poke every now and again, my stomach growling in protest. It wants to eat. Huffing a sigh at myself for my own impatience, I lean forward and pick up my fork. As I'm slowly twirling the long whole wheat noodles around the tines, I glance up briefly towards the door and swear my eyes are playing a horrible, hideous trick on me. And, since God has never answered my previous prayers about opening up the earth and letting it swallow me whole, I don't even bother chanting the request in my head.
I look up at the door again, and rub my eyes with my free hand.
Nope. This is not a dream.
It's a nightmare.
Weston and his buddies are most definitely standing in the entry of the restaurants dining room, scanning for a free table. At the front of the group, Derek Hanson elbows that guy Adam Something-or-other, and they both stare in my direction. I slink lower in my seat, grasping and fumbling for my ear buds and shove them into my ears, hitting the power button on my iPod in a futile attempt to drown out any conversation of theirs I might pick up on.
Then, in an act of even further desperation, I hold my book in front of my face, sleazy romantic cover be damned. Beggars can't be choosers, after all, and I can't very well hold my napkin in front of my face.
And oh my God, I can't imagine how stupid I look. I can't even think about it without getting ill.
Shit, shit, double SHIT.
WESTON
Obviously I can see Molly in the corner of the restaurant, and from the looks of it, is one camper who is not happy to see me. I study her for a few brief seconds while my friends make snide comments beside me, and she kind of actually reminds me of this one time I took Kendall to the zoo, and they let us hold a baby chinchilla. First the tiny little critter avoided all eye contact from the corner of its cage, than once I picked it up, it pretended to be dead.
"Guys, check it out. Stalker alert, one O'clock," Derek jokes loudly, smacking Adam in the arm and pointing towards Molly's table. A hollow pit forms in my stomach, because the jackass was so loud there is no doubt she heard him.
"What, like there are no other places to eat around here?" Erik Travers chimes in, and I immediately lose any respect I had for him, labeling him a follower and adding him to my Shit List, mentally noting that I'll take him out at tomorrows practice.
"Dude, you know a chicks desperate when she -"
"- Would you assholes mind shutting the fuck up?" Rick comes up behind me, growling at our small party of team mates. "Keep it up pansies or I'll have you skating suicides on a day we don't have practice." Rick claps his large hand on my shoulder. "You dickheads go sit down; I wanna talk to McGrath quick."
I move to go sit, but he stops me with a hand on my chest. "Why don't you just go over there for craps sake? You looks like someone kicked your puppy."
"Because I keep fucking up by saying all the wrong shit. She hates me." If I didn't know any better, I would say my shoulders were sagging a little from both exhaustion and defeat.
"Jesus Christ do you sound like a girl," Rick says, his lip curling in disgust.
"What do you even care? I thought you were pissed at me," I mumble, glancing over my shoulder to watch Molly hiding behind her book.
"Well damn, it's better than watching you mope. I might be a prick, and I might not really give a shit about your feelings, but I want to win games, and dude, for the past few days you've royally sucked."
"Gee Rick, tell me how you really feel."
"Since you asked, I guess I could be apologizing for my asshole behavior with Molly. I guess I didn't realize you were seriously interested. Plus, let's be honest: I kind of have a huge ego." Rick shrugs and claps me on the back.
"Please stop before you end up hugging me and I have to punch you in the nuts."
Chapter Thirty
MOLLY
"The right guy will move mountains to be with you...He won't hide behind them."- Mandy Hale
My once healthy appetite has completely deserted me as I hover in the safety of this booth, too anxious to even look up. My mind takes a turn, and I can't help but wonder how long I'm going to be stuck here, helpless to the group of boys across the room - because even though I have a book in front of my face, I can totally sense that they're watching me. 50 Ways to Say Goodbye by Train pumps through my iPod, drowning out any conversation, and for that I am thankful - but honestly, this is way worse than one of those dreams where you're naked in front of a crowd.
"Mind if I keep you company?"
Please God, let the earth open up and swallow me whole, I pray. Like, as in right freaking now.
Seriously.
I look up to see Weston standing there in his masculine glory, staring down at me with expectation in his eyes - one hand holding his dinner and one hand stuffed in the pocket of his black Adidas athletic pants. His hair is wet, presumably from the shower he took after practice.
A lump forms in my throat, and I have to clear my throat and swallow hard to keep from blurting out all the things I want to say. Sensing my hesitation, Weston looks over his shoulder at the guys and Rick Stevens shoes him with him hand as if to say "go on bro." Knotting my brow in confusion, I set my book down and look back up at Weston.
"Please Molly," he says. Well, I can't really hear him because of the music in my ears, but I can read it on his lips. And because I'm stubborn I say nothing. To be fair, I don't feel there is anything to say - I mean he said it all in the hallway when he made it clear I meant nothing to him. Right? I bit my lower lip and look down at the table.
