Perfect Ten

by L. Philips

  “There’s no way I can choose between desserts. I’ll have to order both. It’s a sacrifice I must make.” She looks at me, eyes twinkling with delight. She looks gorgeous tonight, and if I were straight I’d feel like the luckiest man in the world to be sitting across from her. Hell, I kind of do anyway. She’s curled her hair and it’s held back with barrettes behind her ears, and even though she’s wearing black, it’s more Victorian than goth. “How did the date go? Or should I just assume that since you didn’t cancel our reservation, it was perfect?”

  “It was. He’s got it all. Everything I wanted.”

  Meg’s gives me an I-told-you-so smile. She takes a drink from her water glass before saying, “The Goddess knows what she’s doing.”

  I lean back in my chair and turn my glass by the stem, watching it leave a ring of sweat on the white tablecloth. “She might.” I laugh. “Landon made me swear not to become Wiccan, though.”

  Meg rolls her eyes. “He’s such a doubting Thomas.”

  “Isn’t that a Christian thing?”

  She tries to kick me under the table. “You know what I mean. I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt either of you to believe in something bigger than yourselves.”

  “I believe in stuff,” I argue.

  “Like what?” Meg leans up on her elbows, waiting for an answer.

  I turn my glass some more. “I believe in human connections, I guess.”

  “Sex.”

  “No, definitely not that,” I say, laughing with embarrassment. “But love. Friendship. Trust. Loyalty.”

  Meg says nothing but studies me, eyes narrowed, like she’s trying to find a flaw in anything I’ve said. Fortunately, our waiter appears at the table and spares me her scrutiny as we place our orders.

  “Do you ever get anything besides lamb?”

  “I know what I like,” I say, and wink at her.

  “Adorable animals, bloody on your plate.”

  “It was an ugly lamb, I’m sure.”

  Meg laughs, and her voice softens until she’s quiet. Then she leans forward and asks, “So I take it that you and Gus didn’t . . . ?”

  The question is blunt but not unexpected. Meg can be just plain nosy sometimes. But I take my time answering, teasing her. I even wiggle my eyebrows suggestively as I take a long drink of water. Her mouth falls open in shock.

  “You did!”

  “No!” I shake my head. “Geez, I’m just messing with you. Like you said yesterday, I don’t want him to be Landon two-point-oh. I plan on taking things slow.” I raise a brow haughtily. “Of course, that doesn’t mean we can’t make out on the College Green for an hour . . .”

  “You slut,” she says, totally pulling a face in feigned shock, but I can tell she’s relieved. “Well, I’m proud of you for resisting the foreign charms of Augustin René Chevalier. I wasn’t sure that you had, after Landon said—”

  “What would Landon know about it?”

  Meg closes her mouth and looks at me, taken aback. “He just said you left pretty early with Gus and he was concerned.”

  “I don’t need his concern,” I snap. “Besides, he doesn’t get to be concerned about me if he won’t let me be concerned about him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He didn’t tell me about Jeff, did he? Not a word. I had to figure that out myself.”

  “Well, no, he didn’t,” Meg says, and although I figured Landon had told her about it, it still kind of bums me out to know that she’s privy to the info, and they’ve obviously discussed Landon’s fling without me. “But he didn’t know how to talk to you about it. Are you mad?”

  “What on earth would I be mad about?”

  Meg reaches across the table and holds my hand, and it takes all of my willpower not to snatch it away. She lowers her voice. “Well, not telling you, for one. But I get the feeling that maybe you’re just mad that Landon had someone else.”

  “Landon is free to do whatever he wants. I broke up with him, remember?”

  She shrugs me off and offers, “That doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt, still.”

  “I’m not hurt,” I say, and honestly, I’m not sure if it’s the truth or not. “It’s just . . . you and Michael are obviously doing so well you’ve got your whole hotel plan, everyone at school seems like they’ve paired off, even Archie, and I guess I feel a little betrayed that Landon’s not in the same situation as me.” I draw in a breath. “I’m happy for him. Really. I’m just sad for me.”

