The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  “It’s so hot in here. Can you turn up the air?”

  Will reaches for the control and turns the knob. “It isn’t hot, you’re just nervous. Calm down. You’ll be fine.”

  Calm down and You’ll be fine, the dumbest five words in the human language. And this. This is proof that he still barely knows me. I can’t calm down. I won’t be fine. Introductions to people and places always have me feeling anxious, and not in the way most people are anxious. We’re talking heart palpitations and irrational fears of getting sick. Right now I think I feel the flu coming on, but no, it isn’t flu season. Leprosy. That might be it.

  “Olivia, if you crack your knuckles one more time they’re going to be the size of mine.”

  “That’s a myth, you know. Knuckles don’t enlarge from being popped.”

  “Still, I hate the sound. It’s freezing in here.” He turns the air down, and immediately my sweat glands rise up in protest. Why didn’t I drive myself?

  He claimed a desire to spend time with me, saying the drive would be a good time to brush up on some facts and go over our stories, making sure they match. I believe him for the most part, except that we’ve been driving a couple of minutes without going over anything, and I’m not the only one staring at a meltdown. Will is nervous. Really nervous. Almost as if he’s headed to an interview and the DeMarcos are the ones who might hire him. He keeps gripping and ungripping the steering wheel, knuckles going from white to pink to white again in seconds. He’s glanced over at me more times than he’s looked at the road, which make me nervous. What if he thinks I look bad? In a short black racer back dress and ballerina flats, I don’t think I dressed wrong. The dress came from the Nordstrom sale rack last season. Could it look too cheap?

  Will glances at me again, his gaze darting from my face to my chest to my lap and back to the windshield before starting all over again. Now I’m not so sure.

  “I’m nervous enough without your scrutiny, and you’re really starting to put me on edge. Why do you keep looking at me like that?” I uncross and cross my legs. He’s staring at them like he’s waiting for one of them to unleash itself and rise up to kick him. I’m a lady. Ladies don’t kick, at least not too often.

  “Like what?” He bites a fingernail, something I’ve never seen him do.

  “Like I’m the hands-down loser on ‘who wore it best?’ Like you want nothing more than to drop me off at the closest Goodwill to find a better outfit?” Now I’m biting a nail, something I never do.

  He gives me the once-over; the way he stares has me reaching for the ends of my hair.

  “You look great. Hardly in need of a new outfit.”

  “Then what is the problem?” I try to hold his gaze, but I feel myself blushing, so I turn to face the window. For all my bravado, I have no idea how to behave around men.

  Will grips the wheel again and takes a deep breath. Whatever is on his mind, it’s really bothering him. To pass the time while I wait for him to speak up, I take inventory of his car. I never knew a Lexus would be this nice—but it’s exactly the kind of car you might expect someone with his stature and career to drive. It’s black and it’s big and it’s leather and it’s loaded. The seats feel air-conditioned, but that can’t be right. I’ve never heard of cooled seats, only hot ones in the summer. But it’s late July and these seats feel great. I wasn’t scalded even once when I slid in beside him.

  I sneak a glance out of the corner of my eye.

  He’s dressed in designer jeans and a white T-shirt that did not come from a package of three at a discount store. No, his shirt cost more than a few dollars, probably more than I made teaching all of last Wednesday and part of Thursday. I never knew a casual shirt could look so sexy on a man, or so elegant. Between that and the thick, dark hair that curls around his neckline and the cologne that has me wanting to scoot a little closer, he has me rethinking the way I look all over again.

  It’s hard to sit next to a guy like him and not feel very much like a girl who falls short. I pick at a piece of invisible lint and study my shoes, wishing they would carry me somewhere far from here.

  “I told them we met in a bar.”

  I frown at my lap. “You told who we met in a bar?”

  “Blake and Kimberly.”

  “But we didn’t meet at a bar. We met outside your apartment.” I’m confused. Why the need to lie?

  “That’s true,” he says. But there’s something about his tone. The insecurity I was plagued with moments ago falls away and is replaced by something else. Not exactly anger. More like a warning buzz that travels down—no, up; no, down—my spine. It might be a pleasant feeling in a different situation.

