I'll Be Yours

by Jenny B. Jones

  We sat in the back, and I couldn’t help but be relieved when an hour and a half passed, and the minister bid us a good week.

  “Good message by the pastor,” Mom said as she pulled her SUV into the garage at straight-up noon. The sermon had been on forgiveness, and I had tuned most of it out. A few sentiments squeezed their way through the cracks of my hardened heart. Like when the pastor said we all mess up. That we’re to forgive pretty much to infinity. That when you point a finger at someone, you have three more pointing right back at yourself. He made it all sound so simple. But it just wasn’t. I hadn’t told my beliefs to God yet, but He was free to read it in my diaries.

  “Glad we went.” Cole climbed out of the backseat. “I hit the donut jackpot in youth.”

  Michael gave his brother an air high five. “The good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh.”

  “Yep.” Cole grinned. “And I tooketh three glazed and an éclair.”

  We were barely inside the house when the doorbell rang.

  “Don’t open it without checking,” Mom called as Cole’s long, skinny legs carried him to the foyer.

  The security at the gate had finally gotten good at weeding out most reporters, but occasionally one got through.

  “It’s Tyler and Marcus!” Cole called.

  “From the team?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Might be a few more too.”

  Marcus and three other university football players stepped into the house, their hulking bodies filling the space.

  “Hi, guys.” Mom’s smile was hesitant, apologetic even.

  “We were all sitting around in the dorm,” Marcus said. “And it just didn’t feel right. It being a Sunday afternoon and us not being together.”

  “We missed you, Mama O’Malley,” said Desmond Phillips, right guard.

  Mom blinked quickly and delicately cleared her throat. “Oh, boys. I . . . I don’t have lunch today. I didn’t think you’d—”

  “No need, Mrs. O’Malley.” Marcus put two fingers to his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. “This time we brought it to you.”

  It was like a parade of the Eagles’ finest coming through that door. One by one they filed in, hands full of bags from Chauncey’s Chicken House downtown. Even a salad for me. Each football player hugged my mom, gave me fist bumps, then shook my brothers’ hands.

  Marcus took off his Eagles hat and the rest of the team followed. “I’m gonna say grace.” He paused and his dark eyes swept the room. Normally my dad did the honors, and it was lost on no one. But Dad wasn’t there. It was just the houseful of us. Black, white, Hispanic, young, and middle-aged. A family united in its hurt and in its loss.

  “Let us pray.”

  Marcus grabbed my hand as he thanked God for my family, calling us out by name, asking for help for the team, and blessings on the extra-crispy food. He gave my fingers a squeeze, and I squeezed his right back.

  “Amen.”

  Mom brought out paper plates, her nose noticeably red. But her smile lit up like Cole’s on Christmas morning, and happiness surged deep within me and melted a little of that ice.

  “You gone out with that punk kid yet?” Desmond asked, handing me a biscuit.

  “No.” Humiliation was my drink of choice this weekend, so I just tipped it back and guzzled even more. “I asked him to a dance, and he turned me down.” Ten heads swiveled in my direction, chicken suspended before open mouths. “Actually he didn’t even answer.”

  Hand grenades exploding in the house couldn’t have been louder than the reaction of the team.

  “Gimme dat kid’s address.”

  “I’m gonna punt him into Georgia.”

  “I’d like to throw that freak over the goalpost.”

  “That fool ain’t fit to kiss the soles of your little bitty girl shoes.”

  “He gonna talk to my friends Righty and Lefty!”

  Beside me Marcus laughed and pulled me against his sweater-vest for a catch-and-release hug. “Say the word, and we will find him now.”

  Dominic Vago pushed up his sleeves. “Yeah, we can call that dessert.”

  I laughed at that, letting some of the tension roll off my shoulders, buoyed by these amazing college boys. I could get a team of campus kings to love me, but boys my own age? I was invisible as air.

  “Dessert will be the cookies from my kitchen,” Mom said. “Made by Harper herself.”

