by Ginger Scott
“Wow, piranha!”
“Sowwwwwy,” I say, my mouth stuffed with fries. I cover my face with my napkin so I can talk more clearly while I chew. “I didn’t eat breakfast, so I’m kinda starving.”
“I figured,” he says, holding a fry out for me to take. I bite it from his hand quickly, and he jerks back. “Okay, I am going to have to throw a ball in a few hours. Let’s not bite my fingers off?”
“You knew the risk,” I smirk.
“Yeah, I did,” Nate says, his tone serious now as his eyes settle on me. His attention makes me blush, so I unfold my napkin and hold it up in front of me, like a curtain. But Nate reaches for it and tears it from my hand with a chuckle. “Hey, no hiding. Why do you do that?”
“I don’t know. I just get embarrassed, that’s all,” I say, taking a big bite from my burger so I have an excuse not to talk any more.
“Well, I like to look at you, so you’re going to have to get used to it. Here, let’s practice.” Nate moves his burger and wrapper to the side and lays flat on his stomach, propping his chin up on his hands and elbows close to me while he stares with his eyes wide. He doesn’t blink for the longest time, and I do my best to hold my laughter in, just eating slowly, and dabbing the corners of my mouth with my napkin.
“The human female in her natural habitat is a unique creature. This one, barely from her parents’ den, has yet to learn how to hunt, so she relies on her gathering techniques.”
Nate is putting on what I think is supposed to be an Australian accent, though when mixed with his Southern drawl it doesn’t sound quite right. I finish the last bite of my burger and pull the water bottle from my backpack so I can take a drink to wash it down, fighting to keep my lips from curling into a smile and giving me away.
“Finished with her feast, the young lioness prepares herself for her daily mating rituals. She must find herself a lion, but to do so, she must also ward off the competition from the other members of the herd who have recently come of age. She will need to do something to stand out if she wishes to pair herself with the King of the Jungle. And the lion is waiting…”
Before he can get out the rest of his commentary, I pour the entire contents of my water bottle down the back of his shirt, and I finally let my laugh escape my lips.
“Ooooooh shit! That’s cold!” Nate says, jumping to his feet quickly, and holding the back of his shirt away from his body while he hops around.
“What do you think? That stand out enough for you?” I ask while I twist the cap onto my now empty bottle and tuck it inside my bag. Nate wrings out the dampness from his shirt a little, and then flicks drops of the water from his fingers at me, making me giggle and flinch. Then he climbs over me, straddling my waist with his knees, pushing my back down along the grass while he tickles my sides.
“Oh, you stand out, all right!” he says while I fight, albeit not very hard, to remove his hands from my sides. He loosens his grip soon, and sits up, pulling me with him and cupping my face in his hands.
“You have to get to algebra,” I say, not really wanting him to leave but knowing he can’t miss class. He just sighs, his eyes piercing me before he leans in for a long and gentle kiss.
“Did you get to go to your prom?” His question is so out-of-the-blue.
“No, that was…a school activity,” I say, trying not to let my insides twist like they usually do when I think about things I missed.
“Right. This weekend, I’m taking you to prom,” he says, standing completely now, and unwrapping his burger to take a large bite before he has to go to class.
“Oh, that’s…you don’t have to do that. I wouldn’t know what to wear,” I say, not really sure what he means, or how he could take me to a high school dance that doesn’t even happen until the spring.
“No excuses. It’s my birthday. My wish.” Dimples. Smile. Accent. I’m sunk.
I knew his birthday was coming up, but I forgot it was this weekend. I have to get him something. I should get him something, right? What do you give a guy like Nate? With Josh, it was easy—I took him to a game and just splurged on nice seats for the Diamondbacks. Maybe Nate would like something like that?
I pull my phone out while I walk to class alone, and before I can talk myself out of it, I flip to the webpage I had saved—his mother’s gallery site. I hit the contact tab and type her a message. Foolishness settles in the second I hit send, but it’s too late, so I put my phone back in my pocket and join the others filing in to the lecture hall for art history. When my phone buzzes in my pocket minutes later, I almost fumble it to the floor just getting it out.
My email alert is on, and when I open the tab, there’s already a reply from Cathy Preeter.
Rowe, so good to hear from you! I just called Dave, and he said he does know someone with season tickets in Oklahoma. I’ll email you the name and number later, and I’m sure Nate would love that for his birthday. Send Nate my love. – Cathy
I’m almost more excited to have such a kind email from Nate’s mother than I was to get a message from Nate in the first place. I’m not good at making impressions on parents—I’ve had so very little practice with it. And with Josh’s parents, they knew me as coach’s daughter long before I was the girlfriend. I wonder if that’s what I am to Nate’s parents? The girlfriend.
The lights go out, so I push my phone back into my pocket and pull out my notebook to make notes on today’s set of slides. But every now and then I let my pen spill over to the margin, where I doodle hearts.
Nate
The week dragged by, probably because I couldn’t wait to get to Friday. I know there’s a lot Rowe missed, and her senior prom is probably just the tip of the iceberg. But this is also one of those things I can fix—I may not be able to bend time, but I can fill in the memories.
