Last Time We Kissed_A Second Chance Romance

by Nicole Snow

  The very edge of his shirt rides up, exposing his abs. Until Ryan, I never knew what washboard meant.

  Now, I understand. I see it in every rolling crease of his six pack, every time his skin ripples while he grunts, turning a bolt on the underside of the car, muscles bristling from head to toe. He's working, lost in his own world, completely oblivious to the older, rowdier men cursing and laughing like chimpanzees around him.

  God. Eyeballing him too long starts to burn, no different than gazing at the sun. I have to get home before he sees me.

  I'm about to move, when Ryan's wrench slips, and he brings it down against his thigh with a resounding slap. His face tilts toward me as he steadies himself. Then our eyes lock, and my heart forgets how to beat.

  Eek. Holding my squeak in, I try to hide my blush and head for the exit, just as his voice rings out – deeper than it should be for a young man.

  “Hold up, there's crap all over the –“

  Too late. I'm practically running when I hit the oil slick. The world turns into black ice beneath my sneakers. I slide at least five feet before I hit the wall, spin around, and crash elbows first on the hard concrete.

  As luck would have it, elbows first into the edge of the same grimy slick that took me down. The shame hits before I realize I'm already screaming.

  The men around me aren't screwing around anymore. My voice echoes through Bart's Auto, alone and scared. Everything goes quiet in the garage except for Zeppelin banging away on the radio. Somebody grabs me under my arms, pulls me up, and tips my beet red face to theirs.

  It's Ryan. I think I'm about to die on the spot.

  Too many chemicals explode simultaneously in my brain to drink him in, up close and personal. I can't appreciate his eyes, as royal blue as Lake Superior's shores, or the little wave in his thick, dark hair. Not even the perfect dusting of stubble across his jawline – the kind that would surely make any girl lucky enough to kiss him burn for more.

  I can't take in our resident Adonis because I'm too busy shaking, the hot, prickly shame overwhelming me in waves.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, digging his fingers into my shoulders reassuringly.

  “Okay?” It's a whine.

  Are you kidding? That's what I think, but I can't form words, much less fire sarcasm his way.

  It doesn't matter. Before I can say anything, he's got his arm around me, leading us to the little work bench in the back where the boys keep towels and rags to clean themselves up.

  I'm still speechless when he starts cleaning me, very gently, slowly soaking up the oil splattered on my arms. I don't know whether to shut down or say thanks.

  He probably thinks there's something wrong with me because I haven't said a word since I all but tumbled into his arms. There's just that worn towel in his hands gliding across my skin, him stealing concerned glances every time he brushes the grime away.

  It's almost a brotherly look. Ugh.

  The last look in the world I want from our local hottie. It's a cheap one, too. I can get big brother eyes anytime from Matt, when he isn't getting after me for taking too much time in the bathroom we share at home.

  “What the hell's happening out here?” Daddy's booming voice rings out above us, and my anxious haze breaks.

  “I fell,” I tell him, my eyes on the floor while heat lashes my cheeks. I'm about three seconds from going up in a puff of smoke once the shame hits combustion level. “I wasn't looking, and there was oil on the floor.”

  “It's my fault, sir.” Ryan stands, stepping in front of me, almost like he's offering protection. “We should've had a sign up. I saw her at the last second, and yelled out a few seconds too late. There's no excuse. It's company policy to have the warning signs up, and I didn't do my job. Never thought anybody else would be walking through here on a Sunday.”

  Daddy and me are just staring, listening to him talk.

  Has he lost his mind? He's standing there, straight as a soldier, telling my crazy-eyed father that he's the reason his little peanut nearly broke her back.

  For a second, daddy glares at him. I'm expecting his huge ex-Navy hands to reach out and wrap around Ryan's muscular throat.

  “Kara, cover your ears,” he says, voice as deep as thunder.

  I oblige, but I press so lightly I can still hear everything through it.

