Flirting With Love

by Clara Stone

  “So, what do you think?” Hope’s cheery voice jars me out of my thoughts.

  I look at her. I don’t know what it is about Hope, but she makes me want to say yes to things I normally wouldn’t care for. Her hopeful expression starts to fall as I hesitate.

  “Well . . . ?” she prods.

  I turn to Vicki, who looks at her plateful of food like it’s the next worst thing to hairy monkeys.

  “Um . . .” I say, needing a second to think.

  “Hope,” Hudson says. “I don’t think Vicki is much of a party girl, let alone a graduation party . . .”

  Ah! Graduation party. I give him a grateful nod. He smiles, but a bump forms between his eyebrows. I thin my lips and wrap an arm around Vicki’s shoulder, pulling her in.

  “What about you, Blake?” Hope asks. “Come to think of it, I know a handful of guys that’d love to see you again. I think you kinda left a trail of broken hearts after the competition.”

  Heat smothers my face. Without realizing, I let my gaze travel to Hudson. He’s glaring at Hope like she just stole his pet chinchilla and sold it on the black market.

  “I don’t know about that.” I try to brush it off. “I’m sure they only want to get back at me for the itching powder and glue on the toilet seats.”

  “Nuh-ah.” Hope swings her finger at me. “Tell her, Son. Tell her how some of the guys got into a fight about who had dibs on her, until you warned them to stay the hell away.”

  I’m not sure how Hope withstands that glare he’s throwing at her. He looks like a hot furnace full of flames. My shoulders slump. I guess Hudson doesn’t want me around.

  “You can’t intimidate me, Son. So you may as well stop acting like an ass,” Hope yells, frustrated about something. “I’m just saying it like it is.”

  He throws a glare toward me, then back at Hope.

  Whoa. Did I miss something?

  “You’re bullshitting, and I’m the ass?” He grinds his teeth so fiercely, I can almost hear it on our side of the table. “And stop calling me ‘Son.’ ”

  “Well, it’s your name, isn’t it?” She taps her nails on the table. “Partly, anyway.”

  Vicki’s eyes widen as Hudson responds, his voice rising. Her hands grip the edge of her seat, and she shakes visibly, like she’s trying to fight the urge to run. I’ve seen this fear in her before, when her dad came banging on the door four years ago, demanding that I send Vicki back.

  “Vicki,” I say quietly, calmly. But her eyes stare, fear etching her face. I grab her shoulders and turn her to face me. “Look at me, Vicki. You’re safe here,” I say. “Breathe, Vicki. Breathe.” I continue to talk to her, hoping to keep her from losing herself.

  I sigh in relief when she blinks in recognition. “Good girl.”

  She retracts, rounding her spine like she wants to disappear. I place a hand on hers and squeeze in reassurance, swinging my gaze from Vicki to Hope. Hope’s eyes are big and round, full of questions. She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again, like she can’t make up her mind. When I turn my attention to Hudson, I expect the same. But what I find there surprises me. He’s watching Vicki, compassion lining his gorgeous face.

  I slowly stand, pulling the recovering Vicki up with me, and say, “We should go.”

  “Wait,” Hope says. She’s finally found her voice. “Wh-What happen—”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Hudson cuts in. It isn’t an offer, more of a statement.

  I nod, because I welcome Hudson’s interference with Hope’s impending questions. “Thank you.”

  Vicki, Hope, Hudson, and I slowly make our way outside. The sun is setting just below the clouds. The sky’s brilliant shades of orange and pink bring warmth to my skin as we head toward the parking lot and our bicycles. Once we reach the bikes, we stop. Hudson sports a frown.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think riding your bikes home is the best thing,” he says. “It’s getting late.”

  “But then, how will we get the bikes—”

  “I can come back and get them later,” he offers.

  I look to Vicki. Small bags have appeared under her eyes, and her skin looks paler. After the kind of episode she just experienced, I’m not shocked. So I nod. “Okay.” Then add, “Thank you.”