Taking Sadie to the prom was probably my last great memory I have of her. She was tall and toned, like Rowe, and she wore this deep purple dress that hugged her body down to her feet. It’s the only picture I have left of us in my wallet, and I should probably throw it away. But something always kept me from tossing it in the past. I think it was the nostalgia, of being able to pull it out and remember us like that.
The last time I looked at it, I had just bailed from some girl’s apartment during summer ball at about five in the morning. I woke up, hung over and naked, and for some reason that picture was poking out of the edge of my wallet on the floor when I crawled to my feet. I didn’t miss Sadie, but I missed having someone. And my new pattern wasn’t about finding someone. It was about finding anyone—anyone that would do. But seeing the picture of me with Sadie reminded me what really being with someone felt like. So that was the last girl I had sex with, despite the world of crap Ty gave me over it. I was going to just focus on baseball—baseball and nothing else until the right girl came along.
Rowe just happened to show up really fast.
She has tried to back out of what she is now calling the Nate Preeter Prom Experience all week long, but she’s been trapped in her room with Cass and Paige for the last two hours, and I saw Paige walk in with garment bags and hair products. I honestly thing she’s more excited about this whole thing than Rowe is.
“Did you seriously get a limo?” Ty asks from the hallway as he makes his way through our open door.
“Yes. I told you, I’m not messin’ around. Prom is serious shit, and when you throw a prom, you do it right. Now come fix my damn tie,” I say back, untying my fourteenth attempt at the bow.
“How are you my brother? I mean…seriously, I’m starting to think we need to give up on all the Barbie shit in our room, because you’re making estrogen. You’ve become an estrogen factory, like women should come visit you for donations for hormone replacement. Wait, show me your legs.” Ty is loving this, and as he reaches down to grab my pant leg to roll up the material, I kick at him.
“Dude, don’t touch my leg. What are you doing?” I say.
“Just checking to see if you’ve started shaving your le
gs. Your razors aren’t pink, are they?” he snickers.
“No, jack-ass. And this is just important, so cut the crap,” I say, shoving the ends of my tie in his face so he can help me.
“To whom? To Rowe? Because I was in that room an hour ago, and she was not a happy camper having Paige’s hands all over her face and head,” he says, tugging and pulling on the tie until it’s finally even on both sides.
“I know, but that’s just her style. She doesn’t like the attention and the fuss. But she likes the experience, and everyone needs to have a prom to remember. She missed out on hers,” I say, slipping my jacket on and dusting the sleeves.
“I don’t know, bro. I didn’t have a prom experience, and I turned out fine,” Ty says, winking as he turns away and reaches for the remote to flip on the TV.
“That’s because you left prom—and your prom date—after fifteen minutes, to sleep with some college chick waitress you met during the dinner,” I fire back.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” he laughs. “Ahhhhh prom. A’right, go make your own memories.”
“Shithead,” I say as I tuck my wallet into my jacket. Ty blows me a kiss when I leave.
It was so much like prom—the knocking on the door, and standing in the hallway, feeling like an asshole while I listen to the girls giggle on the other side. I was actually sweating, I was so nervous. That all stopped the second Cass opened the door though and Rowe walked around the corner.
Her dress was white—innocent and delicate and incredibly girly. It fell down the side of one of her shoulders and soft layers of fabric hugged her body, but then ended in a blunt cut along the top of her legs. It was the shortest thing I have seen her in, and I know her legs are the only things anyone who comes in contact with us tonight are going to see. I can’t take my eyes off of them right now.
“Daaaaamn,” Rowe says, putting her fingers in her mouth to whistle. My tomboy, always trying to beat me to the punch line, steps back and holds her hand to her chin admiring me, like I’m the one out of the two of us worth admiring. “You wore a tux,” she says, and a genuine smile curves on her lips.
“All part of the Nate Preeter Prom Experience, babe,” I say, holding my arm out to escort her.
“Ewww, don’t call me babe. It feels so…I don’t know…Goodfellas!” she says, reaching for my arm and letting me guide her through the door and down the hall.
“Got it, babe,” I say with a wink, just to be an ass.
“You have her home by morning, you hear Preeter?” Cass yells down the hall after us. I just hold my hand up with an okay.
When we reach the elevator, I hold the door with my back as she steps in, and that’s when I see how far down the material scoops on her back. Ohhhhhh fuck me! The silk sways along her lower back with every shake of her hips, and I find myself rooting for it to sway just a little more, because I swear if it does I’m going to see her bare ass.
Two more guys get in the elevator with us along with a few girls, and I notice everyone looking at the back of that dress—at Rowe’s bare back. Most guys would get all kinds of protective from this and want to cover their woman up, but not me. I know what it means to Rowe to be out in something like this, to show parts of herself she normally keeps hidden. And I never want her to feel ashamed again. Rowe is hot as hell, and I want everyone to get a good look at the girl that will be with me all night, and the rest of the weekend, and the rest of the semester and…well, pretty much as long as she’ll have me.
“You seriously rented a limo,” she says when we walk up to the parking lot curb where the driver is waiting for us.
