carefully everywhere descending (19 page)

I finally arch my head back and to the side, struggling to get enough air in my lungs. My mouth is tingling. Scarlett bends her head, presses her face against my neck, panting slightly herself. I drop my arms to encircle her shoulders, holding her close.

“Wow,” I whisper. I
feel
her laugh, shoulders jumping under my clasp.

“Yeah,” she breathes, turning her face and trailing her lips up my neck. She kisses me softly behind my ear. I shudder and press closer to her. I think, a little helplessly, that we're going to fall back under that spell and keep making out, but she straightens reluctantly, sweeping her hands up my back.

“We should,” she says, then clears her throat. “We should… do something else.”

“Okay,” I say, staring at her mouth. I hadn't thought it possible that I could find it more interesting than I already did, but now all I want to do is settle down and study it in detail. I brush my fingertips over her bottom lip. She groans and grabs my wrist.

“Seriously,” she says desperately. “Let's—” She throws her gaze around the room. “—read?”

I start laughing hard. She quirks a questioning eyebrow.

“I don't think I've ever been less in the mood to read about clinical hemodynamics, Scarlett,” I manage to say.

“Fine, fine,” she says, pretending to look put-out. “What do you suggest, then?”

My stomach makes the suggestion for me and rumbles. She releases her hold on my wrist and glances at her watch.

“Oh, man, it's almost two. No wonder I'm starving. Lunch?”

I nod. She hesitates and then leans in to press a quick, warm kiss to my mouth.

“Okay. Lucky you, you get the Scarlett West blue plate special.”

It turns out to be grilled cheese. I sit at the breakfast bar island at her insistence while she pulls out the supplies.

“Are you sure I can't help?” I ask, my face in my hands, my bare feet curled around the wooden bar between the legs of my stool.

She starts to decline, then frowns and goes to a large pantry with double-sided doors. She paws through it for a moment.

“Ha, I thought we still had some,” she says, emerging with a can of gourmet tomato basil soup. She sets it on the counter with a flourish. “If you'd like, you can be my sous-soup-chef.”

“I think I can handle that,” I say with a grin. She directs me to the pots, and I pull out a medium-sized blue one to pour the soup in. I can't stop marveling how everything her family owns is state of the art or top of the line.

“So if cars aren't your thing, what is?” I ask. “What would you go to a trade show to see?”

“A trade show?” She squints into the distance. “I love soccer, you know that already, and I wouldn't mind going to a soccer museum or hall of fame or something. I've always liked horses, but not to an obsessive point. I haven't been horseback riding in years. Oh, I know.” She turns around from the counter where she's cutting the bread (yes, her family buys bread loafs
unsliced
). “Audio Frequency.”

“The music festival?”

“It's so much more than a music festival, Audrey. It's an immersive experience,” she says, now slicing golden strips of cheese off an elegant wedge. “Five days of nonstop, around-the-clock performances by amazing artists spanning all genres? Absolutely. Plus, I've never been to Oregon. It would be cool to go.”

She comes to stand next to me to put an iron skillet on the stove. I'm slowly stirring the soup, which is a rich red-orange.

“I heard The Hypnic Jerk will be playing there this year,” she says, turning the heat to medium-high. “And they're basically my favorite band. I've been listening exclusively to their music for the past seven months, since I found out about them. They really capture the tortured-teenager experience.”

“Really? I haven't heard of them, but my music experience is pretty limited.”

“I'll send you some of their stuff,” she says, and I notice her cheeks redden slightly. I don't care much about music, but I know if I did, showing my favorites to people would be a show of faith. It probably stems from the same reason why I trust so few people with my fears and hopes.

“I'd like that,” I say, smiling at her. She shoots me a quick grin before turning down the heat a tick and dropping the sandwiches into the pan.

We sit at the table to eat. It's situated in front of beautiful bay windows that overlook the backyard. The view today is obstructed by rain, but I almost prefer it. It makes everything feel cozy and exclusive, like we're on our own separate planet.

