Rhymes With Cupid (3 page)

And that was about when I figured it out: He
was
waiting to make sure I got on the bus safely. I couldn’t help it; I gritted my teeth. Hadn’t I
told
him I was fine? It’s not like I needed some kind of knight in shining armor to swoop in and save me. I was a smart, independent seventeen-year-old girl—perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

I stood up and walked to the curb, trying to catch his eye. It was hard to see all the way across the street and through his darkened windshield, but I could make out the white of his pom-pom. A second later, he glanced up and I waved to get his attention. When he waved back I glared at him, making a shooing motion with my hand. “Go home, you idiot,” I said, even though I knew he obviously couldn’t hear me. “I’m fine. Leave.” He shrugged like he didn’t understand. “Go home!!” I said, shooing him again. He rolled down the window and leaned out.

“What?” he shouted.

“I said I’m really fine. You can go,” I yelled back.

“Sorry. Didn’t catch that,” he answered, cupping a hand around his ear. I rolled my eyes.

“Go!” I shouted as loudly as I possibly could. “Go, go, go!”

“Snow? Oh! Snow!” he yelled back. I’d swear he was grinning. “Snow, snow, snow. Yeah. There’s a lot of it. Happens every winter.” He waved. “See you tomorrow,” he called before rolling his window back up and continuing to sit in his car, going nowhere.

I stamped my feet on the sidewalk, partly to keep them warm, but mostly out of frustration. I couldn’t have yelled it any louder or been any clearer with my hand gestures. He was purposely ignoring me, which was rude beyond belief. I was actually considering marching across the street and straight up to his car window to yell it again when I saw the headlights of the bus in the distance. It was running five minutes early, but I wasn’t about to complain.

“It’s a chilly one out there,” the bus driver quipped as I climbed on.

“Definitely cold,” I answered, stamping the snow off my boots and dumping my change into the slot before glancing over the driver’s shoulder. In the parking lot, the lights of Patrick-the-pen-guy’s car came on. I glared in his direction as he started to back out of the spot, his tires spinning against the snow. I hoped he’d get stuck.

“Cold is right.” The driver laughed. “I’d even go as far as to say frosty.” The bus lurched forward and I turned my eyes away from the red car’s headlights, stumbling down the aisle to find a seat.

Chapter 3

W
here have you been?” My mother greeted me at the front door. She pressed both hands against my cheeks. “Are you okay? You’re just frozen. Come inside. Did you have to wait long for the bus?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I said as I let her help me out of my coat. I took my fogged-up glasses off, wiping them clean on the front of my shirt. “How was your first day at work?”

“Oh, well.” She shook the snow off my jacket and hung it up. “It was eye-opening. Elyse, you wouldn’t believe the things people pay good money for. Have you ever heard of a mustard wrap?” I shook my head. “Me neither,” she sighed. “A woman came in asking for one. I thought it was a kind of sandwich and I told her we didn’t serve food. Well, I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

After ten years of dedicated service, my mom had been laid off from her job as a filing clerk for an auto insurance company the May before. She’d spent the last eight months looking for work. Needless to say, when she was offered the position of receptionist at a fancy downtown spa, she’d jumped at the opportunity—even though it paid less, and even though she’d never set foot in a place like that before in her life. Ever since I was five and my dad fell in love with his dental hygienist and moved to Calgary, my mom has had to work hard to support us. And even though my dad sent child support money, and my mom put in long hours to make sure she could give me everything else I needed, our life wasn’t exactly full of luxury.

“Some of the clients are a bit demanding, of course, but that’s nothing I’m not used to. One of them complained that her robe wasn’t fluffy enough and asked to speak to the manager.” My mom laughed. “But the other staff seems nice. That’s enough about my day, though,” she finished. “You look tired, sweetie. Come into the kitchen. I made tacos. I was expecting you sooner, so they’re a little cold. I’ll pop them in the microwave.” I sank down at the table gratefully.

“How was the bus ride?” my mom asked as she slid a plate into the microwave. “Did it take long? I hate to think of you waiting in the dark and the cold.”

“It was fine,” I lied, not wanting to tell her that I still couldn’t feel my toes, or that I’d had ice kicked at me by a scary homeless man. It would only worry her and make her feel guilty that she couldn’t make it to the mall on time to pick me up anymore. “I just missed the first bus, so I had to wait a little longer.”

“Well, you won’t have to take the bus much longer. I booked you another road test. Two weeks from tomorrow,” she said as she set a plate down in front of me.

“Mom!” I cried.

“It was one thing when we were living in old Middleford and everything was close by, but out here you need your license, Elyse. That way you can take the car for the day and I can ride the bus. It’s a shorter trip for me anyway.”

