The List

by Melanie Jacobson

  He shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

  “So Louisa’s in charge.”

  “I go to most of her stuff. She’ll be fine if I miss one. Besides, I think they’re doing disc golf at Central Park and that’s not on—” He stopped.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “On the schedule,” he said. “Really good Mexican food is.”

  “I’m not passing up a burrito,” I said. “I’m in.”

  We hammered out the details for dinner, and he helped me stow Louisa’s bike in the Jeep. When I settled into the driver’s seat, I shoved the parking ticket into the glove box with a little more force than necessary before driving off toward home.

  * * *

  “I think I hate traffic more than broccoli,” I said, staring at the same bumper that had been in front of us for the last forty minutes.

  “Yeah,” Matt agreed. “But this is the only freeway into Riverside, and that’s where dinner is.”

  “You’d think if this many people are going there every day, they’d build another freeway or something,” I grumbled.

  “The Metrolink runs through here, but I figured it made more sense to drive than try to figure out how to get to the restaurant from the train station.”

  “How about you entertain me while we sit here? It’s not like there’s anything to see.” We were in a canyon that ran through green rolling hills, but not much broke up the scenery.

  “Entertain you how?” Matt asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Make something up,” I said, which led to another forty minutes of bad knock-knock jokes and riddles.

  When we exited the freeway, Matt drove only a couple of blocks before pulling into the parking lot of a well-known restaurant chain. I knew of two locations within ten minutes of my uncle’s house.

  Confused, I asked, “This is where we’re having dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . . don’t we have Cactus Pedro in Huntington?”

  “Sure, but the enchilada sauce is better here. You’ll see.”

  He hopped out of the car and hurried around to open my door. I shook my head and climbed down from the truck, accepting Matt’s hand and hanging on to it even after I was steady on my feet. He returned the squeeze and tugged me toward the doors of the restaurant. The hostess led us toward some seats on the patio, but Matt stopped her. “Can we sit in the bar area instead?”

  Now I was really surprised. “I want to watch the game,” he explained. “They have TVs in there.”

  “What game?” I asked.

  “You know. The game,” he answered and turned to follow the hostess before I could press him further. Weirder and weirder. Dinner didn’t clear up anything either because my chicken enchilada tasted exactly the same as the ones I ordered in Huntington. Matt seemed distracted, but not by the baseball game airing on the screen behind me. He barely paid it any mind at all since it wasn’t an Angels game. Instead, he kept an eye on the steady flow of patrons gathering around the tables in the bar. By the time the busboy cleared our plates, our part of the restaurant was packed.

  “Did you like your dinner?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, not wanting to be rude and point out that it was no different than usual.

  “Good, good,” he murmured, clearly not paying attention as his eyes darted around the room. The tension in his posture increased as his gaze finally settled on a guy setting up sound equipment in the far corner of the bar area. After a couple of minutes, I realized he was wrangling a karaoke machine. I jerked my head around to pin Matt with a stare.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded. “Did you drag me here to do karaoke?”

  “Only if you want to,” he hurried to reassure me. “I thought—”

  “Wrong. You thought wrong, whatever it is.” Unbelievable.

  “Hear me out—”

  “No,” I snapped.

  “Please?”

  I crossed my arms and glared at him across the table. He wanted me to sit there and listen to his reasons for trying to re-create one of the most embarrassing nights of my life? And yet, his face was so earnest that I gave in.

  “Okay,” I said. “Why are we anywhere near the vicinity of a karaoke machine?”

  “I know that didn’t go so well at church or whatever,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem like you to take a defeat like that lying down. I thought maybe if you tried again . . .”

  “I can try as many times as I want to. I still can’t sing,” I said. “So, no thanks.”

  “I understand,” he said. “But will you cheer for me if I give it a shot?”

  That startled me. “I didn’t know you could sing,” I said.

  “I can’t. But we drove all the way out here where there’s no way we’re going to run into anyone we know, so it seems like if I’m ever going to do it, now’s the time.”