We talk about school, I talk about Amber and Steven, and we discuss our summer plans. There's a current of unspoken tension running beneath all talk of the future. What does the summer mean for us now? How does this shape what we were already planning? Does it change anything?

Finally, after dipping my last bite of grilled cheese into my soup, I just ask, “Are we dating now?”

I can't look at her when I ask. The memory of the last rejection is a little too close. I drop the bite onto my plate too nervous to eat it. I wipe my fingers on my napkin to keep my eyes down and preoccupy myself.

“That would be my greatest hope,” she says.

I look at her. She's staring at me gravely.

“If you would have me,” she adds.

“That would be my greatest wish,” I reply. I can't stand being apart from her suddenly. I get up.

She leans her head back as I bend over to kiss her. I cup one hand against her neck, which feels both fragile and powerful against my fingers. Her pulse races madly against my skin. We sink back into the give-and-take we established earlier, but she still feels too far away from me.

I move forward, but the chair gets in the way. I pull back and look down, and then, on a burst of wild courage, straddle her so we're pressed together again. Her hands come up to grasp my waist and I wind my arms around her neck and lean back down.

We lose time like that, until the position becomes too uncomfortable. The storm has abated somewhat, but it's still raining.

“We could watch another movie,” she suggests breathlessly.

We turn on a comedy, but don't do a whole lot of watching.

It's evening by the time we finally pull apart. Her parents will be home soon, and I have to go face my family.

“We could hang out tomorrow,” she says at the front door, trailing her fingers along my arm. “Go out for lunch or dinner or something.”

“On a Sunday?” I ask, smiling.

“Let's buck society's expectations,” she says and kisses me one last time.

I step outside into the balmy, earthy air. My socks are too stiff to be wearable, so I just pick them up to carry and shove my bare feet into my still-damp shoes. Scarlett's given me her number (“Let me at least try to compete with some of the people in your life,” she said, which is so ridiculous that I can't help but laugh) and I've sent her a text so she has mine. She offered to drive me, but I declined.

The sun is finally out, and low in the sky, painting it pink, purple, and orange. I turn back to give her one last look, framed in the doorway with her hands in her pockets, so appealing, and finally mine.

I walk home fairly slowly. My feet are sore with burgeoning blisters from my overextended run, not to mention the addition of water to the mix. Plus I want to spend as much time as possible, blissed out and reliving every sublime moment of this afternoon.

Sam hurls himself at me almost the moment I'm through the door.

“I'm sorry, Audrey,” he says, clearly distraught. “I didn't mean it. Please don't run away again.”

“Oh, Sam,” I say, and grab him in a tight hug. “It's okay. I didn't mean to worry you.”

Jimmy and Dad are watching TV, and Mom is in the kitchen, reading. She kisses me on the cheek as I go past to put my socks in the washer.

I go to my room to grab some schoolwork to finish up so I'm free tomorrow for my date (!) with Scarlett, and Jimmy follows. He closes the door after him while I watch with surprise.

“I'm sorry for yelling at you yesterday,” he says. “It was uncalled for.”

“I shouldn't have pushed,” I reply. “You know what you want to do with your life better than I do, so I should just butt out.”

He ducks his head. “Well. Maybe not. I started thinking about those jobs I got rejected for, and why they would have turned me down. And I realized I didn't really want to be there in the first place, and they could probably tell. What I really want is to be around animals. So I pulled that stuff you gave me out of the trash and looked it over.”

I barely hold myself back from telling him how great he would be working in a veterinary clinic and just nod instead.

“I spoke to someone from the community college today. She said there was still time to submit an application for their summer session. I'm going to go to the school on Monday and talk to their financial aid department, and while I'm there I thought I'd go ahead and apply.”

