Sway (7 page)

“Twenty one.” He says it like a question, like he can’t believe my oldness. What, do I look like a kid? Because most people say that I’m mature for my age, that I’m—

“Twenty one,” he continues. “With a collection like this. A collection you’ve alphabetized, categorized, and organized with the precision of a pediatric heart surgeon. Which I find interesting. Because for someone so old and with such an extensive compilation, you don’t seem to appreciate that this particular album is worth more than what some people pay for a car. So tell me, Princess, why in the world is it just sitting out unprotected on a cheap shelf that I know came from Wal-Mart?”

Now who’s the idiot?

He’s been playing me the whole time.

I finally reach out and take it. “That’s not funny! If you knew how much it cost, why did you handle it so carelessly? Do you know what would’ve happened if it had slipped and cracked? Ten thousand dollars, straight down the toilet.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t let it fall. I won’t do anything that might result in you throwing up again. But…ten thousand dollars? And you bought it yourself?”

“Trust fund,” I say sheepishly. It occurs to me that I shouldn’t be talking about this to a perfect stranger, but something tells me he’s honest. And except for the guy in the bar last night, my judgment hasn’t failed me yet. Besides, starting now I’m no longer going to count that guy, because I’m ninety-nine percent sure that if drugs hadn’t been a factor, I wouldn’t have given him more than the cursory five minutes. Okay, ninety-eight percent. And maybe ten minutes, tops. Ninety-seven. Probably ninety-seven. And possibly one dance.

“Are you finished working out whatever problem you’re trying to solve in your head?” Caleb says, breaking me free of my mental calculating. “Because I made three phone calls and took a short nap in the time you drifted off to sea.”

“I did not drift off. I’m still sitting here, same as you.”

“Well, grab a life raft anyway and answer my question.” He begins slipping albums back onto the shelf, painstakingly checking name, title, and color as he goes to get them in the right order. I like him a little more.

“I already told you, I got the money from a trust fund. But don’t be getting any ideas.” I pick up my Tiffany album and slip it back where it belongs.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But your raft’s a little leaky, because that wasn’t my question.”

I blink twice. “Oh. Well, what was it?”

“I said,
Princess
…” He draws out that silly nickname until I feel myself blushing. “Are you interested in breakfast? Think of it as my attempt to acknowledge your birthday a day late. Which I would apologize for, except that this time yesterday I didn’t even know you existed. So sorry about the no gift thing.” He tilts his head to look at me. “Think your stomach can handle it?”

On cue, it growls. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, a vat of black coffee. It all sounds good right now, especially considering the night I had.

Turns out Caleb is a mind reader.

“And just so you know, I was going to ask you before the trust fund came up. I’m not interested in your money, so stuff that thought away where it belongs.”

Maybe I should be insulted, but I find myself fighting back a grin. “In that case, take me to the biggest buffet you can find. Because I could eat enough for you and me combined.”

Caleb

“I’m About to Come Alive”

—Train

I
used to spend hours and hours making my Christmas list. From the moment the last remnants of my birthday wrapping paper were stuffed into the trash—which is the first of September, by the way—my five-year-old mind would plot ways to get the latest Transformer, the newest video game, the hottest trading cards. Then the Sears Catalog would arrive sometime around Thanksgiving, and the list expanded. Skateboards. Roller blades. The coolest Ninja Turtle sleeping bag I’d ever seen—so much better than freckle-faced, red-headed loser Jason Setzer’s who lived next door to me and dragged his Ninja Turtle bag out every time I came over just to rub it in my face. My Christmas list rocked. The only thing that topped it were the actual presents themselves. They were great. The stuff childhood dreams are made of.

I got that sleeping bag the year I turned six. Slept in it every night for months.

By the time I turned seven, Christmas lists were a thing of the past. By then, there was nothing left to wish for.

“Next time you’ll think twice before challenging me to a contest you can’t win,” I say, dragging the last of my hash browns through ketchup and forking the bite into my mouth. I savor it like the four pancakes, three eggs, and two biscuits before it. Until my mouth stills, followed by my heart rate when both process the words I’ve just spoken out loud.

Next time.

I don’t
do
next time.

Not where girls are concerned. Especially not where hot, gorgeous, keeping-my-pulse-at-an-unsteady-rhythm girls are concerned. Girls leave.
Everyone
leaves. At least that’s the case for me.

But too late, I realize the implication of my words. It’s a pretty big assumption, though I realize with a start, not one I’m all that averse to. This time yesterday, the mere suggestion of a “next time” where a girl was concerned would’ve had me howling with laughter. Look at me now. In just a matter of hours—not even enough time for the sun to make a full rotation on its dang axis—I’ve let this girl in the tacky pink coat turn into someone I don’t want to say goodbye to. I
want
a next time. I find myself hoping for more than one.

Which is why I force myself to get a grip.

But unless she’s a really good actress or just immune to suggestive comments, she doesn’t flinch. Even the skin on her pretty face doesn’t change color. Thank goodness.

“You are a pig,” she says. “No girl alive could win a contest with a pig.” She picks up her coffee and drains it, then snatches her spoon and cuts into her cinnamon apples, only half of which she’s eaten. “And let me tell you something else—”

“Please do. I’m dying to hear it,” I deadpan.

She spears me with a look. “Sitting across from you while you shovel food in your mouth is about as attractive as
watching
said pig roll around in manure after he’s finished his dinner. It’s disgusting. Vile. Too much for another human to have to endure.”

“It can’t be worse than watching you talk with your mouth full…” I can see bits of apple rolling around in there.

“A million times worse.”

“…Or having you puke all over me. Five times.” Thankfully, no apples involved last night.