  “Why would you want to do karaoke if you can’t sing?” I asked.

  “Because I hate the thought of getting up and making a fool out of myself, and I hate that it bothers me. Maybe getting up and wailing like an idiot will help me get over myself.” He didn’t look like he’d convinced himself anymore than he’d convinced me.

  “Okay, so this is some kind of intense group therapy thing for you?” I asked.

  “Yeah. That’s it. I’m going to cure myself of self-consciousness with the help of these fine people,” he said, sweeping his arm to encompass the bar patrons.

  “Matt, if you get up there, I’ll cheer louder than anyone.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  With a squeal of the mike, the deejay announced that the weekly Wednesday karaoke competition was underway and people could sign up at his table. Matt stood and I asked, “What are you going to sing?”

  He shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it.”

  He turned through page after page in the deejay’s binders before grabbing the sign-up sheet and writing something down.

  “Well?” I asked, when he came back to the table.

  “You can wait along with everyone else,” he said.

  It turned out to be a short wait. After a good-humored performance of a Willie Nelson song from a middle-aged gentleman, and a disturbingly militant rendition of “I Will Survive” from a tiny girl who looked barely old enough to be in the bar area, the deejay called Matt’s name.

  He rose, a grim line hijacking the place his smile usually occupied, and headed for the front. He stood perfectly still, the microphone gripped in his hand, listening for the opening bars of his song. When they came, I thought the DJ had played the wrong song. “I Got You, Babe,” by Sonny and Cher? Why would he pick a duet?

  He began to sing with a monotone as flat as his expression. The first words came out like they had all been written with the same note. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed Matt’s tone deafness even though I’d sat by him several times in sacrament meeting. I winced as the monotone continued, wondering if he lip-synched during church.

  The crowd obviously wasn’t drunk enough yet for this performance to strike them as funny. I sensed a low rumble starting, along with some uncomfortable seat shifting. Matt stubbornly plowed into the second verse. Sort of. Droned, maybe.

  The audience’s restlessness escalated, and I panicked. I didn’t know the standard protocol when a group turned on a karaoke singer, but I was afraid it might involve flinging their complimentary chips and salsa. Little beads of sweat rolled down the side of Matt’s face, and I realized that he was fully aware things were turning ugly.

  It melted my heart a little. I knew he didn’t need to prove anything to himself. He was trying to make it okay for me to prove to myself that I could do this, that I could redeem myself for my ward activity night disaster if I wanted to. He’d driven through two hours of traffic so I could do my thing in front of complete strangers I would never have to face again and now stood on the stage to demonstrate that it was okay to make a fool out of myself.

  No way could I leave him hanging. Before I could thi
nk too hard about it, I crossed the room, grabbed the other microphone off the deejay’s table, and joined Matt in time to hit the never-ending chorus. He grinned, and we belted out the line fifty million more times without any kind of harmony but with boatloads of enthusiasm that managed to mute the acute embarrassment scorching my cheeks.

  When the song ended, I didn’t dare look at the audience. I looked up at him instead. His smile grew even bigger, and I returned it. “With this happy-hour crowd as my witness, I will never sing karaoke again,” I vowed, then leaned up to kiss him. With a burst of applause and catcalls, the audience reasserted itself, and I pulled away to wave to them. Matt kept a firm hold on my hand as he guided me back to our table, receiving a few high fives on the way. He asked for the check, and fifteen minutes later we were back on the road toward home.

  “Thanks,” I said, dropping my head back against the seat and studying his profile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He shrugged. “Sure I did. After Louisa told me about strong-arming you into the karaoke competition in the first place, I felt bad that I wasn’t there to cheer for you. I wanted to make it up to you. I just didn’t want to do it in front of anyone I might know, so driving forty miles out of town seemed like a good idea.”

  “It was a great idea,” I said and leaned across the gearshift to plant a kiss on his cheek. “That is possibly the dumbest, sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  Another shrug. “You’re worth it,” he said.

