“Whoa, whoa. Watch that lamp, boys.” Mrs. Massey appears at the bottom of the steps with a tray of steaming tacos. She grins and rolls her eyes at me. “Good times, huh?”
I grin. “Actually, yes.”
She sets down the tray and surveys the bar. “Oops. Forgot the sour cream. I’ll be right back.”
I offer to follow and bring it down for her, mainly because I need to compose myself before the guys finish their battle. If they see even a hint of tears, there’s no telling what humiliation they’ll rain down on me.
We walk into the kitchen to find Mr. Massey loitering over the stove, stirring a pot of what looks like melted chocolate.
“Jeffrey. That’s for the kids. I’m making chocolate-covered almonds.”
He gives her a look of innocence. “I was merely stirring it so it wouldn’t stick to the bottom.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mrs. Massey walks over and wipes at his chin. “How’d it get up here?”
He grabs her hand and licks it off her finger and kisses her cheek before she shoos him out of the room.
Mrs. Massey turns, a shy smile playing on her lips. “Never mind him. Where were we? Oh, yes. Sour cream.” She sifts through her massive refrigerator, checking expiration dates and tossing random containers in the trash. “I just bought a huge thing of it. Where did it go?”
“Mrs. Massey, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How did you and Mr. Massey meet?”
She turns and peers up at me. “You really want to know?”
I nod. It’s not like I go around asking people that all the time, but I’m genuinely curious. The two of them seem so in love. Did they look for each other, or did it just “happen”?
“We met online.”
“Back then?” This had to be almost twenty years ago.
“Yep. You might say we were early adopters. In those days, you’d never admit to anyone you met that way, though. We concocted this whole story about how we met in the frozen foods section at Safeway.”
“Really? Why?”
“I guess people thought those sites were for losers—people who couldn’t get a date on their own. Of course, nowadays everyone and their grandma uses matchmaking services. Aha!” She pulls a tub of sour cream out from the bottom shelf and holds it up victoriously. “I knew it was in there somewhere.”
I take it from her. It must weigh five pounds. “So why him?”
“What?”
“Why did you choose Mr. Massey? How’d you know he was the one?”
She tilts her head, considering this. “I didn’t at first. I dated a few other guys. Fell head over heels for one of them, in fact, but he turned out to be a jerk.” She motions toward the den, where I can hear Mr. Massey cheering at a basket. Hopefully Georgetown’s. “I thank God that didn’t work out, or I’d never have ended up with this one.”
I nod. “So you think it’s a good idea to date around?”
“I guess.”
Ha! I knew it. I’m doing Anita, Maria, and Jose a favor. Who knows which of the two girls is the right one for him? And how can he decide if he doesn’t have a chance to get to know Anita?
“On the other hand….” Mrs. Massey puts her hand on my arm. “If you find the right boy, Lexi—a boy who treats you well and who brings out the best in you—you should hold onto him.”
I shake my head. “Oh, no, Mrs. Massey, I think you have the wrong idea. I wasn’t asking for myself. I was asking for a … a friend.” I couldn’t exactly say “client.”
“Of course you were, dear.” She winks. “Wish your friend good luck, and remember, sometimes the right boy is someone who—”
“There you are.” Chris appears in the doorway. “You’re missing the game. Georgetown just tied it up.”
“Well, goodness. Isn’t it nice of Chris to come looking for you?” Mrs. Massey gives me a meaningful glance as she turns to stir the pot of chocolate. My face grows warm. Can she tell I’m totally crushing on him?
“Sorry. Did I interrupt something?” Chris looks back and forth between us.
“Not at all. I was just grabbing the sour cream.” I hold it up as proof that he has walked in on the most mundane of conversations. “It’s low-fat,” I say, apropos of nothing.
“Um. Okay.” He gives a quick wave to Mrs. Massey and ushers me toward the basement door. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. M. The tacos smell great.”
I follow him onto the stairwell, but he stops me halfway down. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Sure.” I lean against the railing. “What’s up?”