  Tyler shook his head. “Boy don’t know what he’s missing. Those your monster cookies?”

  I smiled at the snaggletoothed twenty-year-old across the room. “They are.”

  “You got enough?” he asked.

  Mom knew the answer to that. “She baked two hundred.”

  Dominic scratched his goateed chin. “That might do.”

  The doorbell chimed again, and as Mom and Cole went to get the fruits of my chronic anxiety, I ran to let the new visitor in.

  “Ridley,” I said, opening the door. “You’re ten minutes late.”

  He lifted a hand by way of greeting and removed his black sunglasses.

  Ouch. “Up all night doing homework by the light of the keg?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Don’t forget the drugs and wild chicks.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  His lips moved into what could only be a sneer as he stepped into the living room, squinting at the chaos and noise. “What’s going on?”

  Instead of answering, I just studied his face. His red-rimmed eyes watched the team with a look of such longing, it was like staring at one of my rescue animals when a visitor at the shelter stopped by their cage, only to walk on by. This was what Ridley wanted more than anything—to be part of this team. To be one of the guys. I had a feeling it wasn’t just the jersey and scholarship he longed for, but the camaraderie and connection. Even though he wore the sash of Mr. Popularity, could it be that there was some part of him still searching for somewhere to belong?

  Ridley finally pulled his eyes from the team, as if remembering why he was there. “Got your text about asking Wonder Boy out.”

  Heat infused my cheeks as that moment replayed in my mind again. Maybe ten years from now I would be able to think on it and laugh. Or at least not want to strangle every member of the male species. “Yeah. Andrew was so overcome with gratefulness, he forgot to answer.”

  He shrugged. “It happens.”

  “Ever happened to you?”

  His lips curved. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Want something to eat?”

  “Nah, ate at—” He pressed his lips together, as if canceling out his words. “I ate earlier. Besides, I owe you a lesson. Grab your purse.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He jangled his keys. “Class field trip.”

  * * *

  The black Jeep slipped into a parking spot downtown in front of the statue of Betsy Callaghan and Blue. The pilgrim woman held a rifle and pointed it east, the direction we now walked. The old-timers said that Betsy came over on a covered wagon as an Irish immigrant by way of Tennessee. She had a lazy husband, Lochlan, who made her cook, clean, tend the horses, navigate, and drive the wagon. When they got to the Appalachian Mountains, Lochlan got stung by a bee, puffed up like a rotten fish, and died right in his seat. When Betsy finally noticed, without slowing the wagon, she gave his shoulder a shove and over the side he went. Betsy kept on traveling, not stopping ’til she landed in what is now our town. She eventually found a man to build her a cabin beside her favorite grove of maples, trading her cooking for his manual labor. The well-fed Ezekiel asked Betsy to marry him, but she wouldn’t say yes until Ezekiel agreed to help her with her dream to build a town. The two of them put their heads together, and buildings started taking shape—including the first saloon Betsy named Lochlan’s Loss. I always thought Betsy would be proud to know the college sitting five miles from her favorite maple grove was one of the first to allow women.

  “I can’t be gone too long,” I told Ridley, as I st
epped onto the puddled sidewalk. “I’m due at the animal rescue by three.”

  “This way.” He held an umbrella over my head and pressed his other hand to the small of my back, guiding me on the cracked sidewalk. “Why do you do that?”

  I didn’t slow at his question. “Do what?”

  “Tense up when people touch you. I’ve watched you with the team, so I know it’s not just me.”

  “No, it’s just you.”

  “It’s gotta be some weird hang-up you have. Because normally when I touch a girl—”

  “She flings off her bra and morals?”

  “And those are just the off days.” His grin was sweet as cake icing as he held open the door to the coffee shop and ushered me in.

  Liquid Courage was the name of the shop, and maybe that’s exactly what I needed. The place buzzed with patrons, mostly sitting in pairs at cafe tables, chatting over steaming mugs of heavenly smelling caffeine. I inhaled deep and let the scent fill my senses. When I opened my eyes, Ridley was watching me, a small smile playing about his lips.

