by S. M. Koz
“You seem upset,” I say in the understatement of the night.
“She lied to me.”
“About what?”
“We always agreed we were just friends.”
“I don’t know her very well,” I say, biting my nail again, “but it seemed to me like she wanted to be more than friends.”
“It only started when you arrived.”
“Sorry,” I offer.
He surprises me by laughing and then joining me back in the TV room. “What are you sorry for?”
“Because I made her act in a way that was annoying to you?”
“You didn’t make her do anything. I think she’s jealous. She sees that I like you, and she wants me to treat her that way.”
“We aren’t really anything. You can be with her,” I say, as self-doubt creeps in again. Michelle and Brad make much more sense than me and Brad.
“Did you miss the part where I said I like you?”
“You and she make more sense.”
“How do you figure?”
“You’re the same. Beautiful. From good families. Smart. You’re congruent,” I say with a sad smile.
He takes two steps closer. “I thought we already agreed congruency is boring. Plus, you’re more beautiful than her.”
I roll my eyes because there is no way I’m prettier than her. “Don’t feel like you owe me anything. I don’t want to come between the two of you.”
“There’s nothing to come between. I have never liked her as more than a friend.”
“Abbie said your relationship with her is complicated.”
“Really?” He seems surprised. “What else did Abbie have to say?”
“Nothing. She said I should ask you about it.”
“What do you want to know?” He holds his hands out, inviting me to ask anything.
I feel like a nosy friend, but I want to know and he’s offering to tell me, so I ask, “Why is it complicated?”
“It’s not complicated to me.”
I roll my eyes again, this time at him evading the question after pretending to be so open. “Why would Michelle think it’s complicated?” I re-phrase.
“Because she agreed to something and then changed her mind about the stipulations, but didn’t bother mentioning it to me.”
“What’d she agree to?”
“Sex.”
My mouth drops open. “With you?”
“Yeah.”
He’s mad at Michelle for lying to him when he did the same thing to me. I point at him and say, “You lied to me! You said you were a virgin.”
“I never said that. You couldn’t even ask the question because you couldn’t say the word virgin.”
“But you led me to believe you were.”
“No. I told you to ask me the question, but you refused. I honestly had no idea what assumption you made.”
“I asked if you had one night stands and you said no.”
“This wasn’t a one night stand.”
He’s got to be kidding. This is the definition of a one night stand. And to think I felt like such a worthless person around him because of this. “Here I was feeling like a complete tramp for my experience and you’re no better,” I say, pointing my finger at him again. “You were sleeping around with random friends for no reason!”
He lets out a long breath and pushes my accusing finger down. “There are so many things wrong with that statement,” he says, shaking his head.
I narrow my eyes at him, but he continues.
“First of all,” he says, “You were never a tramp. You made a bad decision in selecting a slimy boyfriend who has to be what, three, four, five years older than you?”
Three, but I don’t tell him that. We’re focused on him and his lying, not my sordid past.
“Secondly, it was never random friends with an s. It was a friend. One. Singular. And one night. One time. That’s it.”
Sudden, up-lifting and fast-paced music sounds from the TV. The movie is still on and the young guy finally realized his mistake and is running through the airport to find the love of his life. It’s kind of funny such an optimistic part of the movie would hit right now, in the middle of our argument.
“And finally,” Brad says, not caring about the movie, “there was a reason. It wasn’t some drunken hook-up. We talked about it and each wanted to practice with someone we knew and trusted. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I’m the freaking quarterback. People expect me to have experience. I didn’t want to finally find a girl I liked and be horrible in bed.”
“And you thought one time was all you needed to master sex?” I ask with a laugh. This is turning into the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever had.
“She seemed pretty satisfied,” he says with a smirk and then sits down next to me. “Maybe I’m a natural.”
I can’t stop myself from smiling at his cockiness. I have no doubt he’s a natural. He’s good at everything he does, so why would this be any different?
He offers me his charming smile and I know I can’t be mad at him. He had sex, so what? So have I. Many times. And, he’s right—he didn’t lie to me. I didn’t ask, so he had no reason to offer the information.
“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You agreed to have sex once with no strings attached, but she enjoyed it so much she now wants you to be her boyfriend?”
“More or less.”
“What do you want?”
He looks me directly in the eyes and says, “You.”
The butterflies resurface from their temporary hibernation. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
“Never. I’ll always tell you the truth, Hailey, whether it’s what you want to hear or not.”
He reaches for my hand, which I gladly give to him.
The movie is over, so he switches back to the television and finds a different romantic comedy that’s just starting.
“Michelle really knows how to clear a place out,” I note.
“That’s not such a bad thing. Come here,” he says, pulling my body to him. I snuggle into his side and rest my head against his shoulder. His warmth and clean, fresh scent are like nectar to the butterflies in my chest, making them flutter even faster.
