The List

by Melanie Jacobson

  I gave myself a mental head slap and refocused on the words of the hymn, determined not to be distracted. I did well until the sacrament ended and my train of thought derailed to speculate about where Matt would choose to sit after he was done passing the sacrament. One surf lesson and a date might not be enough of a lure to draw him to the seat next to me, the one I had strategically maneuvered Celia away from in case Matt felt the pressing need to sit there.

  He didn’t. He took a seat next to Derek near the front, never looking my way. No problem, I decided. Sitting together in sacrament meeting screamed, “We’re practically engaged so don’t talk to either of us,” so sitting by his roommate made sense. I guess. I turned my attention to the speaker. She was about five minutes into a really interesting talk when someone slipped into Matt’s rejected seat. I glanced over at my new neighbor and discovered an extremely good-looking blond guy settling in. He flashed me a bright smile, which I returned before turning back to the girl at the podium. I got caught up in her talk again, but a minute later Blond Smiley Guy leaned over and whispered, “I’m Aaron,” and held out a hand.

  Startled, I shook it and whispered, “I’m Ashley,” then dropped his hand and turned back to the speaker, signaling that I wanted to listen. I thought. That I was signaling, I mean. Apparently not, because Blond Aaron, still leaning toward me, whispered, “Are you new in the ward?”

  I turned to him with a slightly incredulous look. “I’m sorry,” I answered. “I can’t hear you over the speaker.”

  Too bad my pointed hint was lost on Blond Aaron. He tried again. “I asked if you’re new to the ward.”

  His stage whisper caused Dave to snort. I only liked to make people laugh on purpose, so that chapped my hide even more.

  “Yes,” I hissed, not giving him any material for a follow-up question.

  He asked one, anyway. “How new?”

  “I’m visiting for a while this summer so I can be with my fiancé,” I hissed, and wondered if the chapel ceiling would lift off so the lightning could strike me without damaging the building. It couldn’t be good to lie in church. Or ever, really, but especially not in church. But he didn’t ask any more questions, so I didn’t feel too bad. By the time the service ended, he took off, presumably for easier hunting. I went to stake out my claim on the back row of the Relief Society room where my Sunday School class of choice was held.

  I walked in expecting to find the usual teachers, a team of a girl my age and a guy a year or two younger. Her close reading of the scriptures was a good balance to his less studied but utterly sincere zeal. Instead, I saw Matt standing there, setting up like he was going to teach. This put me in a position to feel like an inadvertent public stalker and also admire his super cool gold tie. I wavered for a moment before taking a backseat, not wanting to make things awkward by turning around to walk out for no apparent reason. Unless I counted “I kind of like you and don’t want you to think that I do so I can’t come to your class if you think I’m here just to see you” as a reason. Which I did not, because that would be so junior high. I like to operate on at least a sophomore level.

  Actually, despite the slightly hardened shell I have after years of dating and the thick outer crust of cynicism I developed after watching multiple variations of the same tired games play out, I really think that once you get past the games and dig a little deeper, things work out. I couldn’t think of any other reason for the millions of marriages taking place each year. But that was exactly why treating dating like a game worked for me. It kept things light, and as long as I was honest, no one got hurt. If a guy started getting too attached, I withdrew and left him free to find someone else who was looking for the same level of commitment.

  I made the mistake of getting too comfortable in a relationship once. A couple of years before my mission, I dated a guy from my ward named Dylan. I was so into him it would have been ridiculous if he hadn’t been so into me too. The problem was that inside of a month, I found myself neglecting my coursework and trading away work shifts to spend time with him. My grades and my finances suffered, and when he started talking marriage, I realized I was heading down a dangerous road. If he could distract me from my goals so quickly while we were dating, there was no chance I would stay on track if I got married. I hated hurting him, but it was better than resenting him later like Leila did with her soon-to-be ex-husband.

