Never Too Late

by A. Destiny

  Simone made a beeline for me when I entered the kitchen. “Well?” she demanded. “Tell me everything!”

  “Everything?” I grabbed an apron from the hook by the door and tied it around my waist. “That’ll take a while.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny. You know what I mean.” She jabbed me in the arm with a latex-gloved finger. “Logan. You. What happened after I left? Did he ask you out?”

  “What? No!” I shot a look at my dad and Uncle Rick to make sure they hadn’t overheard. “Are you crazy?”

  “Girls!” Uncle Rick’s voice rang out from the other end of the huge stainless-steel table, where he was rapidly assembling a pair of roast-beef subs. “More work, less gossip, please.”

  “You’re crazy if you missed the way Logan was checking you out,” Simone hissed.

  There was no more time for talking. Which was just as well, since I had no idea what to say to that.

  Whenever anyone asked how Simone and I became best friends, I told them it worked on the same scientific principle as one of those school IDs that unlocked the gym doors when you held it close enough to the sensor. Proximity. We’d been friends since we were tiny tots because we lived right next door to each other.

  Actually, that was only part of the reason. The other part was that our mothers had been best friends since they were teenagers themselves. I doubted they’d started out as different as Simone and me, but their lives had definitely gone in different directions for a while. My mom married her high school sweetheart, graduated from the local university, then went right to work in the family business (dragging Dad in with her). Meanwhile, Simone’s mom went off to college in California. She spent her junior year abroad in Paris, then went back to France after she graduated. She lived there for a couple of years, and in the process fell madly in love with a Frenchman of Algerian descent. They got married, she dragged him back here to live, and the rest was history.

  I’d always found that story awfully romantic, even though I wasn’t usually the romantic type. I liked the idea that there really was a big, wide world out there beyond my boring little hometown. Anytime I doubted that, I just had to look at Simone’s dad. Or, better yet, listen to him. Even after almost twenty years in the US, his accent was atrocious.

  “Bonjour, Bailey,” he greeted me when I let myself into the Amrou house through the screen door on Sunday evening. “Simone is in the kitchen helping to wash up after supper. Oh, and tell your mama that her apple pie was délicieux!” He kissed his fingertips, just like someone in a cheesy French film. Only he wasn’t doing it ironically—he actually meant it. I loved when he did stuff like that, even though it embarrassed Simone sometimes.

  “Thanks, Mr. A,” I told him with a smile. “I’ll tell her.”

  I headed toward the kitchen. Simone and I hadn’t had much chance to talk since the rugby invasion earlier that day. First we’d both stayed busy making sandwiches and serving customers. Then Simone’s mom had called to tell her to head home for dinner (and to bring a pie from the bakery case).

  Simone heard me coming. “I thought you’d never get here!” she complained, tossing aside the dishrag she was using to dry a pan. “Mom’s forcing me to be her scullery maid.”

  “Her what?” I shot a look at Mrs. Amrou, who was dunking a pair of wine glasses into the sink. Simone and her mother didn’t look much alike except for their matching sharp chins and tiny ears. Mrs. Amrou was petite and pale, with auburn hair and a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose.

  “You’d better not complain about washing a few pots and pans, m’dear,” Mrs. Amrou told her daughter. She glanced over at me and winked. “Otherwise I’m sure Bailey’s folks could find you a nice full-time job washing up at Eats.”

  “Okay, okay.” Simone set the pan on the drying rack. “But if Bails doesn’t help me figure out how to pass this test tomorrow, that might be my only option for employment someday.”

  “Fine.” Mrs. Amrou chuckled. “You’re excused.”

  “Great.” Simone grabbed a pair of sodas out of the fridge and tossed one to me. “It’s a gorgeous night. Let’s study in the tree house.”

  Soon we were climbing the rickety homemade ladder leading up to the tree house. It had been our spot since the third grade, when our dads had helped us build it. It was basically just a big wooden box tucked into a crook of the ancient oak that stood on the property line between our two houses, shading Mr. Amrou’s hammock on their side and Mom’s hostas on ours. When we were younger, Simone and I used to wait up there until her dad fell asleep in the hammock, then have contests to see who could drop a piece of popcorn or a potato chip or whatever and have it land on his face. Good times.

  Simone dumped her books on the rough plank floor, then flopped onto one of the big overstuffed floor cushions we’d made in our eighth-grade family-science class (which didn’t actually have much to do with science at all, by the way, unless you counted cooking and sewing as science, which I didn’t).

  “So,” she said. “I’ve totally got the scoop on your new boyfriend.”