"What are you listening to?" He prompts, pointing to my ear buds.
I shake my head.
Nope.
Not giving in.
Okay, maybe I'll just turn the volume way down in case he says something meaningful. Sensing a weakness in my fortitude, Weston artfully slides into the booth with the gracefulness that still surprises me from a guy his size. Then, just like he always does, he sets his plate down, unrolls his utensils from the paper napkin - then its fork on the left side of the plate, knife on the right.
Smiling, he takes a bit of his noodles - but not before scalding himself in the process. A sick part of me is glad he just scalded his mouth, and as he frantically grabs his water glass, I feel a smile threatening to break free. To hide it I reach for my own glass and take a drink.
"Yet again."
"Huh?"
"Apologize yet again. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is what... the fourth time?" I tick off three fingers and thrust my hand at him. "You know the rule Weston. Three strikes - you are out." I push my fork around my plate to find some veggies and take a quick bite of my cold dinner just so I don't have to talk to him and cringe (newsflash: noodles taste hideous when they're cold).
"Wait. Was that a baseball reference?"
I roll my eyes at him. "Don't be an ass. You know what I meant."
WESTON
Yeah. I know what she means, but clearly I am trying to divert her attention. She's fixated on being pissed at me, and it sucks. "Sorry. I'm not trying to be an ass on purpose. Sometimes it just happens..."
"Yeah, well, I guess that's why we aren't friends anymore."
Ouch, that hurt.
Molly cocks an eyebrow at stares at me, a challenge being lobbed across the table at full force. I grab onto it and volley back, "I wouldn't be sitting here groveling if I didn't want to be friends." I stress the word friends, hoping my tone is suggestive.
"I wouldn't exactly call what you're doing groveling. If that's what this is, it's pretty pathetic." She takes another bite of noodles and chews slowly.
I really don't think Molly has a clue how hard it was for me to come over here. Especially with a table of my friends nearby, who have turned into spectators and whom with a quick glance I can see watching us intently. So even though I'm sitting here making wise-cracks, my stomach is in knots and my palms are sweaty.
I wipe them on my jeans and take a deep breath. "You're that wind that swept me off my feet, Say we made it through the storm, here comes the sun here comes the rain."
For a few moments Molly just sits and stares at me with a really confused look on her face. Then, as if a light goes off inside her head, she launches her body to the corner of the booth and begins laughing her ass off, gasping for breath. "Oh my God," she eventually pants. "You did not just quote Bridget Mendler!"
My face gets bright read and because I'm embarrassed, it feels like she is practically shouting. "Would you please keep your voice down? People are listening." And by people, I mean my dickhead friends who would never in a million years let me forget something like quoting a boy band to earn forgiveness from a girl.
"Say more, say more. Please," Molly begs.
"Oh great, I'm really glad you think it's so freaking hilarious. Well guess what smart ass, it's not. It's how I feel." I cross my arms indignantly as she watches me, studying my face with a scrunched up mouth. Then, just when I think she's going to drop the subject - or at least take pity on me - Molly busts out in hysterics a second time. In fact, she's laughing so hard I'm pretty sure there are actual tears coming out of her eyes. For about five more minutes I sit here seething and silently wishing I had kept my mouth.
I could seriously curse the fact that I've taken dating advice from Kendall. Of all people. In fact, what was it she said to me as I was leaving the house this afternoon? "Girls like when you say mushy stuff to them Wes, like movie quotes and junk. They think it's romantic. Here, take this CD and listen to it. It has some super good material."
That 'super good material' happened to be her new Bridget Mendler CD. And, being the good brother that I am, I considered it my duty to at least give it a listen. Like I said, I'm an idiot for taking advice from an eleven year old. Especially from one with a peculiar delight in making me look like the world's biggest ass in public.
Across from me, Molly is wiping her eyes and grinning at me, which I take as a good sign. At least she's not trying to stab me with her butter knife or crafting a voodoo doll of me in her free time.
"In my defense, that was all Kendall's idea," I finally say, picking up the paper napkin on my tray and begin ripping off the end pieces.
"You went to Kendall for help?" Molly tilts her head and studies me. Her eyes go a little soft around the edges as she says, "Aw, that's kind of sweet... in a totally weird sort of way. I mean, come on Weston, she's eleven. Of course she's going have you listening to some star from Good Luck, Charlie. Heck, you're lucky she didn't have you listening to something like One Direction or Dog With a Blog - now that would have been an embarrassing train wreck."
"Thanks a lot. Thank you. As if I wasn't aware of that."
"Well, than why... would you..."
