by Willow Aster
I sort of thought we had broken up when I turned down his proposal, but apparently that was just phase one of wearing me down to a nub. The first day he’s mopey and pitiful. The second day he’s edgy and ticked. The third day he’s sad and all hands. (I know he thinks the handsy approach will work because he knows I have a slight weakness toward the slutty. Okay, not just slight.) The fourth day he’s a half mope/half edgy mix, and I am worn out from the whiplash. The fifth day he calls and says he’s going to see his family in Seattle for a week. He needs to think. A month ago, I would have been sad for him to go, especially this close to leaving for school, but I am so relieved.
Tessa calls after I get off the phone with Michael. “Is Loverboy over there?”
“No, he’s going home for the week. To mull over his heartbreak.” I snap.
“You’re heartless,” she laughs.
“I feel heartless after all this drama! It’s been pure craziness. It’s like I’m the only adult around here!”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far … but well … yeah, it does sound like you’re the only one thinking clearly.”
“Thanks for not jumping on the marriage bandwagon. You could have been a kickin’ maid of honor.”
She sighs. “Yeah, I thought of that. Believe me. I could stand some excitement. A wedding would have been fun … besides that one little complication of you being married afterwards. That would completely suck. You know, that would wreck our entire New York plan.”
“It’s sad that my life is your highest form of entertainment. You definitely need more exciting friends,” I sigh. “And you know I could never wreck our New York plan. We’ve worked too hard for this!
“You’re right. I would have a REALLY hard time forgiving you if you bailed.”
“Well, now everyone else won’t forgive me, so I’m going to need you as a best friend a little longer … wanna do something later?”
“Yes! It’s about time you pay me some attention. Come spend the night. Let’s have a movie marathon.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll be over in an hour.”
Tessa is exactly what I’ve needed. I find myself relaxing for the first time since the Child Bride Project. We make a massive pile of nachos, get our Cokes propped beside us and put a movie in the DVD player. We’ve been doing this since we met in fifth grade. I don’t think we’ve ever gone more than two weeks without seeing each other.
Tessa was the first person I met when I started a new school in the middle of fifth grade. She was a blonde little nymph that practically sailed in the air as she ran up to meet me, all bubbly personality. I saw warmth in her eyes and clung to her like she was the safety harness on an upside-down roller coaster.
We’ve wanted to go to New York for as long as we’ve been friends. Honestly, I began looking at NYU only minimally because of their writing program. I really just wanted to be able to say I lived in New York once in my life. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that the school has an excellent reputation within the literary world. Same with Tessa—she will be going to Parsons, even though there’s a perfectly good Fashion Institute in San Fran. That’s us, though, never ones to do things the easy way.
We haven’t made it through a single movie yet. It’s still paused, and Tessa’s asking question after question about Ian. Michael’s proposal barely made a blip in her radar; she’s onto the more pressing topics…
“So tell me again what he said when you told him you like to read books AND write them?”
For some reason, this cracks her up more and more each time. I tell her the whole story at least three times before she is fully satisfied. Yes, she confirms. He’s way into me.
“But you didn’t give him your number, did you?” She wrinkles her nose.
“No! Michael was right there!”
“Pssssshhh,” she scoffs. “That didn’t stop you from practically kissing each other! You may as well have given him your number while he was asking for it.”
I cringe. Ugh. This is bad. This is really bad.
“Can you imagine if I did end up with Ian Sterling some day? It’s really farfetched, but let’s say I did. When people ask how we met, what would I say? ‘Well, uh, I was at lunch with family friends and had my boyfriend on one side and Ian on the other. It was love at first sight.’ Ahhh!” I put my head in my hands. “I would never live that down. Or what about if I did marry Michael and everyone wanted to know about how he proposed? ‘Well, let’s see … he proposed right after I met the man of my dreams.’ There is no tidy outcome to this situation.”
Tessa’s voice startles me in the middle of my downward spiral. “Oh, since when do you care what anybody thinks?”
“Since always?”
She’s crinkling her forehead at me now, looking like I’ve grown a horn in the middle of my nose. “Noooo, you’re nice and respectful, but you’ve still always done your own thing. This might be a little ‘inconvenient’, but everyone who knows you sees that you follow the beat of a different drummer boy. People would be disappointed if you did the expected.”
Now I’m looking at her like she has a third ear. I’m used to her giving her own twist to expressions, it’s not that. This is news to me: I know that I’m a bit of a weirdo, but I didn’t realize I wasn’t doing a better job of hiding it.
“That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say. “And it’s beat of a different drummer, no boy…”
She continues, not fazed in the slightest by my mush and my correction not registering either. “I’m surprised he hasn’t called you anyway. He sounds like he isn’t afraid of being persistent. He could have gotten your number from Jeff.”
“I think he was going to have a busy week. I wonder if this weekend is still happening … I think I’m supposed to see him day after tomorrow! We’re all supposed to go to Jeff and Laila’s on Saturday.”
“You didn’t tell me that part! How could you forget to tell me THAT? Here, ask your mom … text her really quick and see,” she excitedly throws my phone.
