“I wasn’t really mad about that,” she said quickly. “Not really. I . . . I felt kind of backed into a corner a bit, I think. And I lashed out at you, which wasn’t fair.”
“I’m sorry you felt that way,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”
“It’s okay.”
I licked my lips, wondering if that was the end of the conversation and searching for a way to prolong it.
Ainsley beat me to the punch. “You were right, you know?”
“You think?” Excitement started to pulse in me. “I really think the play could be funny—”
“No, not about that,” Ainsley said. “Well, yes, that, too. I pulled the script out of the trash can, and your friend had some really great lines. Hysterically funny. But . . . I meant about Ian. I think you’re right about Ian.”
I gaped, my stomach flip-flopping, and was unsure what to say.
“The play is mine. It’s my responsibility. And I can’t let him dictate to me how I should do it.” I heard her sigh heavily. “I need to stop being such a doormat, I think.”
I winced. “I never said doormat.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’re too nice,” Ainsley said with a humorless laugh. “But I am. I’m so worried all the time about what other people think, and how they’ll be affected, that I don’t think about what I want or need.”
“You’re very unselfish—”
“Well, thanks, but in this case, I don’t think that’s a positive thing,” she said. “I want to make the changes to the play. And Ian’s going to have to deal with that.”
I smiled, a surge of pride rushing through me. “That’s . . . well, that’s awesome.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The silence this time was not awkward, and eventually Ainsley said, “Well, I better let you go. I just wanted to apologize. And to thank you.”
“There’s no need—”
“Yes, there is, Oliver,” she said firmly. “You’re a good friend.”
A good friend. I smiled. It was a start.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
Ainsley hung up, and I stared at the phone for a second before doing the same. Then I went to my backpack and pulled out my notebook to flip to Ainsley’s page.
I checked off number six with a nonmetallic, if somewhat swollen and slimy, smile on my face.
All eyes were on me when I sat back down at the table, and I tried, I really tried to ignore it. I was halfway through another slice of pizza when I’d finally had enough.
“What?” I said through a mouthful of pepperoni. Somehow I managed to both roll my eyes and swallow.
“Who’s Ainsley?” Sherlock asked.
“Sherlock,” my mom chided. “Oliver doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.”
“Thanks,” I muttered. I tried to go back to my pizza, but could still feel all their eyes on me.
“It’s nothing,” I said, opting for the explanation that would be most likely to get them to stop staring. “I’m tutoring her in algebra, and she had some questions.”
“Tutor, huh?” Sherlock muttered, pulling his notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open. “That’s the extent of your relationship?”
I was irritated, but I still couldn’t keep back a little smile. “We’re friends.” My chest warmed a little at the words.
“Friends?” Sherlock said, scribbling in his pad. “Good friends, would you say? BFFs?”
I jolted out of my daze enough to glare at him. “What in the world are you talking about?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else, but my dad intervened. “What have I said about interrogation at the dinner table?” he asked.
My brother closed his notebook with a heavy sigh. “Sorry.”
The conversation continued around me, thankfully not about me, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I just munched on my pizza and popcorn and taffy and enjoyed the celebration.
We started working on the play revisions during free period. Even though Hank’s notes were pretty clear, Ainsley said she’d feel better about it if she could discuss the changes with me as she rewrote the scenes.
Who was I to argue with that?
We decided that we’d work through as much as we could and get the revised scenes to the cast as we completed them. Ainsley was worried the other cast members might freak out a little about the changes, but I assured her that they could get it done.
I hoped they could get it done.
Ainsley didn’t say if Ian knew about what we were doing, and I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure if she’d actually stood up to him, like she said, or if she was putting it off. I had a feeling it was the latter, but the play was improving—a lot—and Ainsley seemed happy, so I didn’t mention it.
It wouldn’t be long before he’d find out anyway. Opening night was only a little over a week away.