  “What do you mean, a bar?”

  He shrugs, but it’s anything but casual. “I mean, a bar.” He scratches his chin, fidgets. There’s more. Something he isn’t saying.

  “What bar?”

  Silence. Will says nothing, and that says everything.

  This time I enunciate very carefully. “Will, what bar?”

  My hand twitches with a desire to shove him even before he opens his mouth. There’s the anger. I knew it would show up eventually. Holy anger. Justified anger. Anger that beats the heck out of a tingling spine, even though I can’t explain the reason for it. I’m counting on Will to do that for me.

  “Guys and Dolls.”

  “That’s a strip club! You told them I was a stripper?”

  His mouth falls open. “No. A waitress!”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I’m sweating and shivering all at once, which is just great because now I’m convinced I’m coming down with leprosy. I lunge for my purse. Where is my phone? I need to look up the symptoms.

  “No, but at least I didn’t make them think you took off your clothes for—”

  “We met at your doorway.” I can’t deal with him talking about me being naked. Where the heck is my phone? “I was holding a screwdriver and thinking about stabbing you with it. Thinking about it again right now, in fact. A strip club?” Is he insane? I pull my purse to my lap and shift in my seat to face him better. A face-off through my very narrowed eyes. “Isn’t that what you’re trying to get away from? Isn’t that exactly how you got in trouble with the owner’s stepdaughter? Do you want me to call her up and join forces? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Something people don’t know about me: I can be forceful if pushed hard enough. From the way Will swallows, he just found out.

  “Will you stop with the twenty questions?” he blurts. “I promise I’ll clear it up. Just let me figure out a way and—what are you looking for?”

  “I can’t find my phone.” Keys and gum wrappers are flying. “Fix it, Will.” Stupid man and his stupid ego. There is nothing wrong with dating a schoolteacher, so why the need to fancy it up? Or dirty it down, depending on your view. “Fix it, or I walk. I mean it.”

  “Your phone is in the cup holder. Don’t walk. I promise I’ll—”

  “No, never mind. I’ll clear it up myself.” I roll my eyes and grab my phone. Athletes. Especially the professional ones who haven’t spent much time in the real world. Clearly he’s been hit on the head one too many times with a few too many baseballs. “I’m a schoolteacher, Will. I work with kids. You’re not the only one with a reputation that needs to be kept intact. Let me think of something. Just follow my lead and agree to everything I say. Got it?”

  Good news. I don’t have leprosy. But I may have a bad case of pneumonia. I toss my phone in my purse and give up on both diseases because now I have a headache. It’s probably an aneurysm.

  “Got it.” Will pulls into a driveway that stretches toward the biggest house I’ve ever seen up close, and visions of the next hour flash across my brain. That man. That man and his penchant for making up stories. I mean, it isn’t like the truth is such a bad thing and . . .

  My thoughts fade away into nothingness at the sight in front of me. Waves of insecurity rise up and over me again.

  This isn’t a home.
It’s three homes. Five. Maybe even twelve, shoved under one roof. I take a picture even though I know it won’t do the home justice when I show it to Kelly later.

  I’m getting ready to walk into the biggest house I have ever seen, and I’m wearing a dress off the Nordstrom sale rack, and our hosts think I’m a stripper. This is proof that everything hates me.

  Even the gods of good judgment.

  Will

  Out from under the microscope of my two judgmental eyes, Olivia is different. Almost as if I have shoved her into a cocoon of my own making, where wings are held tight and breath is taken within the confines of minimal space. And now that we’re out . . . Olivia has become a butterfly with a wingspan so wide and beautiful it fills this entire room.

  And once again, I’ve become a freaking poet.

  She has no idea how beautiful she is, or how effortlessly she puts others at ease. Maybe it’s an act or a perfectly honed skill developed on the back of many panic attacks, but Olivia has a way with others. A grace that’s hard to find. A kindness that exposes itself despite her desire to blend into the background. From my spot on the massive white leather sofa, I look away from the goddess in front of me and down into my glass. The mixture of rum and Coke is a lot heavier on the carbonation than it should be. The loneliness in my gut is a lot deeper than it should be.