I sighed. It wasn’t only that I’d feel guilty driving while my mom waited for public transit. It was also that I was officially parallel-parking-impaired, not to mention a total menace to public safety. The last time I was at the DMV, I got so nervous that I accidentally pressed the gas instead of the brake and drove right through a construction barrier.

“I think there’s a limit, Mom. They only let you fail that test so many times before they officially ban you from the roads.” I poked a piece of lettuce back into my taco.

“Oh, I have a good feeling. You’ll pass this time.” She smiled mischievously. “I’ve arranged for some extra help.”

“Mom!” I cried again. I’d already taken the defensive driver’s course twice (at $500 a shot), plus, I’d failed the road test a total of three times (another $300). We literally couldn’t afford to waste any more money trying to teach me to drive, especially when it was so clearly a lost cause.

“I was talking with Mr. Connor next door this morning. His grandson passed his test on the first try. And he’s eighteen, which means he has two years of driving experience.” I grimaced, already anticipating where this was going. “Mr. Connor spoke to his grandson, and it turns out he’d be glad to help you prepare for your test over the next few weeks. No charge.”

“Mom. I’m sure Mr. Connor’s grandson has other things he’d rather be doing.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” my mom said, lifting her taco. The reheated shell had gone soggy in the microwave and most of the filling spilled out, landing on her plate. She scooped it back in, undeterred. “I think any young man would be grateful for an excuse to meet the pretty girl who just moved in next door.” I shot her a doubtful look. “Plus, it would be good for you to make some new friends, Elyse. I’m concerned about you. You barely go out with people your own age anymore.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Just busy. With work. And school. Speaking of which . . .” I stood up, putting my plate on the counter. “I have a calculus test I should probably study for.”

“All right,” she said. “Well, I’m just going to clean up here. Then I have those hooks to install in the bathroom, and I’ll get started on sanding down that wardrobe in the basement so we can unpack the rest of our winter clothes.” She rubbed at her eyes when she thought I wasn’t looking, then smiled when she noticed I was still watching.

Forget being concerned about me. My mom was the one who really needed someone to worry about her. The stress of looking for a new job, selling the house, and arranging the move had taken a toll on her. She looked tired, and way too thin. I glanced down at the table. She’d barely taken two bites of her taco but she’d already started running the tap to fill the sink and was busy putting away the leftover chopped tomatoes.

“I’ll come help you sand the wardrobe when I’m done studying, okay?” I said.

“Sounds great.” She smiled. “Oh, and Elyse?”

I turned.

“Before I forget to tell you, Mr. Connor’s grandson is going to come by at six o’clock tomorrow for your lesson. I’ll be at work, but he said you could use his car.” My mom looked so optimistic that I didn’t have the heart to argue with her anymore.

“How’s his insurance policy?” I asked instead.

“He’s with Slate Auto,” my mom answered. “Full coverage.” Somehow, I’d known that she would have thought to check. In a million tiny ways, my mother was always, always looking out for me.

I spent a lot of the next day at school daydreaming (or maybe I should say daynightmaring) about the different ways I might accidentally crash my neighbor’s car into trees, oncoming traffic, or innocent pedestrians. Clearly, the poor guy had had no idea what he was getting into when he’d let his grandfather volunteer him for this job, but he was going to find out soon.

“Ah, girls. Right on time as always,” Mr. Goodman said, looking up over his reading glasses as Dina and I walked into the store for our shift that day. He stepped out from behind the counter, taking off his name tag. Mr. Goodman’s wife always had an early dinner waiting for him, so he never hung around for long after we arrived.

“The new shipment of Cupids came in,” he told us. I tried not to jump for joy. “And the rest of the Valentine’s Day card order. Our sales are down this year, so I need you girls to really push the customer loyalty program. Make sure everyone who walks through the door knows how easy it is to get one of these cute little fellas.” He patted Cupid’s head. “Can I count on you?” We both nodded. I wasn’t looking forward to pushing the dolls but, on the upside, at least if we sold them all, they’d be gone.

We got to work. Dina started on cash while I restocked merchandise. It was boring work, but kind of soothing in a way—matching cards and envelopes and sliding them into their perfectly organized slots. I started with congratulations and birthdays and was on the last batch of valentines when I heard a voice behind me.

“Hi. Can you help me? I’m looking for a new pen.” I turned, and there was Patrick, Dina’s guy.

He had his thumb hooked into one pocket of his dark-wash jeans and was tilting his head to the side, his curls falling over one eye in a way that, illogically, made my heart skip the tiniest beat. His green eyes twinkled kindly. But then he grinned, and there was something about that overly confident smile that reminded me of the night before in the parking lot.

