How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You

by T. M. Franklin

  Janice’s raspy laughter followed me down the entry hall, the familiar scent of disinfectant and mustiness assailing me as I made my way to the main office. I nodded at a few of the residents as they called out greetings. Some lived in the Center, some only visited for meals or leisure activities, but over the two years I’d worked there, I’d gotten to know most of them.

  I settled behind the ancient desktop computer in Elaine’s office and punched the power button, blowing out a breath of air as I waited for it to boot up. It took forever. I’d tried to talk her into upgrading, but funds were tight and care of the residents took precedence over improving technology. Elaine had left the usual list of changes to make to the website, along with a blog post to upload. I’d tried to teach her numerous times how to do it herself, but without much success. I sometimes wasn’t sure if Elaine really hated technology as much as she claimed, or if she simply liked to keep me around.

  I’d been at it about an hour when the woman in question popped her head through the doorway with a wide smile, her bright yellow hair a giant poof around her head. “Morning, Oliver,” she said. “How’s it going?”

  “Morning,” I replied, tapping a few keys on the computer. “About done, actually. You have anything else for me today?”

  She grimaced. “I don’t suppose you have time to check on the computer lab?” Elaine had a way of asking me to do things like it was an apology. Like she wasn’t actually paying me for the privilege.

  “ ’Course,” I said, finishing up the blog post and turning to her with a smile. “Is there a problem?”

  “Some of the residents have been trying to download . . . inappropriate . . . material again,” she said, her cheeks flushing hotly. “Looks like they’ve found a way around the firewall.”

  I laughed. It wasn’t the first time, and I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last. Some of the residents were rather persistent. And keeping the content in the computer lab G-rated, or at least PG-13, was an unending battle. I didn’t really know why Elaine forced the issue. Everyone involved was over eighteen, after all.

  Well, everyone except me, of course.

  “I’ll take a look,” I said, standing to follow her out of the office and down the hall. “How’s everything else going?”

  Elaine took a deep breath. I always asked the same thing and knew she understood what I was really asking.

  Is everyone still here?

  It was the one hard part of working in the senior center. I liked the residents. Had no problems with old people, really. Viney thought it was weird and didn’t get how I could actually like working there. He couldn’t understand how I could spend time—even some of my off hours—visiting the residents and even consider some of them friends. I couldn’t really explain it. In some ways, I felt I had more in common with my friends at the Center than with kids my own age.

  But the ever-present threat hung over their heads. The people at the Center were old. Their lives were coming to an end. It was only a matter of time.

  They’d lost a few in the two years since I started working there, but so far no one who I was particularly close to. It still hurt, though. I found myself wondering about the families left behind, even worse, those who passed on leaving no family behind.

  I wasn’t ashamed to admit I’d cried for those. Somebody had to.

  “It’s going well,” Elaine said as she patted me on the shoulder, her way of assuring me that they’d lost no one that week. “Hank’s been asking about you, of course.”

  I nodded. “I’ll check in with him before I leave.”

  “Probably wants another chess match. The man insists he’ll beat you one day.”

  “Well, it’s good to have goals,” I said with a cheeky grin. Elaine smacked my shoulder playfully.

  “So cocky for one so young,” she said, but her smile was fond as she ruffled my hair.

  Elaine left me in the computer lab—a generous moniker for what was essentially a cluster of four mismatched computers and a printer in one corner of the common room—and I got to work reinforcing the firewall on the system. When I was finished, I stretched with a groan, surprised when the clock showed I’d been at it for over an hour. I shut down the computers and made my way down the hallway to the residences.

  The Center was set up in a W-shape, with the public areas—the office, common room, cafeteria, and a small library—on one leg and the residences on the other two legs, labeled A and B wings. Hank Wallace lived at the end of B wing in one of the few private rooms. The door was open, but I knocked on the jamb and waited for the man to invite me in before I entered.

  Hank was sitting near the room’s only window, a chessboard set up before him. He looked up when I walked in, his smile bright against his dark skin.

  “Was wondering when you’d stop by,” he said, waving to the chair opposite him. “Need a chance to win back my losses.”

  “You owe me at least three dozen of your daughter’s cookies by now,” I said, taking a seat.

  “Double or nothing?” Hank asked, raising one black brow. “If you’re man enough, that is.”

  I barked out a laugh and moved a pawn.

  We played in silence only broken by thoughtful hums on Hank’s part for a few minutes, and then the older man looked up as I considered my next move.

  “So how’s school?” he asked.

  I shrugged and moved the knight. “Fine.”

  “Fine,” Hank said with a chuckle. “Your generation always answers everything with ‘fine.’ And your family? How are they?”

  I glanced up with a smirk. “Fine.”

  Hank shook his head with a laugh. “You got a girl yet?”

  When I hesitated a beat too long, Hank’s eyes widened. “Really?” he said, drawing out the world thoughtfully. “Someone special?”

  I swallowed, my cheeks heating. “Yeah. It’s not like that, though.”

  “Not yet,” Hank said, holding up a finger before he moved his rook.

  “Not yet. She’s kind of . . . she’s got a boyfriend.”