  “Kid, you fucked up,” daddy says, stepping up to Ryan until there's barely an inch of space between them. “You put a co-worker in danger, and not just any worker, but my daughter. That said, you do good work. Damned good work for a sixteen year old. You don't complain, you punch the clock when you should, and you're more mature than you ought to be for somebody who's had it rough, going through who knows how many foster homes before you wound up here. If you want, you've got a bright future doing cars or just about anything else. That's why I'm going to cut you some slack, just this once.”

  “It won't happen again,” Ryan says, bowing his head. “It's my mistake, and I own it. All I can do now is learn.”

  “You're right,” daddy snaps, stabbing a finger into his chest. “You're also straight with me, I'll give you that. But I don't care if you're Honest Abe's long lost grandson, and you've got a magic ability to build me a Viper from the wheels up. We don't skimp on safety in this shop. Screw up again, cause anybody else to fall down on their ass, and you are fucking gone.”

  “Got it,” Ryan says, holding his ground while daddy pulls his hand away.

  He gives me a look over Ryan's shoulder that says it's okay to bring my hands down.

  “You weren't the only one with no focus today. I'm having a talk with Jack and Mickey next. You've only been working for me six weeks. They've been here for twelve years, and they ought to know better. Here, do me a favor.” He pauses, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his keys. There's no warning before they're airborne, landing in Ryan's hand. “Drive my daughter home. It's only a couple miles, and she knows the way.”

  I don't know who's more surprised – me, or Ryan.

  Guess he wants to prove there's no hard feelings. But Ryan's had his license for about six months. Sure, it's such a small town, daddy's other employees do little favors like this all the time.

  Still, my father's trusting him with me. Alone.

  “No problem,” he says slowly.” I'll have her home, and be back here with your truck in five or ten.”

  Daddy nods briskly, walking away without another word. I'm standing, but I'm barely processing the fact that Ryan freaking Caspian is taking me home.

  It's going to be the longest two mile drive I've ever had in my life.

  “You don't say much,” he tells me, as soon as he starts the engine, checking to make sure I'm buckled in.

  “I'm just as surprised as you,” I say, eyeballing that unreadable expression on his face. It's so good at hiding whatever he's really thinking. “Why did he give you the keys after chewing you out?”

  “Your old man believes in second chances. I screwed up, and owned up. Besides showing me there's no hard feelings, he saw how I jumped to help clean you up after the spill.”

  His eyes flick over while we're stopped at a light. He's either gawking at the total mess I've become, or noticing the notebook sticking out the top of my backpack's broken zipper, clutched tightly in my hand for stability.

  “What's in there? List of all your crushes?”

  My head turns slowly. I'm tired, I'm dirty, and I'm mortified that the only crush I've ever had is driving me home like the world's handsomest babysitter. Worse, if he digs too far into crushes, it won't take much for him to realize there's only one on my non-existent list.

  “It's math homework, Ryan. Miss Harper's Geometry class.”

  “Oh, geometry. I did that like three years ago.”

  I turn my head back toward the window, flicking my hair angrily. Like he has to remind me how incredibly smart and gifted he is. By now, everybody in school knows he's a freak.

  The Samson body has a brain attached, and it's brill
iant. He's been skipped so far ahead in math and science, he's taking advanced classes at the local community college. He only shows up at our school half-days for English, social studies, and a few other electives.

  “Didn't mean anything about the list. Just giving you crap,” he says quietly, when we're just a couple streets away from mine. “Guess your parents don't let you date. It's cool, Kara, you're only a freshmen.”

  Only? This ride home from hell isn't getting any better.

  Then he looks at me, a mischievous smirk pulling at his lips. “I'm not here to pry. Just meant to say you're going to have your pick when you're old enough to make it count.”

  “My pick? What're you talking about?”

  He punches the accelerator, and we fly past the last few houses, before I motion to the little blue one on the right. He shifts the truck into park, pulling along the curb.

  “Let's just see.” Before I can stop him, he reaches for my bag, pulling the notebook out and flipping through it.

  “Hey!”