Interrupting her I say, "Listen Molly. If taking advice from my little sister - someone who really likes you and wants us to be... um, together... and she tells me to quote lyrics from boy bands to you. Well. That's what I'm going to do. Because I'm that serious. I want to try again, and I want this to work."
MOLLY
I study Weston for a few seconds, my heart beating out of my chest. Okay. He's definitely got my attention with all this 'wanting to try again and make this work' talk. "So what other advice did Kendall give you? You know, since you brought it up and all..."
Weston takes a minute to think and a slow grin almost lights up his face. But then he glances over his shoulder across the restaurant to where his friends sit watching us with intense interest, and a disdainful scowl mars his handsome face as he shoots a look in their direction for good measure before focusing his attention back on me (and for the record, his friends clearly don't give a crap, because they're at their table laughing like a pack of hyenas, one guy laughing louder than the next).
He clears his throat and grins again in the cutest, almost bashful way. "She overheard me talking to my dad the other day and cornered me in the hallway last night when she was supposed to be in bed." Weston grins at the memory. "She actually had it all written out on a sheet of paper. So besides the advice about singing you a song - aren't you glad I spared you having to listen to me sing? She also suggested the following: writing you a love poem. Let's see, what else. Throwing rocks at your bedroom window in the middle of the night. Decorating your locker with rose petals."
I chuckle at that one. "Wow, she has quite the imagination."
"I'm not done yet," he says, and ticks off the suggestions on his fingers. "Declaring my love during the pep rally next week - which actually isn't a bad idea..."
Laughing I add, "Don't you dare!"
"What's the next best thing?" Weston asks, getting serious. "What's it going to take Molly for you to forget the shitty things I said?"
"It's not like I want this to be a big dramatic thing Wes. I just think you aren't ready to date anyone, and I... think I might be. Finally, you know? It's been four years of high school of me just watching from the outside, going on a few shitty dates and to dances with guys as 'just friends.' And I'm done doing that." I play with my straw. "In a few months we're going to be leaving for college. Imagine - all those parties. All those single guys..." I sigh dramatically and let my voice trail off and rest my chin in my elbow.
Am I being manipulative? Probably. But who's here to stop me? And besides, when I report all of this back to Jenna, the details better be juicy or I'm in deep shit. So I better make this good.
"Wait - what parties? What single guys?" he asks frowning. I wiggle my eyebrows at him, which makes him turn a deep shade of pink. "That's not fucking funny Molly."
"Let's get real for a minute Weston. Not once did we discuss being exclusive, and not once did I call you my boyfriend or act like you suddenly were. So I don't get why you went into panic mode each time someone brought it up. Newsflash buddy! It was kind of insulting."
He has the decency to look embarrassed and stutters, "I'm...I'm..."
(I believe the word he's looking for here is sorry).
I let him squirm.
Tilting my head, I wait while he fumbles wit
h his apology. "Molly. I'm an idiot. What do you want me to say? I'm eighteen and I've never had a girlfriend. I've been on one date - except that one with you. I've never bought anyone flowers, I've never had sex with anyone I care about, and I've never brought anyone home to meet my parents. I have no goddamn clue what I'm doing. Okay?" He stares at me. When I don't answer, he says again, "Okay?"
Not convinced, I purse my lips. "Yeah, but still...."
"There was one other thing Kendall mentioned doing that I think might work to get back into your good graces: a Grand Gesture." He leans back and puts his arms behind his head, thinking.
"Grand gesture? What did she mean by that?"
"You're asking me? Shit, I had to Google it." Suddenly, without warning, he stands up at the table, his whole body jostling the surface and causing everything on it to shake and clatter. Clearing his throat, Weston loudly says, "Excuse me, excuse me, can I have your attention?"
Besides his table of team mates, about five other people turn to stare at us.
Holy shit, he is not about to...
"Attention please," he repeats. While I'm horrified by what's about to happen, a sick part of me kind of wants to hear what he's about to say. He continues. "My name is Weston, and I've been a complete idiot."
His friends begin shouting in agreement - loud insults like 'Boo! Sit down douchebag' and 'McGrath is a pansy ass!' are being hurled at Weston as he stands, my personal favorite (yelled across the room by Rick) being 'Hey McGrath, your mommy called and wants her tampon back!'
I leap up and grab his arm to stop him. His strong... muscular...tanned... arm... "Oh my god, please sit down. I'm begging you." I hiss at him in a sharp whisper. He looks down at my hand on his arm and gives his head a quick shake.
"I have to do this Molly. For you."
Oh brother. Someone's obviously been knocked over the head with the dip stick.
Gag me.
There is, of course, nothing I can do but watch.
WESTON
"According to your own calculations, this is strike three. I say, if she's willing to give you yet another chance she's a real keeper. Now go be a man and prove to her why she should keep you around...you dipshit." - Brian McGrath