“What about this part?” she asked, turning the now well-worn and dog-eared script my way. She had her laptop open, making changes as we went along.
I looked down at the section she indicated—the football team’s first game of the season—and grinned. It was one of my favorite parts.
“What about it?” I asked.
Ainsley picked up a pencil and chewed on the eraser as she looked off, lost in thought. “Well, Hank says Layla should be trying to catch Bo’s attention from the bench—trying to pose and look pretty, tossing her hair, that kind of thing.”
“And he doesn’t even notice, so she tries even harder.”
“Right . . . right . . .” Ainsley pointed the pencil at me. “But wouldn’t it be funnier if she actually got in the game?”
I smiled slowly. “And she tries to do it out on the field, too.”
“Exactly!” Ainsley grinned. “So she’s running the plays and, I don’t know, batting her eyelashes in the huddle or something.”
“And she’s trying to get close to him, and he doesn’t even realize it, but he keeps moving away.”
“And the huddle keeps moving until they run into the other team’s huddle!” she laughed, raising her arms victoriously.
“That’s perfect.” I smiled widely.
Ainsley’s laugh cut off, and her eyes narrowed. “You look different.”
“Different?” My voice cracked, and my stomach flipped. I shoved my hair back, heat rising up my neck. “Oh, uh, I got my braces off.”
Her face brightened. “That’s right! I can’t believe I didn’t realize. You look great, Oliver!”
I squirmed a little under her scrutiny. “Thanks. It feels weird,” I admitted, focusing on the script again. “I’m still not used to it, you know?”
“Yeah. I bet.”
I hazarded a glance up to find her still studying me. She started a little and quickly turned back to her computer. “So . . . what do you think of Layla’s line on page five?”
We went back and forth through the hour and actually got a good portion of the play rewritten. A lot of it was physical comedy and didn’t require additional lines, which would be great for the actors—Ainsley included—so she felt a lot more confident that they’d actually be able to get it all put together.
“Thanks so much for this, Oliver,” she said as she packed up her laptop.
I shrugged. “I was glad to help. It’s your play, though. You did it.”
She grinned. “I did, didn’t I? It’s going to be awesome. Seriously, though. I couldn’t have done it without you—”
“I just hooked you up with Hank—”
“You did more than that.” She reached out and touched my hand. I stared at it, unable to look away. She was touching me.
Ainsley Bishop was touching me.
“You believed in me,” she said earnestly. “You encouraged me to stand up for myself—kicked me in the butt, actually.”
I flushed at the praise and rubbed the back of my neck, unsure o
f how to respond.
Ainsley’s mouth quirked up in a grin. “And you’re pretty funny, too.”
I finally tore my eyes from where she was still touching my hand, but couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze as I shook my head. “Nah.”
“Yeah, you are.” She squeezed my hand once before releasing it. “Who knew?”
I shrugged. “Not me.”
Ainsley laughed. “Yeah, well . . .” The bell rang, and she threw her backpack over her shoulder. “I’m going to list you and Hank as cowriters on the program, just so you know.”
I looked up, shocked. “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah. I do,” she said firmly, shoving at my shoulder a little as we headed down the stairs. “And don’t try to talk me out of it. I can be pretty stubborn when it comes to getting what I want, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I couldn’t keep down a slight laugh. “Pushy.”
“That’s right.” She sniffed as we turned to walk out of the library. “Don’t you forget it.”
“God, I’ve created a monster,” I muttered.
She laughed. “See? Funny.” We pushed through the door out into the hallway, and Ainsley stopped. “Seriously, Oliver. Thanks.”
I looked down, a small smile on my face as I twisted my fingers in my hair and shoved it back. “You’re welcome.”
Ainsley was quiet for a minute, so I looked up, wondering if she’d already left. Instead, she was eyeing me carefully. “I could help you with that, you know.”
“With what?”