“It’s about the other night, at the party.”
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering … I mean, it seemed like you and Jerod left early, so …”
He noticed when we left? Despite the throngs of friends and admirers? “So?”
“Did you go somewhere else? Or home? Or did you, I don’t know … drive around or whatever?”
“Or whatever?” Is it my imagination, or is Chris trying to figure out whether Jerod and I kissed … or whatever? “Would you care to define that?”
“Lexi, I’m not playing.” He takes a step toward me, his face serious. “I’m worried about you. I think this guy could be bad news.”
I gently push him away. “I assure you, Jerod has been a total gentleman.” It’s true. He never made a single move on me all night. If Jerod’s a player, he’s the lamest player ever. Either that, or maybe he’s like Chris. Maybe he doesn’t really see me as a girl. I push the thought away, bat my lashes at Chris, and pull my best Vivian Leigh imitation. “I do thank you for the concern, though, kind sir.”
Chris appears genuinely relieved. I’d love to imagine it’s because he’s jealous, but I know better. He’s playing the protective best friend. “Whoa. Wait a minute.” He leans toward me, a scowl crossing his face. “What’s this?” He touches the side of my neck, and my hand flies up to the spot.
Jerod and I never even kissed. No way could I have a hickey, but the suggestion that I might and the brush of Chris’s fingertips against my skin set my cheeks on fire. I push him away. “You’re crazy.”
His eyes sparkle, and he laughs. “Gotcha.” He taps at the tip of my nose, but he’s too slow for my superior reflexes, and I reach up and grab him. It truly is a reflex, and once I’m holding his hand, I’m not quite sure what to do with it. My brain is shouting, Let it go! Let it go! But my body is frozen.
Chris twines our fingers together until it’s hard to tell whose hand is doing the holding and whose is being held. When he speaks, his voice is soft and low. “Promise you’ll be careful, okay? And you won’t do anything you don’t want to do. And you’ll call me if you ever need backup.”
I want to tell him not to worry, but he’s so close, and his hand feels so perfect in mine, I can’t speak. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
He leans toward me, his eyes searching mine for … what? I know Chris better than anyone else on earth and can read his every expression, but he’s never looked at me like this before. My heart races and I tilt my head back slightly, and I swear his eyes focus on my lips. Is he going to kiss me? My legs feel weak, and my head spins. I reach for the railing and … splat!
“What the—” Chris jumps back. Our feet, and half the stairwell, are covered in sour cream.
“Oh, no. Oh my God. Omigod, omigod, omigod.” In an instant, Massey and Briggs are at the bottom of the steps, and Mrs. Massey is at the top. They’re all staring at me and the great white mess I’ve made. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. M. I am so, so sorry.”
Massey and Briggs laugh hysterically as Chris carefully strips off his sneakers and Mrs. Massey descends on us with a roll of paper towels.
“Don’t worry about this, dear,” she says, shooting me a knowing glance. “Sometimes these things can get messy.”
Messy is one way to put it. Confusing is another. Or disturbing, terrifying
, mortifying, thrilling.
For the next two days, Chris and I avoid making eye contact. What happened on that staircase? Did we seriously almost kiss? At night in my room, I close my eyes and relive the scene over and over, minus the unfortunate ending. I can practically feel the heat of his breath and smell the cottony scent of his t-shirt. I sense the strength of his hand in mine. Sometimes, when I’m not careful, I let my imagination wander further, and his lips press onto mine, soft and playful at first and then stronger, more eager, until—
That’s where I stop myself. I can’t go down that road. The whole thing happened so quickly; I’m not sure where it was going. And even if we had kissed, it’s possible—maybe probable—that Chris would have regretted it. That things would be even more awkward between us now. Not to mention, I would have betrayed Lindsay in the worst possible way. For all my talk about ethics and responsibilities and loyalty, I was ready to jump at the first chance I had to kiss a client’s BF. What does that say about me?