That does it. The blush that eluded me a minute ago has returned full-force, along with a sudden inability to look my direction. She swallows and becomes preoccupied with making sure her dirty utensils are perfectly aligned with her equally dirty plate. Then she reaches for the salt and pepper shaker, beginning what looks like an imaginary game of chess. Just when I start to feel bad for my stupid joke, she looks up.

“I’m really sorry about that. As long as I live, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get over the humiliation.” The salt goes right, the pepper goes left. Checkmate.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” I shrug. “Despite all the complaining I did earlier in your apartment, it wasn’t
all
bad. Considering what could have happened to you, I was happy to be there. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

It must have been the right thing to say—not that I’m overly concerned with saying the right thing. Sometimes the right thing hurts, sometimes it’s harsh, sometimes it isn’t what another person wants to hear. In this case, it’s the truth. She smiles and looks me in the eye for the first time in minutes. I reach across the table for a triangle peg board game and start playing, red jumping over white in an attempt to be the last one standing.

She still has that smile on her lips when she asks, “Why Princess?” and turns to grab a game off the table behind her. After a quick inspection that I’m pretty sure involved checking for visible amoebas—I remember the stash of handy wipes in her apartment—we both start jumping our own separate pieces and a contest ensues. I’m determined to win.

“You’re kidding, right? Isn’t it obvious?” I lay a white peg on the table and steal a glance at her, aware of how hot irresistible she looks competing with me.

She flips a yellow over red and discards the peg beside her. “Not to me. I’ve never been into super-girly things before, and no one’s ever called me that.”

I’m down to six pegs. I sit up a little straighter and study the board, knowing there has to be a way to make this work. “First of all, as the guy who saw you in a pink coat with fur trim and then slept in your equally tacky ruffled pink robe that your dying aunt
did not give you
, I’m having a little trouble believing the ‘I’m not girly’ part. Second of all, the name fits. Princess? As in, Kate?” When I glance up to see her frown at me, it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. This girl
looks
cultured. She doesn’t strike me as the airhead type you often see on Jimmy Fallon who can’t even name our current President. “Kate,” I say, “as in the future queen of England? Geez, girl. What are they not teaching you at school? You are in college, right?”

She smiles to herself. I’m pretty sure she likes the nickname. I’m definitely sure I like that smile. “What gave me away?” She’s down to four, but she is so not winning this.

“The OU sweatshirt I saw hanging in your closet. It still had the tags on it, and looked brand new. So what’s your major?”

“Pre-Law with a minor in Child Development.” Another peg bites the dust.

“Interesting combination. Graduation day?” Three left for me.

“Next May. If I don’t bomb my term paper.” Her last two pegs are three spaces apart. With a longsuffering sigh, she shoves her board away and glares at mine. In every way you slant it, the outcome of my game looks promising. “I’ll need to start it after Christmas break, because it will take me all semester to write.”

“For what class?” Not trying to be a jerk here, but I bite my lip on a smile, because I’m down to two pegs, and they’re sitting side by side.

“Human growth and development.” She narrows her gaze. “We’re supposed to find a person to study—a kid who maybe doesn’t have the best home life or other less-than-perfect situation. Sounds easy, but it’s a little awkward trying to find someone like that without sounding rude. ‘
Excuse me,’
she mimics,
‘are you homeless? Does your dad beat you? If so, mind if I ask you a few questions over the next three months?
—not exactly the easiest thing to ask. Anyway, we’re supposed to follow them, interview them, and that sort of—” She growls at the same moment I set the last red peg on the table. “I can’t believe you won that game. I’ve never won, not once.” She sits back with a thud. “You can probably do a Rubik’s Cube too.” Reaching into her purse, she produces a bottle, then squirts some clear gel in her hand.

I eye her movements. “I can do one in under two minutes. Do you always use that junk?”

She gives me a look. “Bull. And this isn’t junk.” She drops the bottle inside and rubs her hands together. “Do you know how many lives have been saved by the ingredients in this stuff?” She holds up her hands.

“Lives are saved in the emergency room. Not inside a bottle of Germ-X.” I make a face. “But if you’re up for finding a Wal-Mart next, I’ll buy a Rubik’s Cube and show you how it’s done.” I sit back, thinking about flexing my muscles, but then I remember I’d be gloating over a square game designed to keep a preschooler entertained, and think better of it.

“No. I believe you. Though I’ll pick one up the next time I go.”

I try not to smile at the implication that we’ll see each other again. It occurs to me then that I might be ruined…that in maybe another hour or so I could be whipped beyond recognition. This girl—competitive, beautiful, sarcastic, with a record collection I might die for.

That grip I had a short time ago is already beginning to come undone.

*

A few minutes later, we’ve made our way across the street to an outdoor shopping mall. With its vast blacktop parking lot and freshly lined spaces, the area smells like a country theme park—the kind that combines thrill rides and kettle corn with churned butter and nineteenth-century-style dress. I’ve been to Branson a few times in my life—everyone from Oklahoma has. It’s our Disney World in the Midwest, and it’s what I think of every time I walk these sidewalks.

The shopping center isn’t the kind of place that attracts hoards of customers, since the store that keeps the whole place in business is an arts and crafts establishment that sells scrapbooking material, ceramic pottery, and Christmas trees under the same roof. But the area is buzzing with activity. Bundled-up women and a few men emerge with bags bulging with Christmas wrapping and ornaments, and I even see a few artificial trees in giant boxes being wheeled away on flat carts. The season is in full swing, and I find myself growing kind of excited.

“What’s that smile for?” Kate asks, stepping off the curb with me. I look over at her, eyeing the blonde curls that frame her shoulders from underneath a wool gray hat. I can still feel the way they felt running through my hands when she kissed me…