  Ryan whistles to himself, sifting through my equations and formulas. If he's looking for boy talk, he won't find it there. My friends and me have perfected our system, passing secret notes back and forth.

  Too bad I forgot about the drawings. He hits the back of the notebook, stops, and turns it around on its end. I've drawn the world's derpiest looking caribou on the page, practicing a sketch for last week's art project.

  I don't know what I was thinking. I let my mind drag my hand across the page with the charcoal, giving my poor animal antlers bigger than his body. Deciding to roll with it, I drew his eyes squinted with his tongue sticking out, like he's struggling under his own weight, trying to hold up the branches growing out of his head.

  He starts laughing. Then, he can't stop.

  I'm officially mortified. “What's so damned funny?”

  “Quite the little artist, aren't you, Kara-bou?” he says, shaking his head as he pushes the notebook back into my hands. “That's the funniest thing I've seen in weeks. Why'd you leave his tongue sticking out? And those horns!”

  “Because he's mocking jerks like you!” I sputter, angrily unzipping my bag to stuff the shameful secret away. As soon as the final version is done, I'm going to burn my stupid caribou drawing in the nearest fire pit.

  “Hey, hold on, I didn't mean any damage.” He reaches for my face.

  The kid has the nerve to put his hand on my cheek, if only for a moment, stemming the flow of hot, angry tears fighting their way out. “I'm starting to see why everybody keeps their distance,” I tell him, clutching my bag. “You're a dick.”

  Ryan's grin fades to a sly smile. It's like he has to think about the insult. I'm mad because that means it hasn't fazed him at all.

  “You're cute– even if you're a little clumsy. Give it another year or two. You'll have guys falling all over themselves to take you out. You're gonna leave every boy in your class with their tongues hanging out.” He's looking at me intently, honestly, but I won't let my eyes meet his. I don't dare. “Take it easy, Kara. Watch what's in front of you next time we meet.”

  I'm stuck. Fumbling for my seatbelt, I decide to overlook his last condescending, trademark Ryan Caspian remark and focus on the fact that he just called me – Kara Lilydale – cute.

  His hand crosses the space between us, brushes mine, and pops the button for me. The belt rolls over my shoulder and snaps against the side. I'm halfway out the door, more relieved than I've ever been, before I stop myself and finally look back.

  “Thanks for the ride home, Ryan. Keep staying on daddy's good side.”

  I run toward the house, hoping I can make it past mom and Matt without any side questions about the dark oil residue drying on my shirt and skin. Sometime between my shower and pre-dinner nap, I decide Ryan's playing an elaborate game.

  I don't know why. There's no other reason he'd compliment my looks...right?

  Sure, I can see myself changing in the mirror. I'm growing up, heading for womanhood, doing my best not to screw it up.

  But no one's called me cute. Ever.

  Maybe daddy has something to do with the shyer boys keeping away. Everybody knows his take-no-prisoners reputation. His shop hands out some of the best paying jobs in town to the kids who are the least bit mechanically inclined.

  That doesn't explain why Mister Mysterious, Untouchable, and Perfect thinks I'm something special, and has the guts to say it.

  Whatever's happening, it won't be a one off. He's rattled my head, and left his mark. There are only a couple hundred kids at our school.

  I can't walk away from what happened today. I can't pretend it's nothing.

  It's a guarantee I'm going to see him again. Next time – he said it himself.

  That night, I lay awake beneath the covers, pulling about a thousand imaginary daisy petals. It's not a question of whether he loves me, or loves me not.

  I'm frustrated, trying to figure him out, and I have an ugly feeling it's hopeless. I'm going to either kill this boy or kiss him before he graduates.

  Two Years Later

  No matter how many times I sit down to dinner with him at our table, I feel like hyperventilating.

  Ryan looks up when I come downstairs to take the seat across from him. My older brother, Matt, is blabbing on about his latest antics in some shooter game.

  “Dude, I flamed his ass hard,” my brother says with a grin. “He came at me as soon as he got a second chance, and I blasted him again.”