  “But now . . .” she begins, patting my hand in a way that would be patronizing for anyone but Meg. “Now you have Gus.”

  “Now I have Gus.” I smile. “So I think we need a toast, don’t you?”

  Meg picks up her glass, and I pick up mine.

  “To the Goddess?”

  “Sure, why not?” I say, feeling generous. “And to the Perfect Ten.”

  “Hear, hear!” Meg says, and we clink on it. After we sip our water as if it’s expensive champagne, she finds another topic. “So Michael wants to wear a leisure suit for prom . . .”

  I let her ramble about her stupid boyfriend until dinner comes. It’s not our waiter who brings it; it never is in this place. Waiters at Seven Sauces seem to be there to make suggestions and entertain, but not to actually do the dirty work of carrying food out. Instead, it’s a boy who looks to be about thirteen. He sets our food in front of us shyly, head down, and I have to wonder if he’s been trained that way or if he’s really just that afraid of other human beings.

  “Thank you,” I say to him, and he raises his face just a little, I assume to say you’re welcome, but instead he opens his mouth and freezes.

  I’m not sure, but I think I might freeze a little too. The kid is beautiful, and even though he’s obviously younger than me, I’d misjudged his age because of his demeanor. He’s at least fifteen and has the kind of face that the Dutch artists would have loved to paint. High cheekbones, deliciously pouted lips, eyelashes a mile long, and a little upturned nose. His eyes are pale, liquid blue, and his blond hair is just long enough to tuck behind his ears and has the faintest wave to it.

  “Uh, Sam, right?” he asks. His voice has a breathy quality to it, and it reminds me of torch songs and black-and-white movies.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

  “No. Not really,” he says. His pouty lips form a smile that manages to be both shy and sexy somehow. “I know you, but you probably don’t know me. You’re a senior, right?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, and try to hold his gaze, but it’s almost too much for either of us. He looks down, and I fidget with my napkin.

  “I, um . . . I see you around school,” he says, then extends a hand. I take it. His skin is smooth against mine. Smooth and really warm. “I’m Jamie Fisher. Sophomore.”

  “Right. I think I’ve seen you around,” I say. It’s a lie, but it’s the right one, and Jamie is instantly flattered. He beams and straightens and (because I’m a seventeen-year-old boy and not blind, okay?) I can’t help but notice that he’s got a body artists would love to paint too. Preferably undressed.

  I risk a glance at Meg and she has her fist to her mouth, trying to stifle laughter.

  “Is there anything else I can get you? More water? Dessert?”

  “I think we’re fine for now. Thanks, Jamie.”

  “Sure. Anytime, Sam,” he says, and something about the way he says it makes me think he’s not talking about just food. He walks away and maybe, just maybe, I watch him all the way back to the kitchens.

  “Oh my god.” Meg bites on her finger to stifle her laughter. “When it rains, it pours.”

  I raise a brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? The cute sophomore with the massive crush on you, that’s what I’m talking about!”

  “What? No.”
I wave her away and take a drink of water.

  “Please. I’m surprised he didn’t offer himself up as dessert,” Meg says, giggling again. “He didn’t even talk to me, but he certainly couldn’t take his eyes off you. Great Goddess, Sam. You should get his number.”

  I shake my head at her. “Are you out of your mind? I have Gus now, remember? The sexy French guy that may or may not have been sent from above?”

  “Just in case, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Well,” Meg starts, and I know she’s choosing her words carefully. “What if Gus isn’t quite as perfect as you think? Or what if Jamie’s actually even more perfect?”

  “He’s, like, fifteen.”

  “And adorable.”

  She’s right. He’s so cute it’s nearly unbearable. But I shake my head. “No. Come on, I feel bad even talking about this. I can’t do that to Gus.”

  “Sam, maybe the Goddess is giving you choices. Ever think of that?”

  “Or I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Meg leans back in her chair, relenting. “Fine. But if you ask me, it wouldn’t hurt to get his number. I mean, when has it ever hurt anything to have a cute blond worshipping at your feet?”