She waved a hand toward my head. “Your hair. I mean . . . if you want. My aunt has a salon, and she lets me cut my friends’ hair all the time.” Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your hair. You just seem to push it back a lot, and I thought . . .”
Holy crap. She was nervous. Ainsley Bishop though she’d offended me. By offering to cut my hair.
She wanted to cut my hair. Which meant she’d be touching my hair. Her hands, in my hair. I felt my brain short-circuit a little bit.
“Anyway, it’s no big deal,” she said, “I just thought I’d offer—”
“That’d be great!” I kind of shouted. She blinked in surprise. Okay, maybe not kind of. I took a deep breath, digging my fingernails into my thighs to center myself. “I mean . . . I’d appreciate that. If it’s not too much trouble. I’ve been meaning to get it cut, but I haven’t found the time.”
Ainsley smiled. “Okay.”
I smiled back. “Okay.”
“See you at rehearsal, right?” She backed away toward her next class.
“Yeah.” I nodded, still a little stunned. “See you.”
She turned around and continued down the hall as I took off in the other direction. My step faltered when I spotted Ian at the end of the hall, looking past me—toward Ainsley—before his gaze focused, hard and not so happy, on me.
I ducked my head and pretended I didn’t see, not really breathing easily until I was in my seat and the tardy bell rang.
7.Be More Attractive
You may not be Brad Pitt, but at least put forth some effort. And while you’re at it, try to show her your loveable qualities.
I looked up skeptically at the bright pink sign in front of Curl Up & Dye, rays of early morning sunlight glinting off the glittery letters. Ainsley’s aunt had given the okay for Ainsley to cut my hair, but we had to meet before the salon opened—and before I had to be at the senior center for work—so we’d agreed on eight o’clock. On a Saturday morning.
Not that I was complaining, but after a sleepless night—did I mention Ainsley was going to have her hands in my hair?—I desperately needed the triple mocha I’d picked up on the way. I sipped at it, trying to settle my churning stomach, and clutched the matching drink I’d bought for Ainsley in my other hand.
I didn’t even know if she liked coffee, but I figured getting it wrong was better than showing up empty-handed. Or one-handed. With only one mocha. Whatever.
The collar of my shirt was a little damp from my wet hair—I’d washed it twice and used some of my mom’s conditioner just to be safe—and I shivered a little, although whether from the my hair or nerves, I couldn’t be sure.
“Okay. Get a grip,” I muttered to myself, taking another sip of coffee before I headed for the door. I peered over the Closed sign at the empty interior and knocked lightly on the glass, coffee sloshing out of the hole in the lid with the movement.
“Crap!” I stepped back to avoid dribbling it on my jeans and scrubbed at the mocha puddle with the bottom of my shoe. The door opened a second later, and I strategically placed my sneaker over the coffee spot, aiming an innocent smile at Ainsley.
“Morning!” I said brightly.
She glanced pointedly at the cups in my hands. “How many of those have you had already?”
“Oh.” I lifted one hand, then the other, forgetting for a moment which one was mine. “Just the one. Or part of one. I brought one for you.” I thrust the full mocha toward her. “I hope you like chocolate and whipped cream.”
A smile lit her face as she reached for the coffee. “Who doesn’t? Thanks, Oliver.” She wrapped her hands around the cup, closing her eyes for a second with a sigh of pleasure.
“Sorry,” she said with a sleepy smile. “It’s so nice and warm.”
“Yeah, well. You know. Coffee. It’s . . . hot,” I said helpfully.
She rolled her eyes and took a sip and stepped back from the door. “Come on in. My aunt’s in the back doing inventory, but she said we can use her station.” She looked back to find me gazing around with wide eyes. “Don’t tell her you brought me a coffee, okay? I’m kind of not allowed.”
“Not allowed to drink coffee?”
“It’s not the coffee, it’s me,” she said, quiet like she was confiding a secret. “I always spill it. Always. I’m not usually a klutz, but hot drinks are like my . . .” She waved the hand holding the cup and it sloshed a little out of the top.