“I’d be happy to tell you about our selection of pens,” I answered in a pleasant voice, then gave him a tight smile, “but I have a feeling you wouldn’t listen to a word I was saying anyway.” The grin fell from his face leaving a shocked expression behind. “I’m talking about last night,” I filled him in, helpfully, in case there was any confusion, “when I said I was okay, but you sat in the parking lot watching me anyway.”

“What makes you think I was watching you?” he answered, his mouth dropping open.

“The fact that you were sitting in your car, in the empty parking lot, looking at me.”

He paused. “Okay. I was sitting in my car, in the empty parking lot,” he countered, “but it was because I wanted to write something down before I forgot it. If you were in front of me, and I looked up, it was purely coincidental.”

“Right,” I said, shelving a sparkly heart card, then shaking my hands to un-glitter them. “And I’d totally believe you were sitting in your car, in the cold, writing in the dark . . . except that I happen to know for a fact that you don’t have a pen.”

He smiled again—a small, quick expression that he wiped off his face the second he saw I’d turned around. I smiled back, enjoying the fact that I’d caught him in his obvious lie.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t have a pen. That’s why I always carry this.” He slid something small and black out of his pocket and held it up. “A mini cassette recorder. So, I wasn’t
writing
, technically, I guess.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What are you? An undercover reporter or something?”

“No,” he answered, but he didn’t elaborate.

“An international spy?” I tried.

“You have a good imagination,” he said. I must have still been looking at him strangely. “I’m a songwriter,” he explained, then glanced down awkwardly. “Or, I want to be one someday. I’m kind of in this band—The Duotangs—with my friend Jax, but we’re not that good, or anything. We just started. Anyway, I use this to record tunes or lyrics that pop into my head.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said, feeling like the world’s biggest—not to mention most egotistical—jerk. “That’s cool. I mean, sorry.”

“Not that I wouldn’t have waited for you to get on the bus safely if you’d wanted me to,” he added, giving me a look I thought seemed almost flirty, but only until I came to my senses. He wasn’t flirting with me, obviously, just like he hadn’t been trying to act like some knight in shining armor yesterday. He was just a guy, who wrote songs. A
very embarrassed
guy who wrote songs, too, judging by how flushed his freckled cheeks had suddenly become.

“Really,” I said, “I’m really sorry.” An awkward silence hung between us. “About that pen you needed.” I motioned toward the stationery aisle. He ended up going with the very first one I suggested, the EasyGrip in black—definitely one of our more expensive pens. “Dina at the cash can help you with that,” I said, grateful that we were almost finished. I could hardly look him in the eye. “And be sure to ask her about the customer loyalty plan, okay?” I added, remembering Mr. Goodman’s request.

“Sure,” he said, then held up the pen. “Thanks. See you soon.”

The second he turned his back I made a dash for the storage room, planning to rearrange some of the overstock until he was safely out of the store.

“I chickened out!” Dina said ten minutes later, when I went to take over at the cash. “Patrick came back to get a pen, and I was totally going to ask him to the panda party. I swear, Elyse, I was this close, and then this song came on the radio—‘Against All Odds.’ Damien and I slow danced to it once in my bedroom, and then I just couldn’t get the words out.”

“That’s okay, Dina,” I said reassuringly. “You know, maybe it’s for the best. Maybe you just aren’t ready yet.” The truth was, I knew myself well enough to know I’d probably end up making the black-and-white snacks and going to Dina’s panda party. The last thing I needed, after having acted like such a loser, was to be in a confined space with the cute pen guy, celebrating cuddly endangered bears on Valentine’s Day. In fact, I was planning to cut frozen yogurt out of my diet completely and take the longer route to the bathrooms just so I’d never have to pass the Keyhole and risk seeing him again.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not ready,” Dina mused. “Except he
is
really cute. You have to admit.” Actually, I didn’t have to admit it. I didn’t have to admit it at all because it was of literally no consequence. He had his pen now. There was no reason for him to come back. “Oh,” Dina said suddenly. “I think that woman in the parka needs help. Plus, I have to tell her about Cupid. See you in a sec.”

She dashed off, leaving me at the cash register, where I started ringing up sale after sale. In fact, the store got so busy that I almost (but not quite) forgot to rehash the embarrassing incident in my head, or to dread my upcoming driving lesson until I looked up and saw Sue, one of the Friday night shift girls, walking into the store.

This time I managed to catch the first bus, getting to the stop with seconds to spare. I was home in time to make myself an omelet and unpack a few boxes of books before the doorbell rang.

“Coming,” I called as I shrugged on my coat. I took a deep breath to gather the courage I’d need for the perilous lesson ahead and opened the door.

My new neighbor was standing in the driveway, brushing off the windshield of his red car, his back turned to me. “You must be Mr. Connor’s grandson,” I said, then tried to make a joke. “I hope you’re ready for a wild ride.”