“Damn straight I did,” I say, opening the door for her to step inside. “Oh, and I almost forgot.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the small yellow wrist corsage I picked up from the town florist. It was a last-minute order, so she didn’t have time to make me anything fancy—but seeing the way it makes Rowe’s face light up when she lets me slide it over her hand, and she smells it along her wrist, makes me think this simple flower was the perfect choice.
Putting together a prom night wasn’t easy, and there really wasn’t a way I could get her to a formal dance, so I did the next best thing and put together all of the silly things that go along with the prom. Our first stop was the Olive Garden, because that’s the kind of place you think is a fancy restaurant when you’re in high school. Two pasta bowls and two basketfuls of breadsticks later, Rowe and I left to climb back into the limo, sleepy from the carb overload.
“Okay, I’ll admit it. That was pretty fun,” she says, crossing her long legs in the car and completely putting me in a trance. “So, what’s next?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah…” I shake my head.
“You were gawking,” she says, pulling the edge of her skirt up a little higher on her thigh just to tease me.
“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish, Rowe. I can put up that privacy glass anytime I want,” I say, my eyes moving quickly from hers back to the newly exposed flesh on her leg.
“Well, isn’t that part of the Nate Preeter Prom Experience, too?” she teases. I slide my arm around her to tug her close to my body, and I spend the rest of the short drive torturing her while I kiss her neck and slide my fingertips along the temptingly high hem of her dress.
I knew the next stop would get to her. I had to come up with something that would serve as a prom, so when I saw the Friday-night square-dancing notice posted at Sally’s this week, I jumped all over it.
“Uh, Preeter? I’m pretty sure this is not what a high school prom is like,” she says as I hold her hand and help her from the car to the curb.
“Really? ‘Cause I was trying to be authentic to Arizona, and that’s how y’all dance there pretty much, ain’t it?” She slaps at my side with her small handbag, and I swing my arms around her and lift her into me, spinning her around until she giggles. God I love that sound.
“Wow, you really did your research on my home state. I suppose after this we’re going to meet up for a shootout, and then take our horses down to the waterin’ hole?”
“Don’t be silly,” I say, opening the door to lead her inside. “Everybody knows shootouts only happen at dawn.”
I never would have expected it, but the square-dancing nights at Sally’s are actually pretty happening. Granted, Rowe and I are the youngest people in the building by about forty years, but everyone thinks we are so sweet that they teach us new formations, buy us drinks and appetizers, and even make a special crown for Rowe to be named queen. We leave after two full hours of dancing, and I actually worked up enough of a sweat to have to lose the jacket and undo the tie.
Rowe kicks her shoes off in the car, and I pull her feet onto my lap to rub them. It’s all I can do to keep my hands from running completely up her leg to the small, white panties I keep catching a glimpse of, and if she weren’t looking at me with those eyes, making that face, I probably would.
“Thank you,” she says softly, letting her face fall to the side along the headrest of the car.
“For what?” I say, my fingers pressing into the arch of her feet.
“For caring about me so much,” she says, and her words cut into my heart completely.
“Rowe,” I say, carefully setting her feet down on the floor and sliding myself closer to her so I can touch her face. “I would do…anything.”
She leaves her eyes on mine for a long time, and I just keep stroking the side of her face as we pull back onto the main road to campus. “Anything?” she says, finally.
“Name it.”
“Hold me again tonight?”
“Done.”
Chapter 21
Rowe
Nate’s dad came through with the ticket hook-up, and when I called his business associate, the man turned out to be a huge McConnell baseball fan, and he gave me the pair of third-row seats for free.
When I gave them to Nate after our prom experience, he was thrilled. There isn’t much in the way of professional sports in Oklahoma, and th
e Thunder has a huge fan base, so good seats are tough to come by. Now, I just need to work up the mental stamina to be able to sit in a full arena for three hours—without having a panic attack. And I have six more hours to do it before tipoff.
“Hey, he’s talking to you,” a voice behind me whispers and jolts me back to attention.
“Huh, oh…sorry,” I say, startled to have someone talk to me during art history, or in any class. My circle of friends hasn’t really expanded beyond my dorm floor, and I haven’t really made an effort to be social in class. I look up to see the professor tapping his pen on the side of his podium, waiting for me. Crap! I have no idea what the question was, and judging from the look on his face, he’s been waiting for my answer for a while. I swallow hard and shift my posture in my seat, pretending to work to get a better look at the slide showing on the screen.
“He wants to know why yellow was the dominant color,” the voice behind me whispers. I owe that voice!
“The artist was trying to depict the ugliness in human nature. He used yellow to signify greed and arrogance. And the lone figure, painted in blue, is there for hope—that humans can redeem themselves,” I say, my voice coming through a little unsurely. I read this chapter last night, knowing I zoned out during the last lecture. I just hope I remembered things correctly—and I hope like hell that’s really what the professor asked. If not, then the voice behind me might just be trying to make me look stupid.
“Perfection,” Professor Gooding says, flipping to the next slide and picking on someone else now. I sink down into my seat, relieved.
“You’re welcome,” the voice whispers again.
“Thanks, I owe you!” I whisper back. Just then, an arm leans over my shoulder and shows me thumbs up, which makes me laugh silently and smile big.