  “You’ve lost your knack for mixing drinks,” I say, swirling the ice and watching it spin. I’m not in the mood for conversation or company. Olivia still hasn’t explained away our meeting, and I have no idea what she’s going to say.

  “Everyone’s a critic.” Blake slips the glass from my hand and walks over to the bar. Adding a scoop of ice, he pours in more liquid and stirs it with a straw before handing it back to me. He sits a few feet away and props up his feet on the round table in front of us. “There you go, princess. If you want more, go get it yourself.”

  I don’t comment, just take a sip—stronger, harder, burns on the way down; more my style—and stare at the television and SportsCenter, trying to get lost in the highlights. For as long as I can remember, games have been my life. I don’t appreciate Olivia’s unwelcome distraction, even though I brought it on myself. But she wasn’t supposed to be charming. She wasn’t supposed to blend with my friends and teammates. She wasn’t supposed to be so damn beautiful. I never should have told her to pull her hair free of that tight ponytail. She should have kept it severe and unflattering and then maybe my nerves wouldn’t be so on edge, my fingers itching to touch the stupid strands every time she walks by.

  Except it’s not just the hair. It’s the eyes. It’s the jawline.

  It’s the body.

  The very hot body in that very appealing black dress.

  I steal another glance her way just in time to see her laughing at some dumb joke Kimberly just told. My back teeth grind together as my jaw works back and forth. The way she sits there so at ease, sinking into the navy chair as though it was made for her. It makes me wonder about the real Olivia. Who is she besides the neurotic neighbor with an odd affinity for cats and a strange obsession with numbers?

  “You know, instead of sitting here pouting, you could go over there and join their conversation.” Blake takes a sip of his gin and tonic and rests the glass on the arm of the sofa, never taking his eyes off the television. “I’ve never seen a man so miserable around a woman, especially one he’s supposed to be dating.”

  I shoot him a look. “I’m not miserable. Just thinking. What do you think they’re talking about? Girl stuff?” The question sounds stupid as soon as I say it. I’m a twelve-year-old boy in middle school dealing with acne and wondering if the girl he likes will go with another boy to the dance. Thank God only Blake heard me. Thank God he’s a good man.

  “Hey, you two,” he calls over the noise of a commercial. “Will wants to know if you’re talking about girl stuff over there. And then I want to know what ‘girl stuff’ actually means.”

  He’s a demon. A freaking demon that hell spit out and dumped on me.

  “Thanks, dude,” I mutter. “Thanks for that.”

  “Well, if you must know,” Kimberly says with a look at me. “Olivia just told me about the real way you met. Not fair making us believe you met in a strip club, Will. Especially when the true story is so much better.”

  Blake does a double take at me. “What’s the true story?”

  He doesn’t look away.

  So I do the only thing I can do, considering the pressure I’m under. I stand up, walk over to Olivia’s side, pull her up, sit down in the spot I just pulled her from, and drag her onto my lap. Immediately she goes rigid. She’s uncomfortable. She scoots to the farthest edge of my knee. She’s sitting like I’m a wooden plank and splinters are wedging into her backside.

  Funny, I suddenly just got really comfortable.

  “I think I’ll let Olivia tell it since I’m sure she remembers the story better than me.” I run a hand across her lower back, then move my hand a littler lower and do it again because I like to feel her squirm. When her hand comes around to grab mine, I move to her butt. A nice butt it is, though from the way her fingernails try to dig into my palm, I’m fairly certain she doesn’t like me touching it.

  She gives up and turns to Blake. Alarm bells go off in my head when I see the beginning of a wicked smile curve her lips. To mute the ringing a bit, I cup my hand around one butt cheek and begin a slow circle. If Olivia is going to give it, she can also learn to take it.

  “I’ll tell you, Blake. And who knows, by the time I’m done you’ll probably have learned about a whole new side of Will . . . one you never knew existed.”

  I shift positions and drop my hand, resisting the urge to dump her to the floor. Something tells me even the chance to feel her butt won’t make up for whatever it is she’s about to say. My discomfort descends like a freaking lightning strike at the same time hers melts away.

