The Rivals

by Allen , Dylan

  “Too bad you can’t do anything about that.” I wink at him and then head down the stairs.

  I’m pulling it shut behind me when I hear him call out, “I hope Mom finds out.” He tries one last-ditch attempt to stop me.

  “Hope your mom finds out what?” My grandfather’s rumbled question startles me. I didn’t realize he was down in the living room. He’s sitting in his recliner that faces the window overlooking the back garden, his copy of the Houston Chronicle folded on his lap and his glasses resting at the end of his narrow nose.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just about to walk down to the square. Tyson’s just being a shit because I won’t let him come.”

  “Oh, good. I forgot to stop by Sugar Plum on our way back. Margie made some of those macarons I love today. The green ones? Pick me some up on your way back.”

  “You’re not supposed to eat those.”

  “And you’re not supposed to be going to talk to that girl. But, here we are.” He raises an eyebrow at me.

  “How do you know where I’m going?” I don’t even bother to deny it. My grandfather has an uncanny sense about things. And, for all of the lectures he’s given me about what my responsibilities are. He’s acted as the counterbalance to my mother’s strict, no-nonsense parenting style.

  “Have a seat for a minute, Remi.” He nods at the chair next to his. I almost groan because I know a lecture’s coming. But whenever I feel like this, I remember the sickening dread the day of his stroke, and I sit my ass down with a smile on my face because I know that one day, I’ll miss these chats.

  “How you feeling, Pops?”

  “I’m not dead yet, don’t look at me like that. Now sit and tell me what’s going on.” The question is, on its face, innocuous. He’s asking me something more but I’m not in the mood to give it.

  “Nothing much. Practice starts next month. I’m just working.” I sit back in the chair and make it clear that it’s all I have to say.

  “This is a big year for you, son. College, away from home, part of a team that plays for more than just glory. Keep your dick in your pants.”

  I laugh in surprise. “I was just going down to the square. Where’d you think I was going?”

  “To find trouble,” he says with grave certainty and my laughter fizzles.

  He leans forward and pins me in place with his steely gaze. “You’re behind the deli counter at Eat! tonight. Skip that bookstore until you make your delivery tomorrow. You’ve been careful about girls so far. I’m proud of you for that. This isn’t the time to test the waters. Your mother was being a little unfair this morning. But she’s not wrong. That girl has a troubled past. From what I’ve heard, anyway.”

  “I didn’t know gossip was your thing.”

  “That doesn’t make it untrue, Remi, and I like to know who’s moving in here. Her mother bought that store for a pittance from Lister. Much less than it’s worth. But before that, she was in jail, for embezzlement. And that girl was in a foster home. For nearly two years. Do you know what years in a place like that will do to someone?”

  “No. And you don’t either,” I challenge him. But, I make a note of the information.

  “Not firsthand. No. But I’ve seen it up close, and she’s got baggage you can’t even imagine. You should listen to your mother. And if you don’t want to do that, I’m going to insist that you at least listen to me.”

  I owe him that, at the very least.

  “Sure Pops, I promise.”

  Chapter 3

  TO BE READ

  REMI

  * * *

  The bookstore, To Be Read, is the last stop on my route. I’ve been anticipating it all morning and by the time I pull up outside, I’m practically chomping at the bit to get inside.

  I peer in through the huge pane glass window covered in their red logo.

  I see her, she’s facing me but her face is turned downward. This small glimpse makes my pulse jump in a way that unsettles me. I pride myself on my nerves of steel. I decide to heed my grandfather’s warning. In and out.

  I shake it off, exhale a calming breath, and put my hand on the door to open it.

  “You making a delivery or preparing for a game, Remi?” Henny Harper, shouts at me from her perch on a bench in the square.

  She’s one of Rivers Wilde’s first residents. She’s retired and notoriously nosy. But, she’s got a heart of gold and a wicked sense of humor. I shoot her a deprecating smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Sweet & Lo’s by now? The kolaches will be cold if you wait much longer to head over.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” she says, but stands up. “You be nice to that girl,” she calls over her shoulder and then saunters up the pebbled walkway that bisects the grass-covered square.

  “I’m always nice,” I mutter to her retreating back before I turn and open the door. A small bell jingles and announces my presence. She doesn’t look up from the box of books she’s bent over.

  She’s got white earbuds stuck in her ears and she’s singing “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt at the top of her lungs. Her voice is terrible, and she’s fucking up the lyrics, but damn she’s into it. Her eyes are closed as she belts out the song. What she lacks in talent, she makes up for with her passion.

  The late morning sun is high and it bathes her in a warm light that illuminates her face. I can only see her profile, but it’s striking. She’s wearing glasses, instead of sunglasses this time. The black frames rest on the sharp line of a high cheekbone that swoops and flares and reminds me of a drawing I saw of the Egyptian queen Nefertiti.

  My eyes follow the outline of full lips and the small jut of her chin and move along the smooth line of her jaw and down the graceful sweep of her long neck. Her hair, a mass of thick dark curls, is caught in a huge bun at the top of her head that sways as she dances.