  “What?” I grabbed her biology textbook, flipping through it until I found the chapter on RNA. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be studying? You know, so you don’t flunk out of bio class and become a professional dishwasher?”

  “That can wait.” Those three words pretty much summed up Simone’s philosophy on life and homework, at least when boys were involved. “I texted the girls as soon as I could to see if any of them knew anything about Logan.”

  “The girls” were our other friends. Well, they’d started out as Simone’s other friends, really. They were mostly like her—popular and confident and pretty. But they seemed to accept me as their token science-geek friend, so it all worked out.

  “What did they say?” I couldn’t help asking.

  Simone’s eyes lit up. “See? I knew you liked him!” she crowed. “I mean, since when do you care about the latest boy gossip? Even a super-hot, super-smart boy who was practically drooling all over you?”

  “Give me a break,” I muttered, folding a corner of a page up and down where Simone had dog-eared it. “If you don’t want to tell me what you found out . . .”

  “No, no, I’m telling you.” She scrolled through her phone as she talked, checking her messages. “None of them knew a thing about him yet, but they were all intrigued.”

  A horrible thought occurred to me. “Wait. You didn’t, like, tell them I’m madly in love with this guy or something, did you?”

  “Of course not!” She sounded offended. “That’s your news to share—when you’re ready.”

  “Which will be approximately never,” I said. “Because it’s not true.”

  “Whatever you say.” She smirked, then glanced down at her phone again. “Okay, so the only one who’d even vaguely heard about Logan was Taylor. She confirmed that he’s a sophomore like us, only she thought he was a girl.”

  “She did?” That was pretty ditzy even for Taylor, who didn’t always take in all of life’s little details. She was actually pretty smart—she’d written a poem last year in English class that had ended up winning all sorts of awards and getting published in the university’s literary magazine. But at times she seemed to be trying to live up to the dumb-blonde stereotype, even though her hair color came straight out of a bottle.

  “Yeah. Apparently her mom mentioned there’d be a new kid starting in our class soon, but with all the background screaming, Taylor thought the name was Lauren or something, not Logan.”

  That made more sense. Taylor’s mom worked in the front office at school, and Taylor had twin toddler half brothers who talked constantly and at the top of their lungs.

  “What about Ling?” I asked. “Her dad must know Logan’s mom, right? He’s on the hiring committee at the university.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that too.” Simone shrugged. “She was clueless, but promised to dig up the dirt.”

  I nodded. If there was any dirt to be dug up, Ling would find it. The gir
l could be relentless—verging on ruthless.

  Simone peered at her phone’s screen. “Wait, Megan just texted me back.” She scanned the message. “She doesn’t know anything about Logan. But she’s dying to check him out.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” Megan was one of the prettiest girls in school—and one of the most boy crazy.

  Simone lowered her phone and eyed me. “Is that jealousy I sense over there?” she teased. “I knew it was love at first sight!”

  “Don’t be silly. There’s no such thing.” I hesitated. “Or at least, scientists say what most people call love at first sight is actually a mostly involuntary physiological reaction that comes from the release of adrenaline and dopamine and some other chemicals in the brain based on a quick assessment of a potential mate’s facial features.”

  “Very romantic.” Simone grinned. “Is all that mumbo gumbo true?”

  “It’s mumbo jumbo. And yes—I read an article about it in one of the science journals a couple of months ago.”

  “So is that how you felt when you first laid eyes on Logan?” She waggled her eyebrows. “Like you just really, really dug his facial features? Or what?”

  “I don’t know. It was weird.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  I picked at the edge of the textbook page, thinking back to seeing Logan walk in the door. “Usually I don’t think about guys that much. I mean, what’s the point?”

  Simone sighed. “Not this again.”

  I shrugged. What could I say? She knew my philosophy about guys and dating. I’d always figured that logically, there wasn’t much point in wasting time on high school romance. For one thing, most of the guys at school were much more interested in sports and movies and stuff than anything intellectual, including science. Meanwhile I was all about studying hard so I could get into a great college (preferably MIT, though I knew that was a long shot). Guys tended to find that weird, apparently, since they seemed to be in no hurry to ask me out.

  But that was okay; I was in no hurry either. I figured I had much better odds of meeting a smart guy, one I had something in common with, once I got to college. Or if not there, then in med school for sure.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” I told Simone, pushing her textbook toward her. “Guys like Logan don’t notice me, remember? He was probably just being polite, maybe hoping I’d put in a good word for him with you.”

  “No way.” Simone sounded sure of herself. “He barely looked at me.”