  Hank snorted and moved his queen, left his finger there for a moment, then put it back and moved his bishop. “And what are you doing about that?”

  “I have a plan.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said, leaning back as he waited for my next move. “Planning is all well and good, but sometimes a man needs to take action.”

  I focused on him, the game forgotten. “What kind of action?”

  “Any kind,” Hank said, a twinkle in his eye. “As long as you’re doing something, know what I mean?”

  I laughed. “Not really.”

  Hank pondered the board for a moment. “It’s like this game, in a way. You can hang back, try to protect yourself. But in the end, you’re not going to win. You only prolong the inevitable.”

  “But strategy is important,” I pointed out.

  “Oh yeah, strategy is all well and good, but at some point you’ve gotta make a move.” He moved his knight and sat back with a satisfied nod. “Let me tell you something about women,” he said. “If there’s one thing they find irresistible, it’s a man who’s not afraid to take a risk. Who’s ready to put himself out there. Lay it all on the line.” He leaned across the board, his milky brown eyes locking on mine. “Is she worth the risk, Oliver?”

  I swallowed. Nodded.

  “All right then,” Hank said, sitting back in his chair. “Then you need to make sure she knows that.”

  “That’s what my dad says, too,” I replied, taking Hank’s bishop.

  The old man groaned and cursed under his breath. He moved his queen. “Your dad’s a wise man.” His eyes drifted to a cluster of photographs on his nightstand. I knew them well: Hank’s family—his late wife, Yvonne, and daughter, Brianna—a small portrait of his parents, a playbill from his first Broadway play, and in a silver frame, a picture of a young woman—not his wife—with laughing eyes, clutching a bouquet of daisies. “Did I ever tell you about how I won Angie’s heart?”


  I thought for a moment. Hank often talked of Angie, the woman he called his first love, but it had always been offhand, like a given that she’d loved him as much as he’d loved her.

  “No, actually. You haven’t.”

  Hank took my pawn and rolled it between his fingers, lost in thought. “Her father didn’t like me,” he said in a quiet voice. “It was the fifties, so hardly the dark ages, but still not a time when a black man pursuing a white woman was embraced by her father with open arms—especially one who was a struggling actor, you know? I didn’t even have a decent job on my side.

  “But Angie, man, she was something else. She was so beautiful, and so sweet. Kind. Her heart was so . . .”

  I nodded, knowing exactly what the older man was talking about.

  “I knew I didn’t deserve her,” he said after a moment. “But that didn’t stop me from wanting her. From loving her. Hell, I think I loved her the moment I first talked to her.

  “So one day, I got my courage up and I brought her that bouquet of daisies.” He pointed to the picture on his nightstand. “And I said, ‘Angie, I know I’m not good enough for you, but I’ll do everything I can for the rest of my life to become a man who is.’ ” He smiled. “And then I kissed her.”

  My mouth dropped open. “That was it? It worked?”

  Hank smiled softly. “Well, it opened the door, anyway. In the end, though, she couldn’t stand up to her father, and she married some guy who owned a hardware store in her hometown. Had a mess of kids.

  “We had our time, though,” he said, putting the pawn down next to the board. “Maybe if things had been different it would have worked out.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat. “You loved her, and she married someone else?”

  “She loved me, too,” Hank said, rubbing at his eyes. “But times were different then, and I guess she wasn’t strong enough to stand up for us. I can’t blame her, though.”

  “Maybe you should have.”

  Hank huffed out a laugh. “People aren’t perfect, Oliver, not even the ones we love,” he said. “But we love them anyway, don’t we? Anyway, it all worked out in the end. I met Yvonne, and I loved her, too. We had a good life. A great life.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Do you regret it? Taking the chance on Angie?”

  Hank stared at me for a long moment. “Not for a second,” he said. “We only had a couple of years together, but they were some of the best years of my life. Love is never something to regret.”

  “But it had to have hurt—”

  “Of course it hurt,” Hank said shortly. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it.”

  We finished the game, but I was distracted with thoughts of Ainsley. Could I take a risk like Hank had, even for Ainsley? For the first time, I had to admit I wasn’t sure. But I did know that I wanted to find out.

  It was Sunday afternoon, and the house was empty. My dad was working overtime, and mom had taken Sherlock to the mall for new shoes. I had at least an hour and a half to do what I needed to do, undisturbed.

  Not that I was ashamed or embarrassed, but I needed to focus and not be asked a lot of questions.

  I stared across the room at my nemesis, a black and silver hulk of intimidation with Nautilus emblazoned across the side like a challenge, a taunt. My eyes drifted around the room to the other machines reminiscent of medieval torture devices. The treadmill. The elliptical. The rowing machine that looked like it was lying in wait, ready to tangle my shoelaces into its terrifying wheel.

  Maybe I was being a bit overdramatic.

  Maybe.

  With a heavy sigh, I entered the basement room, determination flowing through my body.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me,” I muttered under my breath.

  It would come as no surprise to anyone that exercise and I were not exactly bosom buddies. Not even casual acquaintances, really. No, to me, exercise was that creepy guy at my cousin’s wedding who stood in the corner and frowned at me when I took an extra piece of cake. Or two. I didn’t even know him, other than a vague feeling that I’d seen him before, but I could feel his distaste even from across the room.