  Hudson grins as he and Hope start to walk away from us, toward the parking lot and, I’m guessing, his car.

  When we get there, he opens the door and slides the passenger seat forward for Vicki to climb in. Before I can climb in after her, though, Hope jumps in. When Vicki doesn’t protest, I look to her, silently asking if she’s okay with it. Vicki shrugs. I worry my lip, contemplating whether or not to insist I sit in the back. Vicki doesn’t like sharing her personal space with strangers, and Hope seems like the kind of person that doesn’t know the meaning of “personal space.” They’re complete opposites. So I can’t help but wonder why Vicki doesn’t object. I watch her, hesitating, until she leans her head back against the headrest and closes her eyes.

  I guess that answers my question.

  Hudson slides the car seat back into place and steps away, giving me a way to get in. I step up and place my hand on the door, very close to his, but making sure I don’t touch it. I look up at him through my lashes.

  He’s a head taller and more attractive than most boys in my school. I study the stubble on his jaw, the way his t-shirt hugs the contours of his chest. The beanie on his head makes him look so . . . so normal, so unlike the always groomed Golden Boy from Cranbrook Preparatory High. His hazel eyes look right back at me, clouded in an unfamiliar way.

  I want to turn away, but I don’t. Instead, I look at him.

  Really look at him.

  I’ve known him for a total of a week and a few hours, yet I have a feeling there’s more to him than I initially thought.

  In the last hour alone, he’s stopped Hope from prodding further into Vicki’s life and offered us a ride home without us having to ask. And now . . . he’s waiting, patiently, for me to stop staring at him, looking at me with those serene eyes. Maybe I haven’t given him enough credit.

  Is there more to Hudson Lovelly than he lets the rest of the world see?

  I smile at him. Maybe this Hudson Lovelly is someone I could’ve been friends with in another life, one where I’m not from the opposite side of the social spectrum.

  “What is it?” he asks, stepping closer, the door moving with him.

  I gaze into his eyes. “If it isn’t too much to ask, I’d like to come back and pick up the bikes tonight. After we drop Vicki off?”

  He gives a thoughtful pause, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay.”

  “Thanks, Hudson.”

  He nods, once again holding the door wide open. As soon as I slide in, he shoves it closed and climbs into the Jaguar.

  I’M LEANING AGAINST the passenger side of the car, my legs crossed at the ankles, watching Blake and Vicki head up the path to Vicki’s door. Blake wraps her arms around her friend, drawing her into a bear hug. When she pulls away, Vicki nods at something she says, giving her a tight-lipped smile. But before Blake steps away, Vicki grabs her hand and leans in, like she’s asking her something.

  I have so many questions. Why did Vicki freak out at the mall? Is she like this often? Is there anything I can do to help? But I don’t ask. I can feel frustration and anger coming off Blake in waves, and I don’t want to add to it.

  So I keep my distance, letting my gaze rove across the small house before me. It’s very similar to the other homes in the neighborhood. Small, but put together. Chipped paint, sidings coming off their foundations, and small yards filled with junk, like the stuff has no place inside. All of them the same, except . . . . I throw a glance over my shoulder to the home behind me. That one. It looks like extra effort has been put into it to make it seem more inviting. I return my attention to Vicki’s front door.

  A rap on the window against my back startles me. For a long moment, I’d forgotten that Hope is still in the car, wait
ing. I turn around as the glass rolls down silently.

  “You have it bad, Son,” Hope says, giving me a cheeky grin.

  “I told you not to call me that,” I answer, throwing a quick glance at Vicki and Blake.

  She ignores me, wrapping her arms over the door and staring up at me. “I think I finally have you and this past month’s bitchy personality figured out.”

  I glance over my shoulder and chuckle. “Did you seriously just call me bitchy?”

  “Don’t change the subject.” She raises her eyebrows. “You like her, Son.”

  “So?” I cross my arms under my chest and face away from Hope, toward Vicki’s now empty porch. They must have gone inside.

