Caught Up in You (Smart Girls Finish First)

by Swift, Sophie

  I place my wine down on the counter, yank open the giant, industrial oven and remove the tray of freshly baked pastries, setting them on the counter. “Once they’re cool, I’m going to dip them in chocolate,” I say proudly.

  “This girl must be pretty special,” Blake says, bending over and inhaling a whiff from the hot tray.

  “I just want everything to be perfect,” I tell him. “If you knew Alex as well I do, you’d understand.”

  He pulls his face into a comic grimace. “I’m beginning to think I don’t want to know Alex.”

  My giggle fizzles out the moment I hear the familiar jingle of the front door. My body instinctively stiffens. Blake puts a hand on the small of my back. “Relax,” he tells me for the third time tonight.

  I suck in a huge breath, grab my wine, and brace myself for the hurricane.

  Blake follows closely behind me. “I gotta see this with my own eyes.”

  But when I step into the dining room, preparing myself for the worst, I’m surprised to see there’s no one there. Only the bad-date people who are in the process of paying their fifteen dollar check.

  “Oh, look,” Blake says, pushing past me. “A customer. What do you know?”

  And that’s when I see what he sees. A man—tall and dressed smartly in dark slacks and a blue-collared shirt—is standing at the bar with his back to us. Upon hearing Blake’s voice, he turns around and I swear everything around me just…

  Stops.

  It’s him.

  Oh God, it’s him.

  But it can’t be.

  It can’t be him.

  Him is supposed to be in Washington, D.C.

  Him is not supposed to be in Eastbrook, Connecticut. In my mother’s restaurant.

  The breath catches in my throat and my fingers go numb. Which is unfortunate because my wine glass is clutched between them. Or was.

  The glass plummets to the floor, smashing loudly against the wood panels, and shattering into a zillion pieces.

  This snaps me out of my trance. “Shit!”

  Instinctively I bend down to gather up the shards but Blake is suddenly there, his hand on my arm, pulling me back up. “Don’t touch that. You’ll slice up your fingers.”

  It’s only then I realize I was about to start scooping up splintered glass with my bare hands.

  Genius, Lia.

  He leads me away from the mess and tells me he’ll take care of it.

  My gaze flickers back to the bar. And yes, he’s still there. Although he’s taken a few steps toward me in a haste to help with the mess I’ve made.

  He flashes me a smile. “How’s it going, Lil’ Killer.”

  Oh God, that voice. Deep and velvety with just the slightest hint of the South.

  And that nickname. “Lil’ Killer.” It was our own private joke together. He called me that because of my propensity to land myself in so many potentially dangerous situations.

  A ripple of warmth spreads throughout my body and I close my eyes for a second, praying that it’s not him. That’s it just happens to be another ridiculously gorgeous man who runs around calling people “Lil’ Killer.”

  Or maybe even an apparition.

  But when I open my eyes, he’s still there. Standing inches away from me.

  Grayson Walker.

  All six foot two of him. With his dark and wild chocolate truffle eyes, perfectly mussed honey-brown hair, chiseled jaw and warm olive-colored skin.

  How he has managed to get even more beautiful in the four years since I’ve seen him is a question worthy of an Agatha Christie novel.

  “Still sending weekly Evites to Death, I see.” He nods toward the shattered glass which Blake is now sweeping up with a broom.

  I open my mouth to speak, even though I have no idea what will come out, if anything, but Grayson immediately pulls me into a hug.

  “I can’t believe it’s really you, Li,” he murmurs into my hair and I’m suddenly paralyzed in his embrace. All I feel is his sweet breath in my ear, his fingertips pressing into my back, and the wall of solid muscle that is his chest shoved up against me.

  By the time social etiquette even occurs to me and I remember to hug him back—instead of standing there like a corpse—it’s over. He holds me by the shoulders at arm’s length, his mouth curved into a glowing grin as his gaze dips down my body.

  I feel my cheeks flush with heat.