  For good reason.

  Did you know you can physically feel your self-image detach itself, suspend in front of you, and fall away?

  Well you can. You really can.

  Chapter 18

  Olivia

  I’m sitting in a silent car, fiddling with the hem of my dress, but the silence is not necessarily a bad thing. A lot can be discovered when no one is talking. Companionship. Camaraderie. Peacefulness. The way another person breathes . . . the rhythm of their unique in and out, back and forth. A quiet that settles deep inside the bones. A quiet that’s hard to come by in today’s busy world, especially with the way social media has taken over every aspect of our lives and completely consumed the minds of—

  “I can’t believe you told them I rescued your cat outside a strip club.”

  I should have known a thunderous storm cloud was brewing in the driver’s seat. So much for the quiet.

  “You’re the one who insisted on adding a strip club. Not my fault I felt the need to alter your story.” I swing my leg back and forth. He glares at it, which only makes me swing it harder.

  “A cat. I don’t rescue cats.”

  “You do when they’re stuck in rain gutters.”

  “I hate cats.”

  “Not Persians. They’re your favorite.”

  “And why in God’s name was he supposedly in a rain gutter in the first place?”

  “Because he slipped off his leash and ran away from me and he knew I wouldn’t be able to climb that high. Were you not paying attention, sweetie?”

  “You realize the leash part makes you sound crazy.”

  “Yeah, the thing about that is . . . I don’t care. I don’t have a reputation to uphold with the DeMarcos. And funny enough, they seemed to like me anyway. Who would have thought it?”

  “Not me. Definitely not me.”

  “Oh, but you did. That’s why you asked me to come here with you in the first place.”

  At that, I know I have him. He goes quiet. Too quiet. Suddenly I don’t like it. Talking with Will is a lot more fun than wondering what he’s thinking. An
d although my made-up story was fun to tell—especially the additional parts about me not working at Guys and Dolls but at the PetSmart across the street that Will frequently visits to check the latest in our hamster collection; I work there because, you know, I need the extra money that teaching just doesn’t offer—I do feel bad. Will is a man. A famous man. A very famous man with very wealthy friends, and the last thing I want to do is embarrass him.

  Maybe not the last thing. Maybe more like the second-to-last thing. Or maybe the third-to-last.

  I sigh. “Are you mad?”

  Suddenly, he looks tired. Too tired. It makes me wonder just how much traveling the country and punishing his body have cost him.

  He runs a hand down his forehead and rests it at his jawline.

  “I’m not mad.”

  At first I don’t believe him, especially when he says nothing else. But then I see it. The jerk of his neck muscle. The way his tongue slides across his bottom lip. The way he pinches his lips together to fight what might be the threat of a smile. And then I can’t resist.

  “It was kind of funny, wasn’t it? And the look on your face while I was talking . . .”

  Finally, his grin breaks free. “Remind me never to cross you again. You’re brutal in your storytelling. Must be that education degree.”

  I shrug and send him a knowing smile. “I’ve always been able to lay down a fantasy world if the occasion calls for it. And your stripper story definitely called for it. And speaking of strippers, the next time you try to grab my butt I will personally break your hand. Then you won’t have much of a career at all anymore.”

  He pretends to think. “Might be worth it. You have a nice butt.”

  Dang it if I don’t blush. “Of course I do. Just keep your hands off.”

  “I don’t pay much attention to hollow threats.”

  That man and his stupid comebacks. I have nothing to offer in return because I’m too busy trying not to remember what his hand felt like. Not as unpleasant as I wish it had been.

  He turns right at the light and pulls into our apartment complex. Turning into a space, he parks and shuts off the engine. I’ve been on dates before. A few, all very proper and routine. But it’s weird to know that we’re coming home to the same place, at least technically speaking. I’m not sure how a woman handles the drop-off when the guy doing the dropping lives one door over. Suddenly I’m nervous and feeling very foolish for it. Especially because his hand was on me an hour ago and a goodnight kiss seems like something I shouldn’t be worried about.