  “You’re cute when you do that.”

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “Smile.” He watched my lips for a moment too long. “You were smiling just then.”

  “I smile all the time.”

  “No, you don’t. But when you do . . . it’s nice.”

  “Right, nice . . . cute.” I chuckled and stared at the chalk-scribbled specials.

  “I knew you’d do that.” He regarded me with sleep-deprived eyes. “Lesson number three—”

  “What were one and two?”

  “Lesson three is you never reject a guy’s compliment.”

  “What if it’s creepy?”

  “Am I wasting my time here?”

  “No.” I stepped up to the cashier. “I’m listening.”

  We each ordered our beverage of choice, and before I could dig out my wallet, Ridley handed the college girl behind the counter enough to cover our drinks and a very nice tip.

  “Here.” I handed him some cash.

  “Keep it.”

  “I want to buy my own.”

  “Harper, lesson number four. If the guy tells you you’re not paying, let it go.”

  “But this isn’t a date.”

  He handed me a straw and an ample number of napkins.

  “Sorry, habit.” He took half the napkins back. “I’m with my sisters a lot.”

  We moved to stand in the waiting area as the strains of an indie band played overhead. “There’s more than Emmie?”

  “Faith is eight.”

  “There’s quite an age difference between you and Emmie. Did your parents—”

  “It’s just my mom.”

  “So your dad—”

  “Never met mine. Here’re our drinks.” Ridley grabbed our cups and carried them to a seat way in the back, tucked in a dark corner beneath a poster of a famous local bluegrass musician.

  He put our drinks on the table, then pulled out my chair.

  “You’re weirdly polite,” I said.

  He let out an audible breath. “We gotta work on your compliments.”

  Judging by his order of a triple-shot Americano, I assumed somebody’d had a long night.

  “Did you finish your essay?” I sipped my hot chocolate.

  He removed the lid from his coffee, as if merely sipping wouldn’t deliver the caffeine fast enough. “We’re here to talk about you.”

  “But it’s due Monday and—”

  “I did the paper, O’Malley. It’s in your in-box for proofing. Now quit deflecting. Did you catch what I did when we were in line?”

  “Looked at the cashier’s boobs?”

  “The other thing.” He waved at a fellow WHS jock fives tables away. “I complimented you. Everyone likes compliments, am I right?”

  “I don’t really. They make me feel—”

  “Every normal person likes them. Even guys. Find something to compliment him on.”

  “Okay. How about, ‘Hey, Andrew, you’re awesome at being a douche bag. Thanks for bolting after I asked you out.’”

  Ridley didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “Did you even try to ask one of his friends about it?”

  “And bring more attention to my shame? No, I don’t believe I did.”

  “Well, I did.” He leaned his chin in his propped hand, and for the first time I noticed a charm dangling from a thin silver chain around his neck. It was the number thirteen. “He didn’t go to the game, right?”

  “So?”

  “So he got sick.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Social media. Ever heard of it?”

  “Yeah, and I checked it.”

  “Apparently not well. Did you just look at his or did you snoop on his friends’ and get your answer like I did?”

  “You don’t even know his friends. You couldn’t pick them out of a lineup.”

  “A lineup of nerds? Not necessary. I asked a friend of mine, who asked a friend of his, and through about ten degrees of separation, we infiltrated band geek world and got my intel.”

  “Andrew was sick? But why hasn’t he called me? Texted? Sent a homing pigeon? Anything?”

  “He got sick, Harper. I don’t know. Maybe he got a look at his reflection in that ridiculous outfit you guys call uniforms.”

  “The plumes on our hats are a very sexy addition.”

  “It looks like you’re wearing a peacock butt. But I take it Andrew was out of commission all weekend. So for the sake of my efforts, let’s assume he’s still a candidate for the man of your incredibly boring dreams.”

  Dare I hope? What kind of “sick” were we talking about? A fake cold? An emergency room visit involving a need for a girl to hold cold compresses to his head and whisper sweet words in his fevered ear?