Within minutes my mom texts back that the plan is still on for the weekend and Tessa squeals. “Okay, what ELSE did you leave out? Start from the beginning AGAIN.”
- 4 -
Being oblivious has its perks. And when it comes to my appearance, that has always been my motto. This time a week ago, when I was getting ready to meet the Roberts, I don’t think I even bothered to shave my legs. Now, it’s like I’m possessed. I have gone through every beauty ritual possible within the confines of my limited budget. I have exfoliated and buffed and polished. My hair follicles are completely hair-free in the places where that is desirous, and the hairs on my head have never looked so good, let me tell you. The curls, they are practically aglow with all the attention they’ve been given. Loose waves fall down my back, with nary a frizz in sight. My mother will be proud.
Tessa is so sweet … or maybe she just couldn’t bear the thought of me wearing my norm and knew I was too stubborn to break my New York/Clothes mission again, but she showed up this morning with my outfit. The poor girl has been dying to dress me for years and I haven’t let her waste her time—she’s been too busy doing alterations at her job to sew for me. Whatever her motivation, I am so appreciative. The girl is beyond talented. She made a long, plum slip dress that fits to perfection. It’s comfortable and looks effortless, which is really what I want, even though I have contradicted myself with my actions. Sigh.
It’s not a date, I realize that. Truly, I do. I just can’t seem to stop the primping. This concept is foreign to me and I’m afraid it will lead to a disastrous character downfall if it continues. Besides loathing shallowness, I really don’t want to lose my, shall we say, edge—over a guy. Aloof has been my middle name for years, and after just one lunch with Ian Sterling, that seems severely threatened.
I’m buckling my sandals when Charlie comes in my room. Her mouth gapes when she gets a look at me. “Wow, honey. You look gorgeous!” And then, with a slight frown, “Are you sure y
ou don’t need a tank under that?”
I look down and see that I’m pretty pleased with where things are and aren’t. “No, I don’t think so.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the—” she points left and right, back and forth toward my chest, “—so prominently displayed.”
I snicker.
“Your dad’s not gonna like it…” She continues to study me. “Have you lost weight?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you sure look like it,” she says, half-concerned and half-impressed. “Have you heard from Michael?”
“No. But it’s only been two days. Have you?”
She’s still frowning over my dress, so it takes her a moment to answer. “Dad did yesterday. He said he sounded so sad.”
“Hmm.” I’m not sure what to say to that. “I’ll just grab my jacket and I’m ready.”
“All right.”
We pull up to the Roberts’ beautiful Victorian. Their house sits tall and proud on a hill, overlooking the entire bay, like Mother Superior. My parents visit every time Jeff and Laila are in town, but I only remember coming two or three times as a kid. The house is memorable. I have this recurring dream about the front doors—two wooden doors with intricate engravings that stand out against the white house. The dream is never exactly the same; in fact, the only recurring part is the doors. I stop and stare at the doors every time, but they never open to the same room. I’ve been every age in the dreams. I must have looked at those doors long and hard as a child.
When Laila opens the door, I realize I’m holding my breath—in anticipation of which room I will see this time, but also of who will be in it.
“Hello!” Laila hugs all of us and Jeff follows suit. Over their shoulders, I do a quick inventory of the room.
He’s not here. Check.
They’ve updated the living room. Check.
It’s lovely. Check.
My dad and Jeff move to the deck to check the meat on the grill, while Laila ushers my mom into the kitchen. I’m lagging behind, trying not to be too obvious, but I peer through a door or two. Very subtly, of course.
“Sparrow, I was hoping you’d bring Michael,” Laila says loudly.
I round the corner and enter the kitchen.
He’s not here either. Check.
“Michael went to see his family in Seattle this week,” I answer.
“He is so good-looking,” Laila laughs, fanning her face.
I laugh. “Yes, he is.”
“He asked Ro to marry him last Saturday,” my mom, the traitor, tells Laila.
“You’re kidding!” Laila looks at me. “How exciting. You’re so young, though. Jeff and I got married too young—I was eighteen! I wish I’d waited. You need to live a little!”
I resist the urge to gloat at Charlie. We begin carrying the rest of the food outside.
“He would be extremely hard to turn down. I don’t blame you! When’s the wedding?” Laila laughs.
“Who’s getting married?”
The flames take root again, lapping around my feet, up my legs and chest, sizzling red-hot out my pores … just at the sound of his voice. I nearly drop the huge salad bowl I’m carrying. Fortunately, only the tongs go flying, landing on the deck with a loud thwack.
I am pathetic. My girl-ness is betraying me, dangit.
Ian is behind us and I’m not sure how long he’s been there. His hair is wet and standing every which way. He crosses over to the tongs and gives me a blinding smile just before he bends down to pick them up.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
“Our lovely Sparrow here…” Laila answers.
I look at her in horror. Ian sees my expression and looks confused.
“Our lovely Sparrow here what?” he asks, grinning at me again.
“Michael asked her to marry him,” Laila announces. “Later, I’ll pull out the champagne!”
Ian’s smile falters and he looks down at the tongs as if he’s forgotten why he has them. A full minute or two ticks by. I’m not sure if everyone goes on talking or if they’re all watching us. I only see him.