The worst part is that I can’t talk to anyone. Abi is the only person I can confide in about Chris, and she hasn’t said a word to me since our disaster of a meeting. I’ve decided I need to make things up to her, which is precisely why I find myself Tuesday evening at the courts down at Claymore Park, purposely losing to Briggs at what has to be the longest game of HORSE in the history of mankind.
“Oh, man. I’m off today.” I feign disappointment as my fourth attempt at an “S” shot caroms off the backboard. Not that I’m counting.
“Must be your jacket. It’s cursed.” Briggs motions toward my new jean jacket, draped across a bench. I probably shouldn’t have brought it since I’m trying to butter him up, but hey, a girl can only tamp down her pride so far.
“Hah! That’s game.” Briggs gives me a huge smile as his “E” shot drops through the hoop. Finally.
“Nice one.” I reach out to shake his hand. “Good game. How about we swing by Italiano’s and I’ll by you a slice as your reward?” If free pizza doesn’t win him over, nothing will.
Briggs eyes me warily. “With pepperoni?”
“Sure. Whatever you want. Why are you looking a gift HORSE pizza in the mouth?”
He waves his hand at me. “You’re up to something. It’s not like you to be so nice about losing.”
I slap his hand down. “You mean it’s not like me to lose. When I do, I keep it classy.”
“Right.” Briggs appears unconvinced, but he follows me in his car to Italiano’s, where we order our slices at the counter and pour our drinks. I grab a hundred napkins—because I’ve seen Briggs eat pizza before—and pick out a quiet booth near the back. My stomach is in knots. As much matchmaking as I’ve done over the past six months, I’ve never done it in person. What if I screw this up?
Briggs sits down across from me, a huge smile on his face. “So. Did he kiss you?”
“What?” I spit out my mouthful of Diet Coke and proceed to choke.
“Whoa, Lexi, chill out.” Briggs grabs some of the napkins and wipes up the table. “What’s your problem? Is that a yes?”
I cough out my answer. “What’s your problem? Why would you ask me that?”
“Forget it, dude. I just figured … you hired the freaking Boyfriend Whisperer to get him, and you showed up at that party together, so—”
“Oh, you mean Jerod!” I take a deep breath.
Briggs looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yes, Jerod. Who did you think I meant?”
“Nothing. I mean, no one. Of course you meant Jerod. And no, he didn’t kiss me.”
“He didn’t?”
“No. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Did you want him to kiss you?”
“What? Why do you care? And isn’t that kind of a …” I wave my hands in the air. “I don’t know. A girly thing to ask?”
Briggs shrugs. “I’m a romantic. What can I say?”
“You? A romantic.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Try playboy.” This is more like it. I need this conversation to be about him and Abi, not me and my ridiculously screwed up love life.
“Tomato and black olives?” The Italiano’s server appears by our table with a slice in each hand.
“That’s mine.” I tap my placemat and thank her.
“So then, you must be the pepperoni.” She offers Briggs a huge smile and sets his plate down with a flourish. “That’s my favorite, too. Probably not the healthiest choice, but …” She giggles and touches his arm.
“It has tomato sauce on it,” Briggs says. “Tomato is a vegetable. Therefore, it’s healthy.”
“I like the way you think.” She gives his arm a squeeze and heads back to the kitchen, her hips a-swishing.
I kick Briggs under the table. “See? That’s what I’m talking about.”
“What?”
“That. You flirt with every girl you meet.”
His eyes widen. “I wasn’t flirting. I was merely offering a nutritional opinion. If anyone was flirting, it was her.”
“Okay. Maybe she was flirting, but that doesn’t mean you had to flirt back.”
“I told you, I wasn’t.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Can I help it if girls throw themselves at me? I’m a living, breathing chick magnet. It’s like flies to a flame.”
