Definitely, Maybe in Love (11 page)

When I peeled off my coat and entered the kitchen, Mel was perched on a stool with one elbow on the breakfast bar, her hand cupping the side of her head. I didn’t appreciate her inquisitive eye.

“I’m starving,” I said. “Where’s the food you promised?”

“Pasta water’s on the stove.” She swiveled around on her bar stool. “But first things first, babe.” She lifted her open hand. “Where’s your phone?”

Chapter 15

Stalling wouldn’t be any use, not with the way Mel was staring at me, an impatient gleam in her eyes. Reluctantly, I reached for my coat, wishing I hadn’t shared so much with her on our walk home. I searched from pocket to pocket, though I knew exactly where my phone was located.

“I told you,” I said over my shoulder, hedging, “I think I might have deleted his playlist already.”

By the eager smile Mel was wearing, I knew she wasn’t buying it.

As I pulled out my phone, she hopped from her stool and was at my side in a flash, her palm level before me.

“Fine,” I said. “You can
see
it.”

She grinned with excitement, grabbed my phone, and ran a thumb across the face. A second later, the lights illuminated.

“Huh,” she said, her finger working the menu. “His playlist appears to be the last set of tracks you were listening to. Crazy, no?” She lifted her twinkling eyes. “Unless you have another playlist entitled
Spring’s Education of the Male Voice.
”

“Oh, right.” I rubbed my ear. “I
was
listening to it a while ago…while I was…waiting to see a professor and…and it distracts my thoughts, which, you know, I need sometimes.”

Mel ran a finger down the list of ten songs, just as a sizzling sound across the kitchen caught my attention. I left her and went to the stove to turn down the burner. Water was bubbling and splashing from the pan of boiling noodles. I stirred the contents then checked under the lid of the smaller pot of red sauce. Mel continued to examine the playlist, while I chewed impatiently on the inside of my cheek.

“Interesting array of artists,” she finally offered. “But I don’t recognize any of these titles.”

I stabbed a fork into the middle of the noodles, twisting it around until a hardy serving broke away. “I think he made them up,” I said, folding the noodles in with the sauce, although suddenly I had no appetite. “I mean, track one is the guy from Fleetwood Mac but it’s obviously not called
Meet Me in the Tall Grass
. And track two—”

I shut my mouth when Mel Cheshire-Cat-grinned. A second later, she spun around to exit the kitchen, jamming in an ear bud.

…

I sat alone at the bar for as long as I could stand it, my dinner untouched on the counter.

“Oh, my holy mother of crap.”

At least Mel was talking now, if only rhetorically. It was the ten minutes of preceding silence that was really getting to me.

“Are you
joking
?”

Her outbursts from the living room were similarly irritating. Finally, after her third eruption, I took my bowl of vegetarian spaghetti and walked into the living room. All the lights were out. Mel was curled at one end of the couch, knees pulled in. She didn’t notice me, too busy concentrating on whatever song was playing, a confused expression wrinkling her face. I could tell by the way she moved her finger across the face of the phone that she’d started that particular track over. A smile pulled at a corner of her mouth.

I lowered myself into the arm chair across from her, taking a bite of noodles, chewing slowly, watching her advance to the next song. It played for about five seconds before her jaw dropped. Tearing one ear bud from her head, she called toward the kitchen. “Springer! Get your butt in here, pronto!”

“I’m sitting right here.”

Mel shrieked and jumped.

She stared at me as I calmly took another bite of noodles, chewed, swallowed, then dabbed the corners of my mouth on a napkin.

“So you…you
do
realize what this is,” she said at last.

I thought for a moment then shrugged, slurping in a single noodle.

“Have you asked Henry about these songs?”

“I thanked him when he gave me back my phone the next morning, but he hasn’t brought up the subject since.”

“Spring.” She rolled her eyes. “For someone with all your brains, you can be exceptionally dense.”

She’d lost me.

“Babe.” She held up the phone. “These are make-out songs.”

Now was my turn to wear the stunned expression. “No, they’re not.”

“Babe.” Her voice was unbelieving as she pointed down at the thin, silver rectangle in her hand, as if its mere existence were evidence.

“Henry Knightly did
not
make me a playlist of make-out songs,” I maintained.

“Yes, he did.”

I snagged the cell out of her hand. “No.” I stared down at it. “There’s no Marvin Gaye or Prince or…or Barry White.”