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I said nothing at all, but the way his words wormed their way dangerously close to my heart spoke volumes.

  Chapter 24

  I hate movies that mess with time. It makes my brain hurt to figure out how what got changed in the past would then affect the future which was actually the present, which was . . .

  Ack.

  Yet somehow my life had become victim to a time warp. It was the only way to explain how the four weeks that Matt was gone on business stretched and morphed into an endless blob, and the four weeks until school started sped up like they were being fueled by pure caffeine. I had blinked and suddenly found myself in the middle of the Old Testament at Institute, one day away from running a triathlon and less than a week away from packing up to leave for school.

  Wasn’t it just yesterday that I had squeezed my dresses into Celia’s closet to start my summer stay? How did August sneak up so quickly? Maybe it was the “time flies when you’re having fun” thing because goodness only knew how much of an afterthought my Hannigan’s shifts had become to spending time with Matt. Even tonight, a Friday, was only my third shift of the week, and I had almost traded that away because the triathlon was the next morning. Then I realized I had a car insurance payment due and showed up.

  It’s not like Matt even tried to carve out extra time. He just called up with a suggestion for something to do and my brain said, No. You have bills to pay and things to do, and you hung out with him yesterday and every day before that. But what always came out was, “Yes.”

  Every morning, we either surfed or trained for the triathlon. Evenings, except for the few I worked, were full of movies at his house or Sister Powers’s class, or one of Matt’s crazy schemes. We’d painted pottery at a craft store downtown. I made a cool polka-dot switch plate for Celia’s bathroom as a thanks-for-sharing gift, and Matt painted a tall mug with death-metal logos and skulls. “It’ll make me look more manly when I drink fruit smoothies,” he explained. On another night, he dragged me out to a demolition derby on a double date with Derek and a girl who couldn’t stop giggling. Minus the giggling, it was awesome.

  I’d never known anyone with a thirst for adventure as big as Matt’s. Regardless of what we did, he embraced it like it was the best time he’d ever had. He found a Tuscan pottery exhibit I wanted to see as entertaining as a night at an indoor climbing gym near my aunt’s house. I’d known guys in college that I called the “gee whiz” guys who were determined to wear a happy face no matter what; I found those guys pleasant and boring. Matt’s genuine curiosity about everything fascinated me. Every time I thought I’d figured out which niche he fit into, he landed on something else, and I had to rethink.

  I started the summer believing he was the classic, laid-back California surfer. That perception had evolved until I saw him as someone far more . . . complex? Yet that wasn’t the right word either because it implied complicated. There were plenty of surprises with Matt but no secrets or contradictions. It was more a matter of finding new things with every layer that peeled back. That made him even more fun to hang out with, which surprised me, honestly. Normally, a couple of weeks with any guy drove me to boredom or claustrophobia. But Matt . . .

  Didn’t.

  There was no rut to get stuck in, and as much as I knew I should be working more and saving money, an underlying sense of urgency drove me to squeeze in time with him while my mental clock ticked off the moments until school started and the best summer of my life ended. Matt hadn’t brought up dating in the fall again, but I found it on my mind more and more. And every time I thought it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, he called with an invitation to grab dessert at a downtown pizza joint or to see a band play in some dive on the outskirts of L.A. A minute later, I’d be trading off another shift, remembering why I couldn’t afford a distraction like him and doing it, anyway. He was too addictive.

  I was pretty sure I was hooked.

  How else to explain the serious neglect everything in my life was experiencing at the moment? All I did was surf with Matt, train with Matt, or go on dates with Matt. All my other settings were broken. I hadn’t even chatted with Ryder online in over a week.

  I put away my last serving tray and tipped out the busboys. Thank goodness for weekend tips or I’d be in a financial pinch. I shoved the wad of bills in my pocket and headed for the car. Maybe that’s what I needed: a chat with Ryder to clear my head. He may have given up on me coming around anymore but I decided to try him, anyway.