  Matt posed an interesting challenge. I felt myself drawn to him. My play-it-cool approach had worked to pique his interest, but now that I had it, I didn’t feel my usual need for a buffer, and I couldn’t figure out why. In the split second I had to think about it before he headed toward me, I decided it was because leaving at the end of the summer was my buffer. Leaving offered me an escape hatch from any relationship, which in turn gave me the freedom to relax with him a little more, knowing anything between us would end when August did. I had no time for messy entanglements past that.

  “Hey, Ashley,” he said, slipping past me to the seat on my right.

  “You’re teaching today?”

  “I’m subbing for Shelley,” he said, naming the girl who normally taught.

  “What about her partner?”

  “Tod? He says things don’t go well if he teaches by himself, so he asked me to take over for today.”

  “Are you nervous?” I doubted it. He never looked anything but calm, cool, and collected.

  “Not really. I accept that I don’t know nearly as much as half the room does about the lesson and move on.”

  “I doubt that’s true or he wouldn’t ask you to teach the lesson.”

  “He just asked me because I used to be Shelley’s partner.”

  “Ah, but you folded under the pressure, and they had to replace you?” I teased him.

  “Or else I travel too much in the winter, and they needed someone who’s actually here every Sunday.”

  “Why do you travel so much during the winter?” I asked.

  “The shop,” he said, and I waited for more, but a wave of people spilled through the door before he could elaborate, and he smiled and headed toward the front of the room.

  Once the milling had about settled down, Matt invited a guy on the front row to say an opening prayer, and then he dove into the lesson involving some chapters in Alma. I noticed that he avoided interjecting his opinion, instead guiding the discussion from one person to the next and using their own comments to connect ideas by paraphrasing. I could see a pleased face here and there when someone felt like he or she had made a point that was validated by Matt, rather than overtaken and engulfed in his own point. Much like the first part of sacrament meeting, I paid less attention to the lesson than I should have, focusing instead on watching Matt work and the room respond to him.

  I noticed my new BFF, Megan from Institute, sitting on the second row, eager to shoot her hand up and answer every question, whether her point made sense or not. I even paid close enough attention to figure out that Matt called on her every fourth time she raised her hand. I gave him credit for keeping the class on track in spite of her observations. At one point, the discussion turned to the Savior’s parable of faith as a mustard seed, and Megan threw in her bizarre two cents. “I grew a mustard plant once. I started it from a seed, and then when it produced, I dehydrated the mustard pods and decided to try a mustard jelly instead of an actual mustard because I believe in kitchen creativity.”

  Matt didn’t even crack a smile. The guy was a rock.

  When the lesson ended, a throng of females immediately surrounded him. I waited for him to look up before I waved, then headed for the drinking fountain and a little liquid refreshment while I waited for the Relief Society room to clear. I was standing in the hallway perusing the bulletin board (which had clearly been done by a sister with a surplus of Stampin’ Up tools) when Blond Aaron sidled up to me. I don’t like sidling. Matt and his excellent saunter were a totally different thing than Blond Aaron’s oozy sidle.

  “Hey, there,” he said. “Ashley, right?”


  He acted like retaining that information in the hour since sacrament meeting constituted a major accomplishment. “No, I’m Barb,” I said, just to mess with him.

  “You are?”

  “No, I’m Ashley. And you’re . . . ?” I knew it would not be a good idea to let on that I remembered his name even for an hour.

  “Aaron,” he prompted me.

  “That’s right. I had a dog named Aaron, but it was bad and ran away a lot and got hit by a car.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that,” he said. I might have felt bad for killing off an imaginary dog if Aaron looked like he genuinely sympathized. But no. Instead, he used my fake dog’s death as an opening.

  “I hope you’re not still too bummed about that,” he said. I felt an almost physical urge to wrinkle my nose at his manufactured charm, but I refrained.

  “I was two, and I didn’t really like the dog. Did I mention it was bad? Bad, bad Aaron,” I said, shaking my head in sorrowful emphasis.