  “Look, either way, I have to fulfill my end of the bargain, so pay attention. Think of casual ways you can compliment this guy.” Ridley’s eyes traveled down my form. “Like, hey, I like that shirt. It looks . . . really good on you.”

  Fake flattery or not, his words spiked my system with happy. Behold, the power of a guy paying attention to a girl.

  “Lesson number seven—”

  “I think you missed—”

  “Don’t put yourself down to this dude. When I gave you a compliment in line, you completely rejected it.”

  But he’d said I was cute. Absolutely ridiculous. He’d dated the teen equivalent of Victoria’s Secret Angels, and I knew I was nowhere near that realm of pretty. Granted I wasn’t ugly and in need of a backpack over my head, but nobody was voting me Prettiest for the yearbook anytime soon.

  “If a guy gives you a compliment and you shoot it down, he feels stupid. When we say stuff like that, it’s our way of getting closer to you. To impress you. Let you know we notice things about you.”

  “You said I was cute.” I had to laugh at the very idea. “What was I supposed to say to that?”

  Ridley planted his elbows and leaned over the table. Eyes the color of molten chocolate pierced into mine. “How about thank you?”

  Stars above, he had a beautiful face. And the way he looked at me, I knew it was how he looked at all females. But still, I saw why the girls all but tripped over themselves to be in his very presence. But he was out of my league, so total immunity here. No fear of falling for that.

  “Harper?”

  His voice could heat an iced latte. “Yes?”

  Ridley reached out, and his hand covered mine.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered. It felt like the morning’s lightning had reignited right where our skin now met.

  “Do you remember what I told you?”

  I nodded, my heart doing a clumsy pirouette.

  “Andrew Levin just walked in.”

  I tried to jerk my hand out of his grip, but Ridley held tight and gave the smallest shake of the head. “Lesson number nine—sometimes guys need a little prodding. And the one thing they can’t stand is to see a girl they l
ike with another guy. Jealousy is a bitter pill.” His thumb made a lazy swipe across my knuckles. “But sometimes it’s exactly the medicine we need.” He turned toward Andrew, then looked back at me.

  “How did you know he’d be here?”

  “Do I need to explain the internet again?”

  Andrew stood at the register to order, but his eyes zoomed right toward me. Hope gushed like the fountain on the square.

  “He’s coming over here.” I wanted to both hide in the bathroom and jump on the tabletop. “What do I do?”

  Ridley stood up, reached out his hand, and tucked a strand of wayward hair behind my ear. “Steps one through ten.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sitting at that corner table alone, all the rules flew away like startled birds as Andrew Levin meandered through the cafe, headed my direction.

  Oh, geez.

  Oh, geez.

  What did I say? What did I do?

  The old me would have broken eye contact, grabbed my purse, and made a break for the bathroom, the exit, the next town.

  But no. I could do this. I was ready.

  I could be a girl in Deep Like with a boy. I could talk and smile and do what normal girls did. I could do this freaking crush right. He was the first boy I’d felt the tingle for, and I knew, if I fought for it¸ he could be the one.

  “Harper, hey.” Andrew looked over his shoulder and gave a quick check of the door Ridley had just exited. “How are you?”

  “Good. Fine. Caffeinated.” Three seconds in, and my conversation was a sinking torpedo. “I mean, how are you?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Been a bit under the weather. Um, do you need to go? That Ridley guy—”

  “Is a friend. I help him with homework.”

  “Oh.” His smiled broadened. “So, funny story, all four of us in my band got this two-day bug, and Friday I thought I was over it, but apparently I wasn’t. And it might’ve been one of my fevered delusions, but I thought I remembered you asking me to the dance.” The way he nervously clutched his coffee absolutely charmed me. “And if you did, then I owe you a huge apology. And if you didn’t”—twin spots of pink bloomed on his cheeks—“then this is a really awkward moment.”

  Hope spiraled ’til I was giddy-drunk with it. “I did do that. Ask you out, I mean.”