  And exercise was just like that—something that made me feel uncomfortable, and more than a little bit judged.

  But making myself attractive—well, more attractive, at least—was on the list, and getting in shape was the only thing I could think of to help in that aspect. Well, that and the fact I would be getting my braces off in a little over a week, hopefully.

  I mean, I was realistic about it all. I knew straight teeth and working out and maybe building up a little muscle wasn’t going to make me irresistible to Ainsley. But I hoped maybe it would all make me a little less resistible.

  I crossed to the treadmill, figuring I’d get the cardio out of the way first, and frowned at the mirrored wall opposite me. I was at a loss about why my parents thought it was a good idea to put up mirrors in an exercise room.

  Who in the world looks good when they’re sweaty and red and can’t even breathe?

  Not me, that was for sure.

  I put in my ear buds and cranked up the volume on my iPod, letting the music distract me as I took off on a slow jog to warm up. My mind wandered to Ainsley, of course. (Not far to go there.) And I made a mental note to myself to add a calculator—a decent calculator—to the list of possible birthday gifts for her. No, it wasn’t overly romantic, but it was thoughtful. Something she’d find useful, and it showed I was paying attention, which was important, right?

  I frowned at my flushed, sweaty, panting reflection. I probably should go ahead and buy the calculator. I figured I could always take it back if I found something better, but I didn’t want to be frantically searching for the right one at the last minute.

  My steps faltered as I got a stitch in my side, and I figured one mile was enough for the day. I turned off the treadmill and bent over to brace my hands on my knees until I caught my breath. I bypassed the elliptical and the rowing machine, giving the latter a wide berth—never could be too careful—and squared off in front of the weight machine.

  Bench press. I could do a bench press.

  I felt pretty proud of myself after three sets of eight reps—yeah, I might have read up a little on weight training. All right, so I might have subscribed to Muscle Monthly. Research was a good thing—and hopped to my feet, ready to take on a few lat pulldowns or upright rows. Maybe exercise wasn’t so bad, after all. I stepped up to the mirror and pulled up my sleeve, flexing my bicep a little, just to see what I was working with.

  Huh. Not so much.

  I poked at the rather small bulge on my upper arm, then jumped when I noticed movement in the mirror behind me. I whirled around to find Sherlock watching me from the open doorway.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “What am I doing? What are you doing?” I shouted. “Get out of here!”

  Sherlock was unmoved, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why are you all sweaty?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Because I was working out, doofus.”

  “You don’t work out.”

  “Well, I do now!”

  “Why?”

  “None of your business!” I glared at him, but Sherlock didn’t back down. Instead, he reached around to his back pocket and pulled out his notebook. He flipped to a page and scribbled down a few words, glancing up at me curiously.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Sherlock closed the notebook and shoved it back into his pocket. “You’re up to something,” he said, “and I’m going to figure out what it is.”

  There are times in a man’s life when he knows he needs to handle a situation calmly, with a clear mind and even temper.

  This was not one of those times.

  I darted across the room, and Sherlock took off running.

  5.Pay Attention!

  Listen to what she has to say, but you can also learn a lot about her when she’s not talking. Body language can reveal a
lot—and so can the little things she does when she thinks nobody notices.

  Monday morning dawned drizzly and cold, matching my mood as I limped into school, splashing dejectedly through the puddles.

  Yes. Limped.

  Who knew muscles so small could hurt so much?

  I hitched my backpack up higher onto my shoulder, wincing at the twinging ache, and cursed that Nautilus machine under my breath. I was contemplating sneaking into the nurse’s office to curl up on that nice cushy cot for a few hours, when the slamming sound of a body hitting a locker drew my attention down the hall.

  “I know it was you!” I could see Nathan McCallister’s head above the crowd, and my heart sank when I realized he was holding someone up against a locker.

  I knew who. It could only be one person, really.

  I pushed my way toward him, ignoring my sore muscles as I tried to think of a way to divert Nathan’s attention. Of course, there were no teachers to be found—there never were when you really needed one—and the fire alarm was out of the question. Been there, done that.

  Don’t ask.

  Still, I knew I couldn’t stay out of it, and Viney’s relieved expression when he spotted me behind Nathan proved my point. I wasn’t sure exactly why he looked relieved. I was no match for Nathan. Who were we kidding?

  But one thing I was good at was distraction. So, as Nathan fisted his hands in Viney’s army jacket to pound him into the locker again, I spoke up.

  “Heeeey, Nathan!” I said cheerily.

  In my experience, cheery was always a good option. It threw them off their game a little.

  Nathan glared at me over his shoulder. “Stay out of this.”

  “I’m telling you dude, it wasn’t me,” Viney said, pointedly not looking my direction. I figured this was about the Craigslist ad. I also knew Viney would never give me up. Still, I could hardly let him take a beating for me. But as Nathan’s angry glare turned on me, turned speculative, I wasn’t sure what to do.

  I cleared my throat. “I, uh . . .”

  “Hey, Nathan.” Ainsley appeared beside me but didn’t look my way. “I think Mrs. Delacorte is looking for you.”