  Even cleaning up as quickly as I could after work, I knew it was probably too late to expect Ryder to still be awake. I logged in and realized exactly how much I had neglected my whole Internet dating project when a backlog of forty-three messages greeted me. I ignored them and ran a quick search to see if Ryder was online. The slim hope of dumping out my woes for his analysis disappeared when I didn’t see the little green dot telling me he was there. I tapped out an e-mail, anyway in case he checked in soon and set my computer aside to give myself a stern talking-to.

  I was right in the middle of a lecture about why giving my shifts away for Matt time was weak when my laptop beeped with a message. I dropped the lecture and jerked my computer onto my lap.

  BoardRyder: Who is this?

  TwinkieSmash: Ashley.

  BoardRyder: Who?

  TwinkieSmash: Ha ha. Sorry I haven’t been around.

  BoardRyder: No problem. I’ve been crazy busy. What’s up?

  TwinkieSmash: The usual.

  BoardRyder: Work?

  TwinkieSmash: Less than usual, actually.

  BoardRyder: So then what’s “the usual”?

  TwinkieSmash: Mr. G.

  BoardRyder: I should have guessed. No, I did guess. I figured that’s why you weren’t around so much.

  TwinkieSmash: Yeah. It’s good.

  BoardRyder: Good.

  TwinkieSmash: Really good.

  BoardRyder: Okay, how good?

  TwinkieSmash: Good, like . . . maybe I might want to date him past the end of the summer.

  BoardRyder: Long distance? Yikes.

  TwinkieSmash: No. Kind of. I guess he’s in Utah during the winter a lot. Snowboarding.

  BoardRyder: And that doesn’t freak you out?

  TwinkieSmash: A little bit. I think it’s okay, though. Maybe.

  BoardRyder: I get it. You want my advice, right?

  TwinkieSmash: Yeah. I’d like a guy’s perspective.

  BoardRyder: My perspective doesn’t really matter.
r />   TwinkieSmash: What do you mean? How come you all of a sudden don’t want to give advice?

  BoardRyder: Because I don’t think you need it. You already know what you want to do.

  TwinkieSmash: Yeah.

  BoardRyder: I thought so. What does this mean for The List?

  TwinkieSmash: Nothing. I was going to have to set it aside for a couple of semesters, anyway.

  BoardRyder: You’re giving up on it?

  TwinkieSmash: No, more like putting it in storage for a while so I can work on school.

  BoardRyder: Well, at least you can cross off the Internet dating one.

  TwinkieSmash: No, I can’t. I didn’t actually go on any dates.

  BoardRyder: Then let’s do that.

  TwinkieSmash: I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  BoardRyder: Why not?

  TwinkieSmash: Because you and I both know my attention is elsewhere. And when I do get back to town, I’m going to be up to my ears in classes and studying.

  BoardRyder: I wasn’t talking about meeting up here. I’m in SoCal now for business, not too far from HB. Maybe we could just say “hello, good-bye” over a meal, and you can cross that item off your list.

  I sat still, taken aback at the idea of meeting Ryder in person.

  BoardRyder: Uh, hello? Are you still there?

  TwinkieSmash: Yes. I’m thinking.

  BoardRyder: Okay. Hit *** every now and then so I know you’re still there while you think.

  TwinkieSmash: *

  TwinkieSmash: *

  TwinkieSmash: *

  BoardRyder: Cute. Done thinking yet?

  TwinkieSmash: Yes.

  BoardRyder: And?

  TwinkieSmash: And the idea of meeting someone off the Internet is suddenly incredibly scary.

  BoardRyder: You’re right. What if you’re a total psycho?

  TwinkieSmash: Busted. I totally am a psycho.

  BoardRyder: I knew it.

  TwinkieSmash: Yeah, I guess if we meet it should be somewhere really public where you can’t kidnap me without causing a scene.

  BoardRyder: Okay. Now it scares me that you even thought of that.

  TwinkieSmash: Hey, a girl can’t be too careful.