Brian flips open a cooler after the game. “What position did you play? Quarterback?”
“Nah,” Austin replies. “Cornerback and wide receiver.”
“Wide receiver, huh?” Brian says with an undercurrent of awe in his tone. Then he tells Austin all about how he didn’t make the team his senior year because of some knee injury.
“I call Austin’s on our team next time,” Tanner shouts and waves good-bye.
Austin grabs his shirt and stands.
“Leaving?”
Austin turns to face me, bare chest and all, his shorts slung low on his hips like some male model who has never known even a sliver of insecurity. “I have to get to work soon.”
Sure he does. Work? He just got off. I put on my best poker face. “Ah, I get it.”
“No, trust me, I’d rather stay. I got a second job in the evenings, though.”
“Come on, two jobs during summer break?”
“Sometimes it sucks,” he concedes.
“I’m going to teach a few dance classes each week in Savannah, and Brian’s already saying I work too hard.”
Austin offers a faint smile. “Hey, thanks for dragging me out here.”
“Oh, is that what I did?” I laugh and so does he. “Well, it was worth it to watch you play. You’re incredible.”
That makes him smile.
I breathe in the salty air blowing across the ocean, the scent refreshing after a long weekend of Spencer’s depression and my mom’s fretting over how to cheer him up. Seeing Austin again and simply hearing him say my name was a nice distraction from it all.
Austin’s phone rings, and he motions to his cell. “Sorry, I gotta . . .”
“Go ahead.”
“Hey, Jesse,” he answers. “How’s Maggie?”
I shouldn’t be surprised. First Lindsay and now this. It’s a small miracle his phone wasn’t ringing off the hook Friday night on River Street. Let’s face it. I’m just one of many. I bet all the girls are calling him now to ask if they can stare at him during his next job.
I cross my arms, toying with the idea of leaving Austin to the phone call he just had to take. He’s a guy I met on River Street, that’s it. Still, as I start walking away, I can’t deny that I was hoping for more.
CHAPTER 10
Austin
I cut the conversation short and hang up. “Hey,” I call out. I slip my hand gently around Sienna’s wrist and spin her around. I won’t lie, I’m pretty happy she ditched frat boy over there to talk to me, and I’m not about to let her get back to him.
“That was this old guy, Jesse,” I explain. “I walk his dog for him.”
I walk Maggie every day I can for Jesse. He may own Marjorie’s Café, but it’s ancient and in serious need of repairs. Doesn’t exactly drum up a lot of business. He has major arthritis, too, so he needs help with his dog.
Sienna diverts her gaze to the ocean. “That’s your second job? Walking a dog?”
“No, it’s not a job.”
She almost laughs. “So you’re doing it out of the pure goodness of your heart?”
Since the honest answer is yes, I’m not sure what to reply. “I like dogs.”
“Do you have one?”
“Best dog in the whole world.”
“The best, huh?”
“Hey, I was right about those pralines, wasn’t I?”
She smiles. “You’ve got a point.”
“His name’s Turbo,” I volunteer because he’s one piece of my past that’s easy. Safe.
“So, what is your second job?”
I spot frat boy by the cooler, pretending to be immersed in a drink as he spies on us. “I’m a waiter at The Westin. Dinner shift.”
“The Westin!”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course. It’s, like, super nice. My mom has always talked about staying there.”
“But you haven’t?”
“My dad never wanted to spend the money since we have the beach house where we can stay for free.”
I’m starting to see which parent Sienna took after. She hasn’t said much about her dad. Then again, she’ll never hear me speak a word about mine.
“Wow, two jobs,” she says. “That must keep you busy.”
Actually I have three jobs. I don’t mention that now. Most Saturdays, I work at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Brunswick. Stand in as a mock suspect for law enforcement officers in training. Pretty sweet, actually.
She brushes her hand across a mound of wild grass growing up through the sand. “You know, you’re different from other guys.”