  “Wow. You look...” The conflicted expression on his face tells me that he’s about to say one thing but quickly changes his mind. “...You’re all grown-up.”

  Then his eyes lock into mine and I feel a familiar fire shoot through my veins. Like an invisible caress that covers every inch of my skin. How is it that after all this time, he can still liquefy me from the inside with just a look? Granted, it’s an unusually long look. And the way he’s staring into me, it almost seems like he’s trying to reach into my mind and pull out all the secret longing thoughts I’ve kept safely hidden for the majority of my young adult life.

  I stand slack-jawed and stupefied. My brain still can’t seem to wrap itself around the fact that he’s here.

  At La Bella Vita Italian Restaurant.

  Standing in front of me.

  The word destiny flits through my mind as I feel that small surge of hope start to dry my throat. If this were a movie, it would make perfect sense. My long-time secret crush comes fatefully waltzing back into my life to sweep me off my feet and confess that it’s been me all along.

  Of course, if this were a movie, the first words out of my mouth wouldn’t be “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  But they are.

  Because it’s me.

  He blinks out of his apparent trance and chuckles at my brashness. His hands drop from my shoulders and he reaches out to playfully pinch my cheek, making me feel like a dorky fourteen-year-old with braces all over again.

  Nice, Lia, I scold myself. Way to ruin the moment like a pro.

  But in all honesty, it’s a fair question.

  What the fuck is he doing here?

  The last I heard, his mom moved to Florida or somewhere. It’s not like he has reason to come back to this dinky little town.

  But he doesn’t answer the question. In fact, he appears to dodge it completely.

  “I see you still haven’t cleaned up your act,” he states, jokingly referring to my notorious trucker mouth.

  I give his preppy slacks and button-up shirt a critical once-over. “And I see you’re still dressing like a momma’s boy.”

  He snorts. “You know my ‘momma’ would never approve of this outfit.”

  “Because your momma actually has taste.”

  He bursts out laughing and pulls me in for another hug. “God, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this.”

  I instantly melt against him, reduced to vapor by his embrace. I want nothing more than to murmur into chest how much I’ve missed him, too. How much I’ve tried not to think about him all of these years. And how badly I’ve failed.

  But I don’t.

  Because I can’t.

  Because with Grayson the words have always been stolen from my tongue. Stowed away in a secret chamber that I’ve never had the courage to unlock.

  So instead I just ask again, “So, what are you doing here?”

  “Well, I—” he begins to answer as he pulls away, but is quickly interrupted by the sound of Alex’s breathy, phone-sex-operator voice squeezing between us.

  “I forgot the bathroom here only has air dryers.”

  I turn and see her emerging from the restroom, flicking droplets of water from her hands as she walks. She grabs a cocktail napkin from the bar and dabs her fingers with it. Then she turns to me and gives me a perfunctory one-armed hug, tapping my back like she’s trying to burp a baby.

  “Hey, Li. Good to see you.” She glances around the empty restaurant. “Is this place even open?”

  “Uh,” I say, my mouth suddenly filled with a giant imaginary piece of foam.

  Bu
t she doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Anyway, sorry we’re late. The train stopped in Bridgeport for like an hour.”

  I glance anxiously between them. Alex is crumpling up her used cocktail napkin and tossing it onto the bar while Grayson, for some reason, is staring awkwardly at the ground.

  “Wait? What?” is all I manage to say.

  We?

  Alex flashes me one of her beaming smiles that I know, from years of living as her inferior younger sister, is completely fake. “I was hoping to tell you and Dad at the same time, but oh well.” She reaches down and grasps Grayson’s hand in hers. A familiar queasy sensation settles into my stomach as I watch her long, dainty fingers interlace with his.

  “I have a surprise!” Then she leans over and plants a quick kiss on Grayson’s cheek. “We’re back together.”

  Two

  Lia

  The day I met Grayson Walker eight years ago was a solid 9.5 on the Richter scale.