  I laugh, and Meg lets the subject drop as we both dig into our amazing entrees. Halfway through my lamb, I get a phone call. I shoot Meg an apologetic look, which she waves away upon hearing that it’s Gus.

  “Talk to the gorgeous Frenchman,” she commands.

  “I miss you,” Gus says before I can even say hello.

  “I miss you.”

  “Last night was . . .” Gus hums while he searches for a way to describe the indescribable. “Perfection.”

  “Just the word I was going to use.” I close my eyes and remember the way his lips felt on mine, and I know that if I open them and look at Meg, she’ll be snickering at my red face.

  “Am I interrupting somezing?”

  “I’m out to dinner with Meg, but she’s too busy gorging herself on scallops to talk to me anyways.”

  Gus chuckles in that deep, sexy voice of his. “So I should not be jealous zat you are out wiz someone else?”

  “Not at all.” I sigh. “Are you busy tomorrow? I have to finish up a paper for English, but maybe you can help.”

  “Oui. Zose Russian writers. Zey are so complicated. I will do all I can to ’elp you, Samson. I do not want you to get a bad grade. But maybe I shouldn’t come? I might be a distraction, no?”

  “I want to be distracted.”

  Sexy chuckling again. “Zen I will do my best to distract you.”

  “My place? Two-ish?”

  “Of course. I will—”

  Gus’s voice cuts out for a second, then comes back in. “Sorry. I am getting a call from ’ome zat I must take. See you tomorrow?”

  “See you then.”

  I hang up and risk opening my eyes. Meg’s sticking her finger in her mouth and making gagging noises. Then she dips her voice down low in what I assume is an attempt to mimic me. “Oh, Gus. Come distract me. Save me from my English homework, you handsome devil. Je te veux tellement!”

  In spite of the fact that we’re in the nicest restaurant in Athens, I toss a piece of bread at her face. She just laughs.

  “You didn’t have to hang up. I could have endured that sickening conversation a little while longer.”

  I shrug and bite down on a piece of lamb, chewing before I answer. “He had a phone call from home he had to take anyway. It’s fine.”

  Her face scrunches. “From home? It’s, like, two in the morning there.”

  “Is it?” I do the math and realize she’s right. “Huh. I don’t know. He got a phone call about this time last night too. Maybe his parents are night owls.”

  “You sure it’s his parents?”

  “He said it was a call from home. I just assumed—”

  “Yeah, but are you sure?”

  I suddenly feel uneasy, because I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all. I mean, what kind of parents stay up until two a.m.? Even if they’re crazy European parents, it’s a little strange. And he never said it was his mother, or father, or even one of his many sisters.

  “What are you trying to say?” I growl at Meg, angry that she’s making me even give this a second thought.

  “Nothing. It’s just a little fishy, though, isn’t it? He hasn’t mentioned, like, a boyfriend or something back home?”

  “No!” I shake my head vehemently. “I mean, he told me he was in love once, but he definitely talked about it in the past tense.”

  Meg blows out a breath and picks up her fork, stabbing at a scallop. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

  I’m not sure, I’m not at all sure now, and my chest is tight and there’s a weird pain on the left side. And I hate Meg just a little bit for that. I push my plate away. My appetite’s disappeared.

  “Don’t you like it? I can get you something else.”

  I look up and Jamie’s at our table, smiling sweetly at me and ignoring Meg’s entire existence. Not that it matters. Meg’s basically burying her head in the sand. She’s staring at her plate and not looking at either of us.

  Gus, having another boyfriend in Paris. What a load of crap. The mere insinuation is so infuriating that something within me snaps, gives way, and breaks, and I look up into Jamie’s eyes and give him my best smile.

  “How about your number?”

  Jamie takes a moment to recover from the shock, then finally whispers, “Mine?”

  “Yeah. Unless there’s a cuter blond boy working back in the kitchen or something. In which case, you can bring me his number. But I doubt it.”