  “You don’t get it. You like her, like her.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek and shove my hands into my pockets, playing with Jags’s key as I think about Blake’s brown eyes—like chocolate drops—and how expressive they are.

  As if on cue, Vicki’s door opens and Blake steps out onto the front porch. Her eyes tell me her troubles loud and clear, though her lips curl up in a smile.

  “Son,” Hope calls, and I glance over my shoulder again.

  “Will you stop calling me that?”

  “Sun, sun, Mr. Golden Sun. Please shine down on meeeee.” She starts singing away.

  I groan and facepalm. “Stoooopp. Please, show some mercy.”

  She giggles. “If I hadn’t been going through my lazy time in preschool, I’d never have come up with that brilliant nickname. I mean, how perfect was it, that you’d walk in with that golden head of hair and introduce yourself just as I was singing that song? It was fate, I tell you. Too perfect a coincidence not to call you Son.”

  I look back, and she grins up at me like a two-year-old high on sugar. “Fate my ass. I clearly remember introducing myself as Hudson. Not Son.” I shake my head and point up as I add, “Or Sun.”

  Nickname aside, meeting Hope on that playground does sometimes feel like fate, and is worth every second I’ve known her since.

  “Don’t be a sour puss, you big giant douche-nozzle.”

  I shake my head again. “Whatever.”

  She waves her hand dismissively and continues, drawling out the syllables of the first word with pointed exasperation, “Annywaay, I think she’ll do you good. And I insist you ask her out.”

  I roll my eyes and look away. “God, you’re annoying!”

  She’s been this way for as long as I’ve known her: intruding, plotting, insisting on butting into every single part of my life. But secretly, I like it that way. With her, I can be defective, an unruly boy without responsibilities.

  Sometimes, she’s the only reason I can breathe. She doesn’t expect me to be the model son, model student, model everything.

  “You need to set an example for your brothers, Hudson,” Dad said. “They’re your responsibility now, as much as they are mine. As the eldest, they’ll look up to you.” He fixed my tie so it lay perfectly under my collar. “Any choices you make, from eating, to sports, to the girls you date, they’ll follow. Remember that.”

  I was fifteen then. Harrington was seven, and Heath had just turned three.

  And Mom . . .

  Mom was hospitalized. It wasn’t until a few days later, when I saw Heath crying in the hallway outside Mom’s door, eavesdropping on a conversation between our parents, that I realized just how much of a responsibility I had to take care of my brothers.

  Hope pokes me in the back. I look up to see Blake walking toward me and bite back a smile.

  “Take a chance. Live a little,” Hope whispers, so only I can hear.

  “Hey,” Blake greets, stopping before me.

  “Hi,” I reply, resisting the inevitable smile.

  “It’s getting kinda late,” she starts, her eyes gazing at the last evidence of orange in the sky before returning to me.

  I nod, quietly and quickly trying to think of ways to stick around. But something in the way she looks at me, unwavering and yet shy, tells me she doesn’t care that it’s late.

  “I can go pick up the bikes tomorrow or something. I don’t want to trouble you, or Hope.”

  “It’s no trouble,” I reply.

  She thinks on that for a second, glancing at her watch before looking at me with her eyebrows knit together. I can tell she’d rather not walk to the mall, but for some reason, she hesitates.

  “Look,” I say, opening the passenger door. “If I drive you there and back, it’ll take you less than fifteen minutes. And really, it’s not a big deal.”

  “Okay,” she blurts. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

  I simply smile, pulling the door wider to let her climb in. As I get in the car, I catch a glimpse of Hope’s shoulder shaking from laughter, her fingers frantically typing away on her phone, like she’s pretending not to be here.

  The drive back to the mall is filled with small talk. As I pull into the lot, creeping to a stop next to the bike rack, it suddenly hits me. How the hell am I going to fit two bicycles in my baby? Oh. Shit. I really didn’t think that through when I offered.

  Keeping my concern from showing on my face, I get out quickly and run toward the passenger side door to open it before Blake gets out. Hope follows behind her as I click open the trunk, but then takes off in the direction of the mall.