  I remember the chasm that opened under my feet the first time I looked at him. The tremors that rippled through my body when he first touched me. I remember the fault lines that splintered and ruptured my poor, naïve heart when he chose my older sister instead of me.

  Some might say I’m being overly dramatic. That I was never actually a viable choice—me being only fourteen at the time, and him being a whole three years older. Maybe Alex, in all of her seventeen years of womanhood and maturity, was the wise choice that night.

  Maybe age was the only deciding factor.

  But believing that would be just another lie.

  Alex always won. It’s what she did best. She had, what I like to call, an abundance of mores.

  More beautiful. More athletic. More popular. More sex appeal.

  Just...more.

  It’s a truth untold between any two sisters. A natural inequality that just happens without any specific rhyme or reason. Genetics doesn’t play on a normal distribution curve. God doesn’t evenly allocate desirable traits, diligently counting the score to assure fairness. Like two children divvying up a pile of Halloween candy.

  Some people simply get the better candy.

  It’s true Grayson was never mine to lose. And yet, somehow I lost him every single day of my life.

  I lost the “hope” of him.

  Every time his lips crushed against hers in the hallway of our high school. Every time I heard the moans of their teenage experimentation in the bedroom next to mine. Every time he promised to never leave her.

  It was like having to reread the same sad ending to a disappointing book over and over again.

  They were together off and on throughout their entire senior year. They would fight, break up, then get back together in some dramatic showing before repeating the whole process again. I watched them shatter and fuse back together so many times I lost count.

  It was no surprise when they both ended up attending NYU together. And their rocky relationship went with them.

  That, at least, was somewhat of a reprieve.

  I didn’t have to witness it every day. It was an echo of longing. A pain once removed. Decidedly better than the first-hand, front-row version.

  Then, one day, their relationship ended for good.

  Alex decided to stay in New York City after college, and Grayson decided to move to Washington, D.C. And just like that, they were no more.

  That was four years ago.

  And I thought that I was finally set free from the heavy, iron chains of being unrequitedly in love with Grayson Walker.

  But that’s the thing about earthquakes. Just when you think they’re over, just when you start to feel safe again, that’s when the aftershock hits. And the foundation you thought was finally stable enough to stand on is suddenly crumbling beneath your feet.

  Three

  Grayson

  Don’t stare, I command myself.

  Just look away. Focus on something else. Anything else! The floor, the ceiling, that annoyed-looking couple leaving the restaurant.

  But whatever you do, don’t look straight ahead.

  I can’t help it, though. I’m so speechless right now.

  Who is this girl standing in front of me? This is not Alex’s sister. The scrawny little girl I taught to play rugby on the beach eight years ago. The awkward freshman I used to help with her calculus homework. The tomboy who wore oversized T-shirts and read comic books.

  This girl—this woman—is...is...

  Fucking hot.

  The words pop into my head before I can stop them. I instantly rebuke myself. Alex’s little sister cannot be hot. She’s Alex’s little sister. She can be sweet. She can be adorable. She can be lovable. But she cannot under any circumstances be hot.

  Seriously, though, where did that body come from? Had she been hiding it all along under those baggy sweatshirts? Or did that happen recently? Her legs are long and slender, her hip bones are just visible above the waistband of her loosely flowing, knee-length skirt. And her breasts look so perfect under that white tank top.

  No.

  You did not just think about Lia Smart’s breasts.

  That’s breaking pretty much every single unspoken rule in the gentleman’s handbook.

  After Alex delivers the news of our reunion, I watch Lia reach for a bottle of wine on the bar, pour herself a large glass and guzzle it.

  Lia? Drinking wine?

  The last time I saw this girl drink was when she was sixteen and I offered her a sip of my beer while Alex and I were lounging around the house during winter break. I laughed so hard at the face she made when she took that sip, I nearly shot beer through my nose.

  And now she’s downing wine like a Real Housewife of Eastbrook.

  I can’t help but stare as the liquid moves down her throat. I can’t help but remark at how dainty and feminine her neck is. How radiant her skin looks.