I tilt my head so I can see his face. He smiles down at me and then focuses back on the television, taking me by surprising. Does he not want to make out? Is he content to just sit here and cuddle? I’m not used to this, but I have to admit it feels nice.
Wrapping my arm around his stomach, I get a taste of the abs that have teased me for a month. He rests his hand on my hip.
And we sit like that for the entire movie.
The entire movie.
He never once tried to kiss me. Or feel me up. Or anything. He barely even moved. I readjusted a few times, thinking my movement might entice him to try something, but he just stared at the screen the entire time.
At some point it went from sweet cuddling to awkward.
“Well, I should go to bed,” he says. “I’ve got to get up early to work out.”
I nod and stand. He changed his mind. He’s realized he doesn’t really like me. Of course, he did.
I follow him to the second story and he surprises me by turning toward my room. He holds open my door for me and then waits outside.
“Well …” he says.
“Well …”
“I had fun with you tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, why?”
I shake my head. “Me, too,” I lie. I guess it’s not a total lie. I did have fun initially. It’s just the ending that was kind of weird and confusing.
“So, goodnight,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Goodnight.”
“Yeah, then,” he says, rocking back on his heels. His eyes move from my eyes to my mouth and then back to my eyes. “Okay. See you in the morning.”
He leans over and kisses the top of my head.
The top of my head.
Seriously?
He turns around and strolls down the hallway. I step out and watch him enter his bedroom and shut the door. Then, I hear a thud and wonder what in the heck that was all about.
Chapter 16
BRAD
What in the hell is wrong with me?
I bang my head against the closed door again. She’s going to think I’ve got absolutely zero game. I looked like such a dumbass tonight.
“Ugh,” I groan, unbuttoning my shirt. I don’t want to be Chase who’s only looking for a good time, but in the process of trying to appear the exact opposite, I ended up looking like a tool. There has to be a middle ground. I remove my shirt and throw it in the hamper, then unzip my jeans.
I like her and want her to know that, but I also want things to move at her speed. The problem is I have no idea what her speed is. Would she have been okay with me kissing her tonight? Doing something more? She gave me no clues. I thought maybe she was waiting until we said goodnight to kiss, but she didn’t make a move when I was standing outside her room, either.
I yank off my jeans and then pad to my bathroom to brush my teeth.
“You’ve got to let her take the lead,” I say to myself in the mirror, toothpaste foam oozing out of my mouth. “She’s not used to being in charge. Let her do it, no matter how painful it might be.”
I spit, rinse my mouth, and then take a very cold shower.
*****
The next morning, I get up early, finish a grueling work out, and help Mom make biscuits and gravy for breakfast. Help might not be the correct word. I popped open the roll of biscuits and put them in the oven. That’s about the extent of my cooking expertise.
Dad and Hailey must smell the food because they both join us right as Mom’s finishing up.
Hailey’s got my old sweatshirt on again, which does things to me I don’t want happening in front of my parents. There’s something about a girl in your clothes. It must be another primitive instinct like wanting to protect her. If she’s got my clothes on, then she’s mine. I know that’s a ridiculous and chauvinistic thought, but damn if it doesn’t turn me on.
I quickly take my seat and tell her good morning.
She smiles and then looks at the tabletop. My parents sit down and we all eat breakfast like normal.
It’s as if nothing happened between me and Hailey yesterday.
By the end of the meal, I start questioning myself. Did we really admit that we kind of like each other? Did we cuddle during the movie? Or, was it a dream?
After my parents leave and Hailey starts rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, I take a seat on a stool across from the sink.
“I kind of like you,” I say to be sure there’s no ambiguity.
She smiles. “Still?”
“So, I did tell you that yesterday?”
She wrinkles her brow and looks at me out of the corner of her eye like I’ve got a horn growing from my forehead or something. “Yes, you did.”
“Well, I still feel it.”
“Okay.”
“So, how about a date this afternoon?”
She stills, her hands frozen under the stream of water, and I worry that she’s having second thoughts about me.
“Um … okay, I guess,” she finally says.
“You guess? That’s not really the response I was hoping for.”
“Sorry, you caught me off guard.”
I hope that’s really the case and there’s not some other issue. “Can I pick you up at eleven?”
“Pick me up?”
“Otherwise known as meet you in the garage?”
She smiles again and I see a hint of excitement developing.
“Got it,” she says. “Where are we going?”
I’m not about to tell her I asked on a whim and have no clue, so I say, “I’m still working out the details. Just wear something comfortable.”
She agrees and I rush to my bedroom to grab my phone, then off to the garage. My car is in desperate need of cleaning if I’m taking her on a date. While the inside gets detailed at the local car wash, I sit in their waiting room and search for date ideas in our tiny town. After about ten minutes of searching, I become frustrated because all I can find is the movie theater and bowling, neither of which seem appropriate. I lower my phone and groan.