“You mean moths. Or honey.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” I sigh and take a bite of my pizza. Briggs is right, but that doesn’t make it any less maddening. I mean, come on. I was sitting right here. What if I were his girlfriend? I felt disrespected, and I don’t even like Briggs. I can see how it got old for Abi. Still, she’s miserable without him, and if I can make this happen, maybe she’ll go back to talking to me. Or at least whining. At this point, I’d welcome the whining. I take a deep breath. “So, who are you taking to prom?” I try to sound casual.
Briggs shrugs and answers through a full mouth. “I dunno.”
“You mean you haven’t asked anyone yet?”
“Nobody I want to ask.”
“No one?”
“Nope.”
“I think there is someone. I think you want to ask Abi, but you’re too chicken.”
He scowls. “That ain’t it.”
“What then?”
Briggs’s face softens and his shoulders sag. “What would be the point? She’d say no. Why should I put myself through that?”
I’m tempted to point out that his reasoning and being “too chicken” amount to the same thing, but something about the strain in his voice stops me. Instead, I shake my head. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. She won’t take my calls, won’t even look at me in the hallway. You think she’s going to agree to spend a whole night with me at some stupid dance?”
“Maybe. If you ask her the right way.”
“You mean, like, with flowers or something?” He rolls his eyes. “Now who’s being girly?”
“Um. Hello? First of all, I’m a girl.” Why was that so hard for people to grasp? “Second of all, though flowers would, in fact, make a lovely gesture, that’s not what I had in mind.”
“What then?” Briggs eyes me suspiciously. “You’re up to something, Malloy. What is it?”
I lean forward and smile. “Only the best promposal idea ever.”
The line for popcorn stretches half the length of the lobby. I check my phone. Jerod and I have plenty of time before the movie. “Hungry?”
“Are you?” Jerod looks surprised, perhaps because we just ate a huge dinner at Sweetwater, including an extra basket of their Ozzie rolls, which amounted to six rolls in all, of which I ate five, and he ate one, not that I was counting.
This is our second date, but it’s our first real date, and in fact it’s my first ever dinner-and-a-movie date with a boy. I want to do it right. Also—not that this has anything to do with anything— but Chris is working behind the snacks counter.
I edge toward the line. “I’m not starving, but that popcorn smells yummy, don’t you think?”
Jerod rolls his eyes and follows me. “Children are starving in Sudan while half of Loudoun County lines up to pay seven dollars for bags of popped corn smothered with partially hydrogenated butter-flavored oils. Nutritional value, zero.”
I force a smile and point a finger in the air. “Great source of fiber, though.”
This is how the entire evening has gone. Turns out, Jerod is a major health nut, not to mention uber socially and politically conscious—not that there’s anything wrong with that. I like an occasional GMO-free salad as much as the next girl, though I could have done without the grimace when I ordered the bacon burger. Still, he’s been super sweet, and we did have fun reminiscing about the good old days of getting up at o-dark-thirty for warm-up laps at camp.
I peek at Chris as we inch closer in line, but he’s swamped and doesn’t notice us. He and I haven’t talked much since the Almost Kiss—if that is in fact what it was. We were forced to interact during chem lab on Thursday, where we exchanged a few pleasantries, including, “Can you pass me that vial?” “Do you have the iodine?” And my personal favorite, “Is there something wrong with this Bunsen burner?”
Awkward, awkward, awkward. On second thought, maybe this popcorn idea wasn’t so brilliant after all. Sure, it was my idea to come to the movies, and yes, I knew Chris would be working, and in fact, it may have crossed my mind that we might run into him. My stomach lurches, and I eye the door to the theaters. If we get out of line now, he may never know we were here.
“Can I help the next in line?” Chris glances up from the cash register, his eyes meeting mine.
Wait. What? How did we get to the front already? I blink, and my brain considers a shrieking escape toward the exit, but my mouth somehow manages to spit out, “Popcorn.”
“Oh, hey. Lexi. What are you—” His face darkens as he spots Jerod behind me. “I see.” He motions toward the display behind him, his voice flat and cold. “Small, medium, or large?”
The Boyfriend Whisperer Page 12