  They're the same age, but the maturity level gap between them could fill the sky. I don't know why they're friends, being such opposites. I guess even Ryan needs to lighten up on the broody, aloof act sometimes.

  Part of me hopes he does.

  “Kara-bou.” He says my name and smiles, capturing my eyes in his stare, stark blue and deep as oceans. “Where you been hiding yourself all week? About time you showed up to join us.”

  “Dance recital,” I say smartly, wondering why I have to spend my night off with homework and Ryan's barbs. It's like he expects the world to fall neatly to his feet, even when he's a guest in our house.

  “Don't mind her,” Matt says, brushing me aside with the wave of his hand. “She's too good for us now, hanging out all the time with her boring ass friends. Kara-bou used to be fun back when she drew those silly pictures, but the herd's got its hooks in her now.”

  The worst part about that pet name Ryan gave me a couple years ago? Everybody's using it.

  My friends, my teachers, my dance coach. It's even turned up on daddy's lips a few times, as if it's a perfectly acceptable replacement for 'peanut' now that I'm getting older.

  I give Matt a dirty look, but I don't reach across the table and push his soda into his lap, like I've done a few times before when he gives me crap. I don't want to catch hell from mom.

  Besides, he isn't the one I want to punch. The boy who deserves it is next to him, staring smugly across the table at me with his freakishly handsome face.

  Two years have only added to his good looks, like a master sculptor putting on the final touches. Ryan's filled out. His muscles are bigger, harder, and more natural looking after years of hard work in daddy's garage.

  He's still killing it at school, too, and he's probably going to graduate Valedictorian in a few months. That really irks the smart kids who got their 4.0s outside the college courses. While they're busy living high school drama full time, with all the rules, Ryan's bringing headphones to the lab and doing advanced work in math and programming.

  Of course, all this means is that his head's about the size of a hot air balloon. To think he laughed at my stupid caribou drawing years ago for being way too top heavy.

  Mom comes in just then, pauses next to the table holding our bread basket, and smiles. “Glad you could join us for dinner again, Ryan. How're Greg and Sally?” Her face softens as she sets down our piping hot slices of bread with a bowl of honey butter, completing the delicious feast laid out in front of us.

&nbs
p; Ryan's smirk disappears. “They're okay. Busy as usual. I like eating here better. Dinner smells delicious as usual, Mrs. Lilydale.”

  Mom beams, but it doesn't completely erase the quiet concern on her face. We've heard the whispers.

  Ryan's foster parents are the reason he's started coming around for dinner three, sometimes four times a week. They've been unemployed for awhile, several months after he moved in. Last year, CPS paid them a visit when too many teachers noticed him going empty handed at lunch, and Ryan slept over in Matt's room for the better part of a week.

  Daddy calls them deadbeats. Losers. People hiding behind charity to enrich themselves, taking in older kids every so many years so they can use the extra stipend from the government to feed their drinking habits.

  “You clean up so well, Ryan,” mom says, sliding a chair out to join us. “If only Bart could freshen up as fast after work. We wouldn't be sitting here with our stomachs growling up a storm.”

  She taps her fingers impatiently on the table. Fortunately, we hear daddy's footsteps coming a second later. He walks into the kitchen and smiles, stopping to kiss my mother before he takes his seat at the head of the table.

  Ryan might have brains, good looks, and an ego too big for our little town, but I feel like I'm the lucky one, watching him across the table while Matt whispers some crude joke in his ear. He cracks a smile, but it's different than the one he wore when he greeted me. It hasn't been the same on his beautiful face since mom asked about his folks.

  I'm fortunate to have such a loving family. That's something Ryan's never had, if everything we know about him is right.

  Of course, he always deflects. He never dwells on his problems, his past, or admits he has any issues. Nobody dares to tease him about his background after he established his willingness to throw fists at bullies asking for it. And my parent's questions about his family quickly fall away whenever he starts talking about school, or the latest haul he caught out on Lake Superior, fishing with Jack and Mickey.