  She’s short, at least compared to me, the top of her head would hit me at shoulder height. Her slim shoulders roll and her hips, snug in a pair of tiny white shorts, sway to the beat of her music. She reaches up on her tiptoes and the muscles in her long legs flex with the motion. I forget my pledge to my grandfather and walk into the store.

  I start up the aisle where she’s working. She senses me, stops singing, looks up sharply, yanks the headphones out of her ears, and turns to face me fully.

  All of the air steals from my lungs.

  It’s not just because she’s the kind of pretty that makes you pay attention. Though she’s certainly that. Or that behind her dark-rimmed glasses, her eyes are perfectly symmetrical almonds centered with pools of brown molasses and cinnamon. It’s that, despite how different she looks now—from her hair down to her makeup-free face—I know right away she’s the girl from the library all of those years ago.

  The girl who left her notebook of amazing stories behind. I should have expected that in the four years that passed that she would have had a growth spurt. But the girl I’m looking at has done much more than spurt.

  She’s blossomed, and I am awestruck at the barefaced beauty standing in front of me.

  I’ve wondered about her so often since that night. That night in the library, there’d been an openness and honesty in her eyes, that even as a fourteen-year-old, I recognized as special. And, I still have her notebook. I found it on the floor of the library the day after the party and put it on my bookshelf.

  But it wasn’t until I was confronted with my own moment of truth that I truly understood it. My freshman year of high school, I tried out for a citywide basketball team. I’ve always been the best player in my school district. I didn’t even need to practice before games.

  But those tryouts showed me that hard work beats talent every single day.

  I didn’t make the cut for the team.

  I’d been devastated. A few days later the coach called to say it had just been a mistake that they hadn’t called me after tryouts. I was fifteen, cocky and dumb.

  In the locker room before practice, I heard some of the boys talking. Turns out tha
t just days before, my grandfather donated a brand new athletic center to the city in exchange for my place on the team.

  Humiliated is an inadequate word to describe the way I felt. The coaches barely paid attention to me when I joined the team for practice. And, I didn’t blame them. The day after our first game, I came home and was pulling something off my shelf when that book fell from where I’d put it. It opened to the inscription “All legends are lies. Make your own truth.”

  Something clicked for me then, I may not have deserved to be on that team initially, but I was going to earn my place. I wrote the words “The Legend” on the side of my basketball shoes as a reminder when I was tempted to quit. And I busted my ass to make it true.

  I practiced as many hours as I could. I worked harder than everyone else. And the first time they put me into the game—one we were losing and only had minutes left to play—I scored twelve points in less than two minutes with back-to-back three-pointers that snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. A few performances like that and I was moved to the starting lineup.

  One day, someone in the crowd called out “The Legend” after I’d scored a triple-double and the crowd joined them in a chant. The name stuck. And now, it’s what everyone calls me.

  The architect of that is standing right there. Close enough for me to touch. And I can’t seem to find the ability to string a coherent sentence together.

  “Hello?” she says and peers at me. I look up to find her standing with her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face. There’s no indication she remembers me from that night. That stings. But only briefly. It’ll be even better to see her face when she figures out who I am.

  Besides, her scowl is fucking pretty.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” She sounds so annoyed. I smile at her and it deepens, her dark, lightly arched eyebrows wing upward, and she looks like she wants to kick my ass.

  Oh, yeah… really fucking pretty.

  “Like what?” I feign ignorance. I know just how I was staring at her and I don’t mind that she saw.

  “Like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

  “Well, maybe it’s because I’ve never seen a girl like you before.” I give her my most charming smile.

  She grimaces like she just took a sniff of spoiled milk. She shakes her head and laughs out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask her. Now, I’m the one with a scowl and my arms crossed over my chest.

  “You are funny. That line was so lame.” She rolls her eyes and turns back to her books.

  I stand there, thrown by her clear dismissal. And also… very, very pleased by it.

  I would have been disappointed if the girl from that night in the library, the one whose stories captivated and motivated me, turned out to be just like everyone else, after all.

  I take an appraising glance around the store and whistle appreciatively as I see what they’ve done to the place. A dozen rows of gleaming dark wood, shoulder-height bookshelves take up the entire back of the store. I can smell the citrus from the wood polish mingled with the dry scent of cardboard boxes and all that paper.

  The area of the bookstore directly in front of the door looks more like a really comfortable reading nook—complete with a huge round glass-top table with a bowl of what looks like M&M’s on it. I look to my left and see the small counter they’ve set up to sell the pastries they ordered, complete with an espresso machine.

  “This looks great. You guys have really done a good job.”

  “The bookstore doesn’t officially open until tomorrow,” she announces in a faux-friendly voice, but she doesn’t look back at me. She pulls more books out of the box and puts them on the shelf.

  “Really? You look ready for customers right now.”

  “We’re not,” comes her less than friendly reply. Undeterred, I decide right then and there, that by the end of the week, I’ll have her smiling at me when I walk in the door every morning.

  “I’ve got something for—” I start to point to my delivery van where her order is waiting.