“Everything okay?” an elderly woman next to me asks.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m just trying to find a good place for a first date around here, but I’m not having much luck.”
“My husband took me on a picnic for our first date.”
“Did you like it?”
“I married him, didn’t I?” She winks at me and I’m instantly reminded of my grandmother, Dad’s mom, who died three years ago. She was nothing like Dad. She was wild and crazy and told you exactly what she thought. She also had an entire closet full of wigs, and each day she’d select one to match her mood. They ranged from hot pink curls to waist-long black as coal and straighter than straight. She also leaned toward the flamboyant side of fashion with feathers, sequins, and lots of leopard print. She claimed she took her clues from Liberace, her all-time favorite celebrity. Needless to say, it was a surprise every time we visited her at the nursing home.
“How long have you been married?” I ask.
“Fifty-two years.”
“That’s impressive.”
“You want to know the secret?” she asks, leaning in toward me.
“Sure.” It’s not like I’m getting married any time soon, but it could come in handy at some point.
“You need to tell her every day how important she is to you.”
“I can do that.”
“And she needs to become the best cook you’ve ever known. That way, you never have a reason to stray.”
I smile at her words and wonder if cook is a euphemism for sex. I certainly wouldn’t expect my wife to cook for me all the time and would never care if she’s a good cook or a bad cook. Sex, on the other hand …
“You get it,” she says, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied nod. “Tell her what you like and what you don’t like. Otherwise, you could get a lifetime of boring, old pot roast you hate.”
“Right. Pot roast.”
“No one wants boring old pot roast forever.”
“No, of course not.”
Just then, they call my name. “Thanks. This was … helpful,” I say on my way out the door.
She waves, her head already buried in a magazine that appears to be about motorcycles. I smile and think my late grandmother and this woman definitely could have been best friends.
My next stop is Harris Teeter, a grocery store, where I pick up an assortment of cold salads, deli meats and cheeses, and some fancy crackers. I also stop by the floral department. I thought a bouquet would be nice, but they’re all too big, so I settle on a single white rose.
After I pay for everything, I head home, take a quick shower, and then search for the best picnic areas around us. I find good reviews for a botanical garden attached to the community college and decide that’s the spot.
One minute before eleven, I head downstairs and find her waiting at the door to the garage. She’s wearing a pink skirt with flowers and a white sweater that hugs her in all the right places. I’ve never seen the outfit before, but I’d love to see more of it. The pink of the skirt matches the color of her cheeks every time she blushes.
“You look beautiful,” I say, stopping and staring for probably a bit too long.
“Thanks,” she replies, her face starting to match the skirt. “This outfit was in my closet. I never thought I’d have an occasion to wear it, but …”
“It’s perfect.”
“You look nice, too.”
I glance down at my clothes. I put on a dressier pair of jeans and a blue button-down shirt. I was going for casual preppy, so hopefully it worked.
“Thanks. After you,” I say, holding the door to the garage open. She enters and then walks to the passenger side of my car. When I op
en the door, she sees the rose.
“For me?”
“Of course.”
She picks it up and then climbs inside. I circle around and join her.
“This was really nice,” she says, sniffing the flower. “You know, I’ve never been on a real date.”
“Not with Chase?”
“No, not really. He’d come to my house or I’d go to his, but we never went out anywhere.”
I’m glad my plan of doing the complete opposite of Chase is working. She seems genuinely happy right now. “It’s my first non-school-dance date.”
“I still find that hard to believe.”
I put the key in the ignition and say, “It’s true. Ask Adam.”
“So, why now?”
“I met you.”
“I’m not that special.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I don’t get it,” she says with a sigh, looking out the window. It’s the Hailey from the first few days. The one who thinks so little of herself she can’t imagine anyone else liking her.
I back out of the garage and start down the driveway before replying, “You’ll just have to trust me.”
She’s silent for a few minutes. When we exit the subdivision, she says, “Your car smells different.”
“It’s called clean.”
She laughs and I know she’s out of her momentary funk. Hopefully, those moments will become fewer and fewer the longer she lives with us.
“It did kind of have a sweaty-boy smell before,” she says.
“I spend a lot of time being a sweaty boy.”
She laughs again and we fall into comfortable conversation the rest of the way to the garden, during our hike to a dock extending into the middle of a pond, and throughout our lunch.
“This was really nice,” she says, kicking her dangling feet after we’ve finished eating. “What made you think of it?”
“I should probably say I’m a hopeless romantic and have a mile-long list of outstanding date ideas, right?”
“You said you’d never lie to me.”
“An eighty-year-old lady at the car wash, who may or may not have been hitting on me, gave me the idea.”
“She was hitting on you?”
“Probably not, but she did talk about pot roast a lot, and I don’t think she really meant pot roast.”