“Kryptonite?” I suggested, eyes on the foam poking out of the lid.
“Yes!” She gestured toward me with the cup and a little coffee splashed out, narrowly missing her shoes—neon orange with black stripes today. “Crap. See what I mean?” she muttered, grabbing a few paper towels and wiping up the spill.
I took the opportunity to take in my surroundings.
“Yeah,” Ainsley said as she stood up and tossed the towels in the trash. “My aunt kind of likes pink.”
I laughed. “I guess so.”
Everything was varying shades of pink—the walls, the linoleum floor, the furniture—I even noticed as I sat down that the combs, brushes, blow dryer, and curling irons lined up on the shelf below the mirror were a matching Pepto-Bismolish shade.
Ainsley carefully set her coffee cup on the shelf before grabbing a pale pink cape out of a drawer beneath it. She flicked it open, and it billowed around me before settling on my shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she said as she fastened it around my neck. “It won’t affect your masculinity.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I said. Of course, my voice cracked.
Ainsley laughed distractedly as she ran her fingers through my damp hair. I tensed, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I would have shampooed your hair, Oliver.”
I shrugged. “I was trying to be considerate. Didn’t want you to get a handful of—” Okay, how could I finish that sentence without sounding completely disgusting? Nope. Couldn’t think of a single thing.
Ainsley looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Handful of what?” she asked, lips twitching. “What do you keep in there?” She poked at my hair with the tail of her comb.
“Shut up.” I tried to hold my frown but failed. “It’s only polite, isn’t it? I mean, you wouldn’t go to the dentist without brushing.”
“Could you imagine?” Ainsley wrinkled her nose at me in the mirror. “Gross.”
She grabbed a water bottle and sprayed my head a few times, then combed through it, wre
stling with a couple of snarls. “Do you have an idea what you want?” she asked.
What do I want? What do I want?
I was pretty sure “for you to never ever EVER stop touching my hair” was the wrong answer.
“Oliver?” Ainsley paused in her hair-fiddling to glance at me in the mirror again.
“What?”
She tilted her head and arched a brow, waving with the comb toward my head. “How do you want your hair cut?”
“Oh. Uh.” My face burned with the force of a thousand suns. “I don’t know. Just . . . shorter?”
Ainsley laughed. “Yeah, well, that’s the general idea.” She rounded the chair and stood in front of me, a look of concentration on her face as she examined my unruly mop. Her gaze drifted down to meet mine. “Do you trust me?”
I felt paralyzed under her scrutiny. Frozen, yet still . . . hot. I couldn’t even fidget, which was a first for me. “Uh. Yeah. Sure I do,” I muttered. I did. But I began to wonder if she knew what she was doing.
Her eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t very convincing.”
I sat up a little. “Well, what are you going to do?”
She smirked. “A little protective of our hair, are we, Oliver?”
“No, I just—”
She started to hum “You’re So Vain” under her breath as she moved behind me again.
“Again. Shut up.”
Ainsley laughed. “I’m kidding!” She combed up a piece of hair and held it between her fingers. “I’m thinking a little off the top, maybe half an inch?” She dropped the piece and combed out a bit above my ear. “Shorter here and in the back. Clean it up with a razor—”
“Razor?” My voice cracked.
“Relax. I do it all the time,” she said, patting my shoulder as she looked me in the eye through the mirror. “It’s going to look great. I promise.” Ainsley smiled hopefully at me until I nodded.
“Okay. Whatever you think.”
She bounced a little on her toes before getting to work. I watched in the mirror as she combed and snipped, every now and then looking up to catch my eye before quickly focusing on my head again.
“Is something wrong?” I asked after the third or fourth time.
“Wrong? No. Nothing’s wrong.” She cut another piece of hair and tossed it to the floor. “I just . . . I might have asked you here under false pretenses.”
How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You Page 8