  The slam of her book as she drops it back into the box at her feet silences me. She whirls to face me. “Listen, asshole. You’re not the first boy to walk in here today.”

  “Asshole?” I ask in real surprise.

  “Don’t act innocent,” she scoffs “I know your mothers have been talking shit about me and my mom all week. So, let me save you some time. No, I won’t give you a blow job. Or show you my tits, or let you finger bang me if you promise to take me to the movies.” She ticks them off on her fingers.

  I am taken aback by her words and angered by them, too.

  I know that some of the founding families, mine included, act like their shit doesn’t stink. But to think that someone came in here and said things like that to her, or anyone, makes me want to find out who they are and go and straighten them out.

  I’m far, far away from being able to actually lead my family’s business, but I feel responsible for it already. And none of the people who do business here should have to deal with shit like that. I make a mental note to pass on to the retail property managers when I get home.

  She bends over to take some more books out of the box and I can see the tremble in her hands. “Now, you can leave. And if you try to touch me, I’ll kick you in the balls,” she says, and that shakes me out of my stupor.

  “Has someone tried to fucking touch you?” I take a step toward her, a tentative, small one because I don’t want to get in her space.

  “Isn’t that what you boys do for fun? Fuck with girls who are just minding their own business? Just because they can.” Bitterness drips from her words.

  I go from cautious to offended.

  “I wouldn’t know what boys do for fun. I’m a man.” She turns to face me then; her jaw is tight with anger.

  “Okay, man. Why are you still here, I’ve made it clear I’m not in the mood for company?”

  “And, not to sound like a cocky asshole—”

  “Too late,” she quips.

  “But I haven’t offered you any company. But if I did, you wouldn’t be saying no.”

  She glances over at me, sweeps me from head to toe and quirks her lips in a dismissive smirk. “If you say so.”

  “I haven’t had any complaints,” I say and shoot her an exaggerated wink.

  She frowns at me. “Listen, I know your family owns whatever business they own. And you’ve probably got a hot car. Or whatever. But we own this store. I want you to leave.” She finally turns to look at me and there’s anger in her eyes, but I see the bone-deep wariness there. The same wariness I saw the night we met.

  If my grandfather and mother are right, life didn’t get much better for her after that night. I wonder what she’s seen in the last four years. The skittishness from that night has been replaced by cynicism. I want to tell her I’m not like them. To ask her to tell me where she’s been and to tell her where I’ve been, too.

  Our eyes hold and for a minute; I’m transported back to that night and the ways it changed my life.

  “I found your notebook,” I tell her.

  Her expression goes from blankly enigmatic to shock and then back to enigmatic. But she doesn’t say anything.

  “Do you really not remember me?” I ask, completely nonplussed that she might not. She sighs and leans against the bookshelf. Her shoulders fall a little and some of the fire goes out of her.

  “Of course, I remember you. I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t remember me.” She stares down at those beat-up blue Jordan’s.

  I want to tell her that would have been impossible. Instead, I ask her why.

  “Because that night was embarrassing. My mother and I were kicked out of your house. And it was the beginning of what turned out to be a pretty terrible chapter in my life. So yeah, I was hoping you’d have forgotten it. I’ve tried my hardest to.” She puts the books down and turns to face me. Her expression tense, like she’s expecting me to laugh.

  Laughing i
s the last thing on my mind. I’m just amazed that she’s gone through so much and is standing here, same as me.

  “I could never forget how interesting your stories were. And how pretty you looked.” I say.

  She flushes, but this time doesn’t try to hide her smile. That feels like a victory to me.

  “You came up with those stories when you were just thirteen years old,” I say as if she doesn’t know it herself.

  She shrugs as if it’s not a big deal and smiles deprecatingly. “Yeah. I did. I was into some crazy shit back then”

  “I still read them, you know. Especially that inscription. It’s in my bedroom on my shelf with the rest of my books.”

  Her hand covers her mouth, she pulls the earbuds out of her ears and she walks over to the counter and leans against it, her back to me.

  “Wow, I can’t believe it.” She shakes her head at the memory.

  I join her at the counter and rest my elbows on top and look over at her.

  “You want it back?”

  She thinks about it, cocks her head to the right and exhales loudly.

  “I mean, I guess. I don’t know… I haven’t thought about that stuff in a long time,” she says, her voice full of awe.

  “So you haven’t been keeping up with all the new cold cases that’ve cropped up since then?”

  “Don’t tell me you do,” she says.

  “No, I don’t. One notebook full was enough to last me a lifetime.” I don’t tell her that I flip it open and read that line “All legends are lies” before I leave for a game or head out to take an exam. That through those words, she’s become my de facto good luck charm.

  “That feels like a lifetime ago.” She sighs. “And yeah, I still keep up with cold cases, yes. Research them and try to solve them sometimes. But, I’ve grown up a lot since then. I don’t believe in happily ever after anymore. So, I don’t write them.”

  My brain hears those words and my competitiveness rears its head and for some reason, I take them as a challenge.

  “Do you write at all?”