  “I’m glad you’ve had time to get over it, but I could offer you a shoulder to cry on if you really needed it,” he said, unsubtly flexing to draw attention to his muscles. Unfortunately for him, it also drew my attention to the fact that he had less neck than I preferred on guys, and that sealed his fate. His player vibe didn’t help him, either.

  I was about to extricate myself from the conversation via another imaginary issue. “Gotta scoot. I have cramps,” works well in these situations, but he suddenly straightened and took a slight step back. Before I could look over my shoulder to follow his gaze, Matt slid an arm around me.

  “How’s it going, Aaron?” he asked.

  “Hey, Matt,” Aaron said, backing up even farther. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were engaged. I’d talk, but I’m late for priesthood,” and he ducked around the corner to the gym before I could open my mouth to refute his misconception.

  “Ashley,” Matt said seriously, removing his arm. “We need to talk.” He moved so we were face-to-face and then took both of my hands in his. “You make really good poppy seed dressing, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to marry you.”

  Without missing a beat, I squeezed his hands and stared into his eyes. “But what about the grilled cheese, Matt? What about the grilled cheese?”

  “I made that,” he whispered gently. “If you had made it, maybe things would be different right now.”

  A laugh bubbled out before I could stop it. “In that case, I guess I’ll quit telling everyone we’re getting married.”

  “What was that all about, anyway?” he asked, still smiling.

  “He wouldn’t stop talking to me in sacrament meeting, so I invented a fiancé, and when you walked up, I guess he thought I meant you. Sorry about that,” I said.

  “No problem,” he shrugged it off. “But seriously, he’s bad news. Staying away from him is a smart move.”

  “Why was he was so desperate to get away from you?” I asked. “I think that was fear in his beady eyes.”

  “There might have been an episode while he was dating my sister when I invited him to never come around again and told him ignoring me might pose a serious threat to his health.”

  “Wow, remind me not to cross you. Do you have to beat up guys for her regularly?” Best to get any undisclosed rage issues out now.

  “No. I’ve never been in a fight, but I’d be happy to take a swing at Aaron if I ever had a reason,” he admitted.

  “Okay, I promise not to change my mind about him.”

  “You made it up so quickly?”

  “Yeah. I think I settled on narcissistic and ego-driven game player who seeks out fresh meat because the locals are on to his tricks.”

  “Then you’re a great judge of character.” He cocked his head and asked, “What have you decided about me?”

  “Hmm, Matt Gibson . . .” I pretended to mull. “You are—” but I was saved from an answer when a cute redhead appeared at his elbow and batted her lashes.

  “Hey, Matt. Are you barbecuing today?”

  I grinned when a slightly exasperated expression flickered across his face before he restored his polite mask.

  “I’m not. Sorry,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said with a little pout. “That’s a bummer. Your thighs were so good last week. Maybe next time.” I think I missed her exit because my eyes nearly crossed in an effort to control my inappropriate giggles.

  “She’s talking about the chicken I made last week,” he muttered, obviously embarrassed.

  “Of course she was,” I said.

  “Are you coming over tonight?”

  “I thought you just said you weren’t barbecuing.”

  “I’m not. Derek is. She didn’t ask about Derek,” he said with a smile.

  “Well, thanks for the invite, but I don’t think I can make it,” I said.

  “Is this the antisocial thing again?” he asked.

  “No, this is the getting-ready-for-the-week thing,” I retorted. “Trust me, you’ll never even miss me in the crowd.” I took a step backward, toward the Relief Society room. “Maybe I’ll see you at Institute or something.” Then I gave him another small wave and made my way to class.

  * * *

  I cursed myself for being a bonehead later that night. Rejecting the barbecue invitation left me with the alternative of spending the evening with some scary LDS Lookup options. Like TwinofAdonis, who had a profile picture of himself shirtless and flexing. Um . . . no. I also took a pass on LonelyLeland, who looked pleasant enough in his profile picture, but included a preoccupation with building model trains and railroads in his list of interests. In fact, his description of his hobby-turned-passion verged on essay length and did a fair job of providing a subtext for the “lonely” part of his screen name. WolfMan didn’t include a photo, maybe because his profile was new to the site, but I knew I wouldn’t be waiting around to see it after reading that he was “looking for a cool girl that wasn’t crazy like my first two ex-wives.”