Long pause. “Okaaay.”
“In a good way!” she rushes in. “Most guys—I don’t know—sit around and talk about video games all day.”
The wind blows a strand of her hair across her face. I imagine the rest of the afternoon we could spend together, and it paints a much more appealing picture than waiting on people all night.
She has a boyfriend. She and I are friends. I guess that’s it? But, get real, that’s lame. What exactly can friends do together? Not what I have in mind, I’m sure. I have a feeling Sienna doesn’t know the answer either, so there’s only one way to find out. “Have you seen the stars over Savannah?”
Her forehead creases. “Um, yes.”
I shake my head. “Not like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you open Friday night? I mean, unless, of course, you’re busy with Brian.”
I’m about to mention Kyle, too, but I see I’ve caused enough of a sting already. She’s glaring at me, but I couldn’t care less. She has a loser of a boyfriend, and I plan on changing that.
Sienna crosses her arms. “Yeah, actually, I am open Friday night.”
“Sweet. Four o’clock?”
She hides a smile. “What do you have planned?”
I wink, content to keep it a surprise. “I want to show you something.”
CHAPTER 11
Sienna
I’m no better than any other Austin-adoring female out there (of which I am sure there are plenty), my feet a fidgety mess as I wait by the curb where I said he could pick me up. Stars over Savannah. That’s all he gave me. One smoldering glance from those blue eyes and I was putty in his hands. Didn’t care for specifics.
Just friends, I lecture myself.
I look to the afternoon sky painted with seagulls, focusing on anything but the sound of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot. Still, a shudder courses through me as I remember the motorcycles from the night my dad died. But this motorcycle is white and black, and the motorcycles that veered into my lane were—oh, it kills me that I can’t remember—not white, though.
I turn so I don’t have to look at the motorcycle approaching. But the punk cyclist pulls up right in front of me, and I can’t ignore those gorgeous eyes as he pulls off his helmet.
Just friends, I remind myself again.
“Hey,” Austin says and swings his leg around. Oh, he smells like heaven. “You live around here?”
I dart a glance at the pier. I didn’t want Austin to see our monster beach house, and I certainly didn’t want my mom to see him. The pier was a nice meeting spot. Middle ground.
“Just down the street.” I stare at his motorcycle again. “Are we going on that?”
He gives the bike a hard pat and smiles. “Oh yeah.”
I swallow hard. He notices.
“Is that okay?”
I exhale and nod. “Sure. I’ve just never been on one before.”
“Are you serious?”
I nod again, and Austin mistakes my anxiety for excitement. He hands me a helmet, unfolds the rear pegs for me, and hops on. My hands tremble as I pull the helmet over my head and fasten it beneath my chin.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. A motorcycle. What if the accident bombards me again and I faint? Right here on his motorcycle.
Oh, that would be epic.
“Hop on,” he invites wit
h a glance over his shoulder that makes my knees weak. I straddle the seat behind him, acutely aware of his back and shoulders and every muscle in front of me. I could close my eyes and inhale his scent forever. Some earthy, fresh smell with a touch of cologne. He revs the engine, doing little to subdue my adrenaline surge.
“As much as your boyfriend wouldn’t like it, you’re going to have to hold on.”
He says boyfriend like my mom says dirt when it’s on our kitchen floor.
I whack his arm playfully. “Hey, he’s not that bad.”
Austin glances back and gives me a look. He takes my hands and secures them around his waist regardless. I feel the ripple of his abs against my arms, and suddenly I consider unraveling all ties to Kyle and throwing them behind me as we zip away from the curb.
We put the pavement behind us, mile by mile of wide sky and salt marshes. Before long my tight grasp on Austin’s shirt loosens and I relax against his back. I watch fishing boats motor around the marshes, enjoying the ride more with each passing mile.
As we enter the city and slow down, I ask, “Have you ever been in an accident?”
He chuckles. “Have I got you worried?”