  Jamie smiles that combination shy-but-sexy smile again. Such a neat trick. “I can get you that. If you’re sure.”

  I’m not. “I am.”

  “Then I’ll be right back.” Jamie walks away, I can only assume to find a pen, but this time I don’t watch him go. I’m too busy fuming. When he’s out of earshot, Meg kicks me underneath the table.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just in case,” I say, throwing her words right back at her.

  “I’m sure Gus is just talking to friends. I really didn’t mean to make you paranoid.”

  “Too late for that,” I snap, and Meg quiets. Then she looks up at me, wincing.

  “Ignore what I said, okay? Just forget about it.”

  “Maybe you’re right, though. And I like him so much, but what do I know about him really?” I wonder out loud.

  Meg looks stricken. “I’m so sorry. You want to just call it a night? We can forget dessert.”

  “No,” I say, relenting. I let out a breath. “It’s okay. You’re a good friend. You get me involved with witchcraft to help my love life and then get all worried about if the guy your deity sends is good enough for me. It’s actually kind of sweet, in this weird, twisted way. You deserve some chocolate torte. Even if Gus turns out to be a jerk, the way he kisses alone is worth that.”

  Meg laughs sadly and then nods. “Okay. I do love you, Sam.”

  “Love you too. Get the torte. Jamie’s coming back, anyways.”

  Jamie slides up to the table and hands me his number, which is printed neatly on the back of an old receipt. I look up at him and say, “Wow, you are just . . .”

  I have no idea how to even describe what Jamie is, but he gets what I’m trying to say. “You too. Call me?”

  “I will,” I promise, even though I don’t know how much I really mean it. I tuck his number into my pocket and say, “And I think we’re going to have dessert.”

  Seven

  I can’t believe it. Gus is sitting at the counter in my kitchen, eating one of my mother’s chocolate-chip-and-walnut cookies with a mug of milk, and they’re chattering away in French. They haven’t said
a word to me for fifteen minutes, but they’ve laughed plenty, and if it wasn’t so darn cute I’d feel terribly left out.

  Finally I make my plea. “Gus, I need to get to work or this essay will never get written.”

  “Yes, Samson. Eet ees time to work, I suppose.” Gus heaves a sigh and pushes the plate of cookies away from him.

  “Oh no you don’t. Take these with you,” my mother says, beaming at Gus. “You need sustenance when exploring the parallels of Russian symbolism.”

  “Gina, you are très belle.”

  My mother—so embarrassing—winks at Gus, and as Gus takes the plate from her offering hands, she leans to whisper in my ear, “He’s utterly charming. So I want that bedroom door of yours open at all times, understand me, young man?”

  I snort. “Yes, ma’am.”

  My mother rolls her eyes and pushes me off after Gus, and soon Gus and I are sitting on my bedroom floor, my books scattered around us, my laptop open to my essay. He looks over my work, gives me a suggestion to link Dostoyevsky to . . . something, I don’t even know because Gus chooses that moment to touch my lips with his fingers, then draw me in for a slow, tantalizing kiss. I sink into him, and it’s only when I start to feel blood pounding in my ears that I put my hand on his chest and gently push us apart.

  Gus sits back, clearly disappointed but amused nonetheless. “I ’ave ’eard zat Americans can be, ’ow do you say . . . conservative?”

  I blink. “What are you talking about?”

  He shrugs, a move that seems out of place for his level of sophistication. “You stop,” he says, placing a hand on my chest as if to illustrate, “when we get too close. Are you religious, Samson?”

  “No,” I say. I feel my whole face darkening. “It’s not that.”

  Gus nods as if he understands. “Landon,” he guesses, and I don’t disagree. He moves his hand, fingers trailing up and down my chest in hypnotic waves. “Sometimes you need somezing new to erase the old.”

  I close my eyes and let myself enjoy his touch, the sensation of his fingers lingering over my skin. It would be nice to give in to it, let Gus keep touching, keep going. Let him make new memories for me.