  Stop it, I command myself.

  This is Lia you’re talking about.

  And yet, she’s not Lia anymore. She’s someone else. Someone intriguing and mature and stunning.

  As she lowers the glass back to the bar, I notice the smudge of black ink on the side of her left hand and immediately feel a rush of relief.

  There it is.

  What I’ve been looking for.

  A lingering trace of the old Lia. The girl I used to know. The one who made fun of infomercials and people who dress their dogs in stupid costumes, and the desperate girls who go on The Bachelor.

  The girl who used to stay up late at the kitchen table drawing comic book characters in her sketchbook with black pen.

  That ink stain on her hand is exactly what I needed to see. To reassure me that she’s still in there. That not everything has changed.

  If I can just cling onto the memory of that Lia, I’ll be fine.

  “I’m famished,” Alex says. “Let’s go. I made a reservation at Union Bistro.

  “Um,” Lia says quickly, a look of panic flashing across her face. “I kind of thought maybe we could eat here. You know, for old times’ sake.”

  But Alex scowls. “I’m not a fan of Italian food. I already texted Dad and told him to meet us at Union.”

  Lia bites her lip. “But I’m not sure I can just leave. You know, I kind of run the place now.”

  Alex lets out a cough of a laugh, which makes me cringe inside. She glances around the nearly empty restaurant. “I think they’ll manage without you.”

  I can see the internal war waging within Lia’s head. I recognize it only because it’s a war that often wages inside my own mind. The epic battle surrounding the question, “Is it worth the fight?”

  Lia clearly comes to the same conclusion I normally come to because her body seems to wither in defeat and she mumbles something about grabbing her bag and meeting us out front.

  As we head for the door, I glance briefly around the restaurant. It seems like forever since I’ve been here. It’s nice that Lia has managed to keep it afloat even after the whole fiasco with her and Alex’s mother
.

  I’m just about to turn away when my eye snags upon a table in the far back corner. It’s set for three people and is far more decorated than the rest of the tables. Then I notice the white lilies in the vase—Alex’s favorite flower—and my chest clenches.

  I manage to catch Lia’s eye as she re-emerges from the back. I nudge my chin in the direction of the table. She seems to understand what I’m referring to but simply shrugs in response and follows her sister to the door.

  “Hey.” Lia stops and calls back to the only server in the restaurant. “Take the sixty-two dollars we made tonight and just split it between you and Blake.”

  Sixty-two dollars?

  That’s all they made? This place really has fallen apart since Marianne left.

  The server looks up from cleaning a table. “What?”

  “You couldn’t have made that much in tips,” Lia says. “So just take it.”

  “Are you sure?” the server asks, concerned.

  Solemnly, Lia nods. “I’m sure.”

  “That was nice,” I tell her as we walk outside. Alex is impatiently waiting next to a blue sedan—which I presume to be Lia’s—with her arms crossed.

  Lia shrugs again. “It’s the least I can do for them. It’s not their fault the place is dead.”

  I open my mouth to ask her why business is so slow, but I’m interrupted by Alex demanding the car keys from Lia.

  “I can drive,” I offer.

  “No,” Alex insists, holding out her hand. “You’ll just ask me for directions anyway.”

  Lia’s gaze flicks my way as she passes the keys to Alex. Yes, I could fight it. I could tell Alex I want to drive. Because it makes me feel like I’m contributing. Because it’s the chivalrous thing to do. But I know which battles are worth fighting with Alex, and this isn’t one of them.

  But also I wanted to drive so that I’d have something to think about that doesn’t involve the image of Lia’s skirt riding up to her mid-thigh as she sits down in the back seat and I close her door.

  Instead, as I lower myself into the passenger seat, I force myself to think about the day we first met. To hold that girl in my mind. The one with the braces and the oversized men’s basketball shorts and the knobby knees poking out from under them. But one glance over my shoulder erases all of that in a flash.