“No, just curious.”
He shakes his head.
“Ever been close?”
“Nope. But there are plenty of moron bikers out there who buzz around like they’re invincible.”
“And you don’t?”
“Drive like an idiot and it’s only a matter of time,” he replies.
“That’s good,” I say, “that you’re careful.”
“Being careful isn’t enough. Not always. It’s true what they say; people don’t see motorcycles. When you’re on one of these, you’ve gotta watch for the accident before it happens.”
Guilt stabs me. Shouldn’t have brought this up. I was watching the fireworks that night, not the road. “So you’re saying this is pretty dangerous?” I tease, an effort to keep the accident from consuming my thoughts.
We park on the side of the street, and Austin takes off his helmet. “That’s why you’re wearing the good helmet.”
I notice the helmet he’s wearing: worn, scratched, falling apart. I pull off his nice helmet. Shiny and black. Plain. Not like the one the motorcyclist wore that night. I can’t remember exactly what made that helmet different. Something distinct yet far from reach. My brain won’t let me pull that image out. “What about you?”
Austin kills the engine and gives me a hand off. “Your face is a lot prettier than mine, and it’s worth a lot more to me, too. Come on,” he says and leads me into a tree-covered square of land nestled between city buildings. “Do you know what this place is?”
Spanish moss drapes from oak trees all around us. A statue marks the middle of the square. Some guy holding a sword. I squint to read a sign. “Chippewa Square?”
“Yep,” Austin says. “This square honors the soldiers killed in the Battle of Chippewa during the War of 1812.”
“Who’s the dude?” I ask, pointing to the statue.
“General Oglethorpe.”
I send Austin an appraising glance, impressed.
He smiles and points to a corner of the square. “I’ll bet you’ve seen this place before.”
I look around. “Nope. I don’t think so.”
“Do you watch movies?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Then guess what this spot is famous for.”
“This has something to do with a movie?”
Finally he gives a hint, mimicking a southern drawl. “ ‘Life is like a box of chocolates.’ ”
“Forrest Gump!”
Austin gestures to the ground beneath our feet.
“Get out! This is where that whole bench scene was filmed? Right here?”
Austin nods and gently guides me along, his hand on the small of my back raising little goose bumps along my spine. Then some husky voice shouts out, startling us both.
“It wasn’t there, you bum!” one of three guys sitting on a cement bench yells. This guy sports a bushy, graying beard and a tie-dye bandana over greasy hair, and he seriously just called Austin a bum.
“It was that spot right there,” lisps one of the other guys. He leans over and points to the ground, like, maybe a yard away from our feet. He looks like the kind of guy who could spit tobacco without anyone even seeing his lips part. The third guy simply points to the sky, gazing upward as though he’s seeing stuff no one else can. Probably is.
Austin holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Hey, man, I’m not about to argue with three hippies. I’m outnumbered.”
I whack his arm. “Austin,” I whisper sharply, not even sure whether hippie is an offensive term or not.
The bearded guy jumps to his feet and starts throwing one arm up and down, strumming an imaginary guitar. “If you’re going to San-Fran-cisco . . .” he sings.
Austin laughs and I relax. “How’s it going, Milo?”
“Hey, bro,” the bearded hippie replies.
Of course. Just another few random guys Austin knows in a city he’s lived in for one year. Austin introduces me to Milo, Tolby, and Freedom.
“ ‘Freedom’?” I repeat the name, not sure I heard correctly.
Freedom plants a kiss on the back of my hand. “If we don’t got freedom, baby, we don’t got nothin’.”
Whatever Austin doesn’t know about Forrest Gump, these free spirits do. They tell us more than we need to know. Before we leave, they inform Austin that he’d better make a palm-leaf flower for me, or they’ll beat him to it.
Freedom beams a smile of yellow teeth my way. “Then she gonna hafta fall in love with me instead of you.”
I grin. Mmm, tempting.