  “You’re delusional.” I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully. “I just wish I knew why I reacted that way to this particular guy. Maybe I’m deficient in iron or something. I’ve read that can cause mental confusion.”

  She ignored my hypothesis. “When did it start?” she asked. “You reacting to Logan, I mean. Was it as soon as he walked in the door?”

  I thought about it for a second. “I think so. I definitely noticed right away that he was pretty cute. That’s just neurotransmitters at work, though.”

  “What? Wait, never mind, don’t start up with all that again.” She leaned forward. “So then how did you feel?”

  “Well . . . intrigued, I guess? Like I wanted him to come over and talk to us, but at the same time I wanted to run away and hide.” I shook my head. “Totally illogical.”

  “And then when you were talking to him . . . ?”

  “It was—mostly cool, I guess. I mean, you were there—you heard me spewing gibberish as usual. But he didn’t laugh or roll his eyes or anything. He was actually pretty easy to talk to.” I shrugged. “At least for a guy.”

  “I have a diagnosis for you, Dr. Myers.” Simone leaned back against the tree house wall, looking very serious. “I’m afraid you’ve come down with a bad case of . . . sparks.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “What?”

  “Sparks.” She smiled. “That’s when two people hit it off. You know—chemistry.”

  “We don’t take that until next year,” I joked weakly, glancing at her bio book. “Anyway, even if I do have a case of sparks, I’m sure it’s totally one-sided.”

  “I don’t think so. But how do you know until you go for it? What have you got to lose?”

  Typical Simone. “Kind of a lot, really.” I started ticking items off on my fingers. “My dignity, my self-respect, my lunch . . .”

  “No, seriously. It’s not like you’re throwing yourself at some random guy. He was really into you. I guarantee it.”

  I thought about that for a second. Simone was really good at this boy-girl stuff. She’d had her first “date”—sharing a juice box with Zach Harasta—way back in first grade, and had never looked back. All our friends went to her for advice about guys. Whether they took that advice or not, Simone usually turned out to be right in the end. Could she be right about this?

  “No way,” I answered myself aloud. “We’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  Simone chugged her soda. “We’ll just have to see what happens at school tomorrow,” she said, wiping her mouth. “And don’t worry, I know you’re new to this. I’ll be with you every step of the way, helping you figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?” My little sister’s face suddenly appeared over the lip of the tree house doorway. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Ash!” I scowled at her. “What are you doing here?”

  She smirked. “Simone’s mom sent me. I’m supposed to spy on you and see if you guys are studying or goofing off.”

  Simone rolled her eyes. “Great job, Jamesina Bond. You’re super stealthy.”

  “Whatever.” That was Ashley’s favorite word lately. “So are you studying or what? I have to go back and tell her or she won’t give me a piece of pie.”

  “Yes, we’re studying.” I grabbed Simone’s textbook and flipped through the pages. “See? Study study study.”

  “Okay. See you.” Ash’s head disappeared. A moment later we heard a soft thump as she jumped the last few feet to the ground.

  Simone checked her watch and gulped, suddenly looking panicky. “Oh, wow, it’s getting late. We’d better start studying for real.”

  “Agreed.” I plunked the textbook down in front of her. I was tired of thinking about the whole Logan encounter anyway—it made my head hurt. “Now, tell me what you know about RNA. . . .”

  A. DESTINY is the coauthor of the Flirt series. She spends her time reading books, writing, and watching sweet romance movies. She will always remember her first kiss.

  RHONDA HELMS is the author of Struck, Never Too Late, and Portrait of Us. She lives in Northeast Ohio with her husband, two kids, and three dogs. Visit her at RhondaHelmsBooks.com.

  Simon & Schuster, New York

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  Also available in the series:

  Lessons in Love

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

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  First Simon Pulse edition February 2014

  Text copyright © 2014 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Cover designed by Regina Flath

  Cover photograph copyright © 2014 by Phillip Suddick/Getty Images

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Destiny, A.

  Flirt: never too late / A. Destiny and Rhonda Helms.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Abbey is excited about having a starring role in the annual sophomore class renaissance faire and although her costar, Jason Hardy, has always been a “jerk,” she sees him in a new light during their daily rehearsals.

  [1. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Theater—Fiction. 5. Renaissance fairs—Fiction. 6. Friendship—Fiction. 7. Restaurants—Fiction.] I. Helms, Rhonda. II. Title.

  PZ7.D475Nev 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013039820

  ISBN 978-1-4424-8404-7 (hc)

  ISBN 978-1-4424-8403-0 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-4424-8405-4 (eBook)