I can't stop my eyes from welling up, or my words from spilling out. “Oh, Jimmy, you'll be
so good
! Those animals are going to be so lucky to have you looking after them.”

“Yeah, well….” He glances back at the closed door. “I haven't told anyone else, in case I don't get accepted, so…. Keep it quiet, okay?”

I nod and mime zipping my lips. Then I hug him as tightly as possible. Through the window we can hear the Nelsons start to scream at each other. Jimmy squeezes me back.

On a burst of happiness, I decide to give myself the night off and spend it with my family. I can work tomorrow morning. Right now, I just want to savor how good life is.

 

 

T
HE
NEXT
morning I sign up for self-defense classes using my phone. I power through my homework and get it all done before dinner (if she still wants to go out for dinner). In between study bursts, I text almost nonstop with Scarlett. Each time my phone pings the arrival of a new missive, my heart leaps. It's ridiculous because they're all unimportant comments we keep passing back and forth, but every word brings a grin to my face and a glow to my chest.

She starts it off with just a
Hey, miss you
before I fall asleep on Saturday. I write back,
Miss you too. :) Sleep tight
, and then wonder if that was stupid or premature, or somehow wrong.

Late Sunday morning, she writes,
Would it be considered a mercy killing if I strangle Connor for terrible off-key singing in the shower?

I bite my lip on a grin and reply,
I think it's only a mercy killing if someone puts YOU out of your misery, as the sufferer.

Manslaughter for the greater good, then. Totally justifiable.
Shortly followed by,
I forgot how obnoxious he is. Time and distance really do dim painful memories.

He can't be that bad.

He begins his day banging around the house like a Nazi storm trooper.

And that is pretty much how my studying goes: interrupted periodically with happy little dings that usher in musings and asides, insights into the workings of Scarlett's mind.

She tells me,
You were right. Serhan and Carolina are going out.

I say,
I'm sorry. :(

She says,
It's fine.

As I'm standing up to take a break and go grab a glass of water, I'm arrested by the flash of sunlight off a car driving by my window—headlights off, even though the sun is setting and they should technically be on. It's my elusive neighbor. I realize I haven't given him my apology cookies yet and haven't learned the payment for his wrecked rooster.

My phone announces a new text:
Are you hungry for dinner? We could go get some Thai food, if you like Thai.

That sounds great. I've never had Thai. Come over. I'm running to my “possibly a serial killer” neighbor's house to deliver cookies and to pay for a rooster I broke, but should be back by the time you get here.

Intriguing. That sounds like a story to be told over noodles. I'll be by in 10. See you soon.

“Why are you grinning like that?” Sam asks as I go to the freezer and pull out the peanut butter cookies I made with Amber. “Aw, man! I didn't know those were in there. Can I have one?”

“These are for our neighbor for the rooster incident,” I say, but cave and unwrap the plate to unstick one from the stack and give it to him. I hope they thaw okay and still taste good.

I hesitate before leaving. Ten minutes won't give me much time to get ready when I get back, so I quickly brush my hair to look as shiny as possible, and put on the lip gloss Amber gave me. I'm wearing a nice (for my wardrobe) green top, and I swap out my wrinkled khakis for an old white skirt that's inching toward being too tight. I'm just able to squeeze my phone into the pocket. I pick up my plate of cookies and hope the walk might loosen it a bit.

The sun is setting and turning the sky into a glorious tapestry of colors. The air is warm and fresh, and not even the blaring TV and angry voices from the Thompsons can bring down my spirits as I march past their house and to the scene of the rooster decapitation.

The navy car he was driving is parked rather haphazardly, with the front wheel off the driveway and buried in the soft ground, still muddy from yesterday. His bulky wheeled trash can is empty, even though the garbage pickup is tomorrow, so he must have been gone for a while. I see the porch is cleared not only of the rooster, but stripped bare of everything else as well. With guilt, I hope he didn't think I was being a delinquent looking to destroy his stuff for fun.