I can’t stop smiling as Austin fidgets with the leaf of a palm tree, twisting and folding it into a three-dimensional creation. He finishes what looks like a wilting rose, kneels on one knee, and offers it to me, receiving a round of applause from the hippies. And a silent sigh from me. He seriously got down on one knee.
I take the palm-leaf rose.
“Make love, not war.” Tolby bids us good-bye. Before I have a chance to draw back, however, he embraces me in an awkwardly long farewell hug. Nonetheless, their hospitality makes me think twice about my first reaction to them.
I jump on Austin’s motorcycle and wrap my arms around him. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“You’ve lived here one year, and already people know you by name. People in the store. People in the street. It’s like they’re drawn to you.”
He makes a face. “Drawn to me?”
I blush because only someone who is drawn to him would put it that way. “Come on, I’ve been here every summer of my life and hardly know anybody. You know everyone.”
“I don’t know everyone.”
“How do you do it?”
His lips twitch, an expression of thought. “I don’t know. They’re good people. I’m here, they’re here, and we end up talking.”
“And then you’re friends, just like that?”
Austin shrugs. “Everyone wants a friend.”
“They want you for a friend.”
“No, they just want someone they can count on,” Austin says and starts the engine.
That came out of nowhere. As he drives away I wonder if he said that with some resentment, like maybe someone let him down in the past. And perhaps Austin’s smile isn’t merely an expression of charm; it’s something people can count on. Something, maybe, he doesn’t have.
The sun fades into the western horizon as we finish our little motorcycle tour of Savannah. Austin pulls off Broad Street and parks by a restaurant, a building of aged bricks and wooden slats with a sign that reads The Pirate’s House.
“I’ve heard of this place before but never been,” I say as we enter.
“Well, apparently it’s the place to be tonight,” Austin says as we take in the line of people already waiting to be seated.
A group of kids
gather around someone in costume down the hall, snapping pictures like they’re on the red carpet. When I hear the man’s voice, I recognize him easily—or at least the person he’s mimicking.
“Drink up, me ’earties, yo ho,” he sings as the crowd parts enough for me to catch a glimpse. I drag Austin in to snap a picture of Captain Jack Sparrow with my iPhone because, well, why not?
“Elizabeth!” Jack Sparrow calls out to me. “Is it really you, darling?” He drapes his arm around my shoulders, acting just as drunk as the swashbuckling pirate from the movie. Most likely, he is. “I hate my job,” he teases and plants a juicy kiss on my cheek as Austin snaps the picture, a kiss that would have crushed my lips had I not inched away at the last second. “Would you like me to take one of you, love?” Sparrow offers afterward with obvious dejection. He points to me and Austin.
“Oh, sure.”
Austin and I waver like relatives meeting for the first time, unsure whether to hug or shake hands. Finally, he slings his arm over my shoulders, and I wrap mine around his waist for an I-can’t-wait-to-see-this-picture-and-relive-this moment that’s pulled to a close with the click of my camera.
“Call me if it doesn’t work out between you two, darling,” Sparrow says and saunters off, his boots clanking on the wooden floor.
“First Brian, then Kyle, and now I’m up against Captain Jack Sparrow,” Austin teases as the waiter delivers our menus. Sparrow peeks around the open doorway, swigging his beer with a seductive glance my way. Austin’s eyes flash open. “Jeez, he’s tough to compete with.”
Our eyes find each other as I laugh, and we hold our gazes. I throw a nervous glance at my menu. Finally, Austin does the same.
“Have you always loved history?” I ask, remembering all of the little historical facts he shared on our tour of the city.
Austin shrugs.
“Did your dad like history stuff, too?”
I can’t quite interpret Austin’s reaction. Finally, he rubs his lips together and shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Your mom?”
Austin holds back a chuckle. “Unless it’s the history of country-fried chicken or the evolution of the oven, she doesn’t care.”
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