  I set my laptop aside and lay back on my bed to stare at the ceiling. I could be enjoying over-grilled hamburgers and generic potato chips right now if I had accepted Matt’s invitation. But no, I had to go be all cool and mysterious and let him think about why I wasn’t there.

  I picked up my cell phone, toying with it for a minute, but yelped when it vibrated with an incoming text. It’s Matt, I read. Can you really pass up carne asada?

  I texted back. How did you get my number?

  Dave narced it out. Kill him later, eat carne asada now.

  Now how was I supposed to say no to steak? No frozen bulk burgers and store brand cheese curls?

  Living the high life. Come over.

  I need the address, I typed, and jumped up to raid the dresser for something to wear.

  By the time my phone chimed to let me know that his address was waiting, I already had my head halfway through a cute turquoise long-sleeved shirt, sleeves being essential on a cool summer night near the beach. With a pair of denim capris and some white flip-flops trimmed in silver beads, I felt ready to meet Matt on his turf.

  Celia took off for a friend’s house earlier in the evening or I would have invited her too, but for the moment, I was flying solo. Matt’s place turned out to be a run-down little house on Seventeenth Street, just a couple of blocks from the water. In Huntington Beach, any twenty-something guy with a surfboard would gladly trade nicer digs for a shack if it meant having the proximity to the beach that Matt and Derek enjoyed. In between cars whizzing by on the nearby coast highway, I could hear the crash of waves against the sand.

  I could have found the house easily with only a street name and no house number, because tiki torches on the lawn illuminated people spilling past the yard’s white fence and onto the sidewalk. I recognized several faces from around the ward, and I scanned them in search of Matt’s. I found it as he picked his way through the crowd.

  “Hi, Ashley,” he said, hands shoved into the pockets of some tattered cargo shorts. The faded insignia on
the front of his worn sweatshirt was indiscernible in the half light of dusk. Glad I had settled on a tee shirt instead of trying to get dolled up, I mentally thanked Celia for her insistence that no one dresses up for anything in HB during the summer except church.

  “Hi,” I said back. “You mentioned carne asada?”

  “Coming right up,” he said. “Let me show you where the grub is.”

  I followed him through the gate. Instead of leading me up the front porch steps, we wound around to the back of the house where the smell of grill smoke mingled pleasantly with the salty air. It was nearly eight o’clock and the sun had set, but traces of daylight hung on long enough to mute the flames from the barbecue as they licked at the meat sizzling on the racks above them. Derek manned the grill and waved at us absentmindedly. A table flanking the sliding doors at the back of the house offered up chips, salsa, and . . .

  “Guacamole,” I breathed happily, heading for the table. I grabbed a paper plate and served myself a healthy heap of the squishy green goodness, tortilla chips, and a couple of chewy Chips Ahoy that hadn’t been gobbled up yet. I was debating the wisdom of adding carrots and ranch (more for the ranch than the carrots) when Matt started laughing.

  “I feel like I’m rescuing you from starvation,” he said, gesturing to my full plate.

  “I like to eat,” I said. “You thought I came here for the company?”

  “I hoped.” He grinned.

  “I might have,” I conceded. “It depends.”

  His eyebrow crept up. “On what?”

  “Do you know any good jokes?”

  He took a seat on the shabby sofa opposite the grill and patted the cushion next to him, which I claimed.

  “Uh, okay. Two surfers are getting ready to paddle out. The first guy says, ‘Hey, guess what! I got a new long board for my wife!’ and his friend answers, ‘Great trade!’”

  It was my turn to lift an eyebrow at him, then I twisted around and pretended to huddle over my food and eat it while ignoring him.

  He groaned. “All right, I’ve got another one. How do you get your dishwasher to start working?”