  “Where are you going?” I call after her.

  “Shopping.” She winks at me, and I know what she’s doing.

  “It’s almost nine,” I say. “The mall’s about to close.”

  “Maddie’s inside. You two enjoy. Maybe buy yourself a latte or something after you drop off Blake’s bikes.” Then she mouths, “You’re welcome.”

  Before I can scowl at her for the obvious matchmaking attempt, she runs out of sight.

  Blake clears her throat. I groan, throwing my head back, my eyes closed. I’m going to kill Hope. With a heavy sigh, I turn and head to the trunk.

  “Um . . .” she says, avoiding eye contact as she looks at her bike, and then the trunk. “How are we going to fit two bikes in that?”

  Silently sending thanks that she doesn’t bring up Hope and her thinly veiled exit, I turn my attention to the issue at hand.

  “We can maybe fit one. Two’s going to be pushing it, though” I say, imagining all the scratches my baby’s about to endure.

  Why didn’t I drive Dad’s SUV today?

  “I could rid—”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I cut her off, putting my finger up when she starts to object. “Just give me a minute, okay? We’ll make it work.”

  I crawl inside the car and pull down the back seat, opening up more space. Then, shrugging out of my jacket, I take the bike from her. I cover the handles with the fabric and slowly place the bike in, making sure no part of my car gets scratched. Once it’s in place, I grab the second one. I turn it around and start to ease it through the tight space, wincing at the obvious spot where it’ll rub against the underbelly of the trunk. Delicate hands come into view as Blake shoves her jacket between the bike and Jags. I look up in surprise, and she smiles.

  I nod to her in appreciation. With a sigh, I close the trunk and move to pull open the passenger side door. Once Blake slides in, I close the door and head to the driver’s side.

  It isn’t until I’m fully seated and secure that I realize it’s just the two of us. Blake and me. For the next fifteen minutes. No interruptions, or Hope, or—as selfish as it sounds—Vicki. Just her and me. I tighten my grip on the wheel, feeling nerves rise to the surface.

  “Thank you, again,” Blake says. I can feel the weight of her eyes on me. “I know how much you love your car, and I really, really do appreciate your help.”

  I give her a quick glance and put on an innocent smile. At least, I think it’s innocent. “How could I not save the damsel in distress?”

  She stays silent for a moment. “I suppose.”

  I hear a definite smile in her voice, but I want to make sure, so I throw another glance in her direction.
Her head is turned away from me, but I catch a small, curling smile reflecting back on the glass.

  A few more minutes pass in awkward silence. I zoom past the traffic, reveling in the purr of the engine as Jags picks up speed.

  “I like this song,” Blake says, reaching toward the volume; she pauses before her finger lands on the touch screen and looks over at me with those big brown eyes. “Do you mind?”

  I dip my chin to say, “Go ahead.” She increases the volume, and the lyrics pour into the car. A country singer talks about keying her ex’s ride for cheating on her. I throw a glance toward Blake and catch her completely immersed in the song, her head moving with the beat, her lips spelling out the words.

  I hold my breath, waiting, wondering if she has a personal connection to this song and wanting to hear her singing voice, but it never comes.

  Soon, I’m turning the corner toward her house. Our time is up. Disappointment roots deep inside my chest, and I try to think of ways I can prolong the inevitable.

  “So,” Blake says, as I come to a stop next to the curb in front of her home. It’s the put together one across from Vicki’s that I noticed earlier. Figures.

  I cut off the engine and turn to face her. Her lips are full and ridiculously red, like she’s been chewing on them. I’m mesmerized, fixated on her mouth, on how close we are. I drop my gaze to her exposed neck, then bring it back to her mouth. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it. I want to reach out and free it.

  I suddenly feel hot and sweaty and all kinds of bothered. I need a distraction. A distraction that isn’t her mouth, or the thought of how nice it’d feel against mine.

  I bring my gaze to her eyes. They look big, and round, and expectant. And kind of like chocolate kisses.