“Lucky bastard … congratulations,” he says softly.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t say yes.”
He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, shoulders sagging for a moment as he stares me down. He steps in closer, standing in what would normally be my personal space. My throat catches as I wait to see what he’s about to do.
“Why, you little … heartbreaker.” He’s serious for a moment and then his eyes crinkle and he’s beaming again. In fact, his whole face looks like the Cheshire cat on Christmas morning. “So you came to your senses about Mike, huh?”
“I don’t know about that. I’m just not ready to marry Michael.”
He waits for me to say more.
When I don’t, he nods his head and steps back. I get the impression that I’ve just disappointed him and I want to fix it, say more, have a re-do … but the moment passes and he’s taking my arm and leading me to the table.
“Here, Ian, hand me the tongs,” Laila scoffs. “If we left it up to you, we’d find dirt in our steak.” She goes to the kitchen and returns with a clean set.
It’s harder to talk to him in the smaller setting. We mostly listen to my parents and Jeff and Laila. I focus on getting bites of steak in my mouth and not on my lap. And taking a drink without having all the ice rush forward. I hate it when that happens. It’s never pretty or conducive to good timing. Ice just knows when you’re trying to impress someone and always picks that moment to go flying up your nose.
A shift occurs in the conversation and my parents want to know all about Ian. They didn’t really get to talk with him the last time. He answers them respectfully and when they ask about his music, he seems honest, but humble in his response, which is impressive to me. I know he could be arrogant about being so talented.
“I’ve been playing as long as I can remember and it’s about the only thing I’m really good at.” His smile is self-deprecating, but when he looks up at me, I see mischief. I’m absolutely certain he’s good at many, many other things. “I’m fortunate to be making a living doing what I love to do. And as long as people keep listening, I’ll keep playing. Actually, even beyond that—I would have to play music even if no one ever listened. It’s just … like breathing.”
He seems shy when he’s done talking. I didn’t notice him ever being shy the other day. His cheeks are even a little flushed. I’m smitten all the more. My parents also seem intrigued by him and continue grilling him about who he’s worked with, the back story on some of their favorite songs of his and his upcoming schedule. I want them to stop the interrogation, but it’s also affording me plenty of time to study him. He completely weaves them into his spell. He’s good; he’s really good.
After lunch, we carry everything inside and Laila shoos us out of the kitchen, saying she’ll get it later. I’m following everyone into the living room when my arm is tugged another direction. Ian pulls me into what looks to be an office.
“Let’s get out of here.” His eyes pierce into mine.
“What about Jeff and Laila?
“Don’t worry about them. You up for it?”
“Sure,” I say, not exactly sure what I’m agreeing to.
“Your dress might be a problem,” he frowns.
“What?”
He laughs at my tone and runs his hand lightly over my arm, sending a shiver in its wake. “You look electrifying. That dress could wake a dead man.” He takes my hand and turns me around slowly, making me very uncomfortable with his sounds of approval. “Did you bring a change of clothes?”
“No!” I glare at him.
“Okay, not a problem. We’ll work it out. Come on, let’s go while it’s still so nice out.”
Everything happens so quickly. I let Ian do the talking and before I know it, my parents, Jeff and Laila are saying they’ll meet up with us later tonight. We walk out t
o the garage and Ian stops in front of a Harley. I’m not into motorcycles, but even I can see that it’s a beauty. Ian pats it lovingly. He looks like a character out of a romance novel—and not the cheesy Fabio kind either—or he could be a movie star, only taller. Or a soap opera star, only one who can pull off his lines. Or maybe a model, only straighter than straight.
I pride myself on my writing skills, but when I consider writing about him, I realize he brings out the cheese puff in me. The coal hair, the ever-changing eyes … are they really just hazel? Such an ordinary word for eyes that are sometimes green, sometimes khaki, with flecks of blue and gold, and then his cushiony red lips. This man is combustible. Add the bike and I feel that if I look at him too long, I’ll electrocute myself.
“Ever been on a bike?” His voice is all husky seduction.
Oh, good grief. And then there’s the voice. All of a sudden, I can’t look at him. He’s too much for me.
“Sparrow?”
“No.” I answer, a couple notches too high.
“Well, how about it?” He’s already raising the garage door as he asks the question, never doubting that I will ride with him.
He hands me a helmet and inwardly, I groan. This is why I should never spend so much time getting ready. What a waste. I take a long look at him. Get a grip, Fisher! I am not about to be all googly-eyed over a boy. I never have and I never will.
“Your face is going to stick like that if you don’t relax the grin,” I throw out as I secure the helmet.
He throws his head back and laughs, climbs onto the motorcycle and reaches an arm out to help me on. I hike my dress up past my knees and climb on.
“I was wrong. This is the ideal outfit for the bike,” Ian says as he traces a finger up one of my bare thighs.
I feel the sudden need to think about baseball and granny panties. I’ve heard that helps.
But then he leans back, his face an inch from mine as he says, “Hold on for your life.” And all thoughts of huge knickers are out the window.