“Is that your idea of kissing music?” she asked. “Not very original. Not like Henry’s list. Shhh, new song.” She pressed a hand over the one remaining ear bud. “Daaamn.”

She had it all wrong. I knew this, because I knew Henry. At least I thought—

“He’s a
genius
,” Mel blurted. “These are way more subtle than Marvin Gaye. Trust me.” She skipped to the next track. “Ohh, double damn. Come here.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me down beside her. “Put this on.” She jammed an ear bud into my head then started a song. “Listen to this while picturing Henry, then I dare you to look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel like straddling him.”

I did as she asked, if only to ease my own mind. When I felt the first uncomfortable sputter of my heart, I glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, head back, fanning her face. “Minty freshness,” she murmured.

More like cranberry sweetness
, I almost corrected.

“I’m deleting these,” I snapped, pulling out my ear bud. I went to grab my phone, but Mel held it over her head, out of reach. “Melanie Gibson,” I said through gritted teeth. “Give it to me.”

She stood up and shook her head, her brown ringlets bouncing as she took a step back. “I’m probably totally wrong about it,” she insisted. “I’m sure your nice, respectable, Republican neighbor didn’t mean
anything
by it.” She smiled like an idiot.

Choosing not to continue the debate, I walked my half-eaten dinner into the kitchen and dumped it down the sink.

Later, after Mel left for home, I sat in the dark living room, tucked in two ear buds, and played track one, with Mel’s theory on my mind. Before the end of the first chorus, my throat had gone dry and I stared down at my phone, amazed at how completely dense I’d been all this time. I skipped to track two, then three. By the time I’d listened to the entire playlist, my palms were sweaty and a funny, impatient feeling spun inside my stomach and chest. It might have been lust, it might have been panic.

Either way, I did not feel in control of my emotions. And I needed to be in control—that was the whole point of my making all the big changes last year. I was taking control, steering my life. And if Henry’s choice of a simple Rob Thomas song from ten years ago made me feel so severely
out
of control that I really
did
want to straddle him instead of study, then it needed to go.

Right before I left for campus, I plugged my phone into my computer and deleted all ten tracks.

Chapter 16

The muffled curse from outside my window made me laugh.

“You okay down there?” I called.

“Fine.” The hammering started up again.

I snickered and packed a pair of jeans and two sweaters into my duffel bag. No Doubt was quietly streaming from my laptop on the floor.

With only the moon and a small flashlight to guide him, Henry was outside, having volunteered to fix the loose rung on the rope ladder that hung outside my window. Then he went on to MacGyver some hooks to keep it secure against the house. Every once in a while the hammering would abruptly stop, and I’d hear murmurs of swearing.

After about twenty minutes, Henry’s fingers curled around the edge of the sill, and he was halfway through my window, hammer between his teeth, like Rapunzel’s prince. Once inside, he slid the glass closed.

“You’re sure it’s done?” I asked skeptically, hefting my bag toward my open bedroom door. “If you’ve booby trapped it to unravel under my weight, I’ll sue.”

“You’d never win,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’d bury you in technicalities.” He set the hammer on the ledge of the window, glanced around the room, and rubbed the back of his neck. He seemed distracted, which was odd for Knightly, though this glimpse into his awkwardness was not entirely unappealing.

“The burden of proof is on the state,” I defended, wondering if a little more lawyer talk would make him more comfortable.

“Precisely my point, I’m good friends with the D.A.’s office.”

“Aren’t you the legal eagle,” I said, crossing the room, pushing in drawers as I passed.

“All packed?” he asked, finally stepping away from the corner by the window. He’d been in my bedroom once before, so I figured his preoccupation had nothing to do with his surroundings.

“All packed, you?” Henry nodded. “Do you want a soda or something? There’s plenty downstairs.”

He shook his head. “Do
you
?” he asked abruptly, like he’d suddenly remembered his manners. “Or would you like to go out? Get something to eat?”

“It’s almost midnight, Knightly.” I pointed at the neon red numbers on the alarm clock. “We’ve both got to leave at the crack of dawn.”

“True,” he said, finally smiling, though he still seemed preoccupied. “I’ll go.” A bit hesitantly, he turned toward the window.

“You
can
use the front door, everyone’s awake downstairs. I think they’re going out later. Or you can stay up here for a while. Hang out, if you want. Unless you’re tired.” I fanned my face. “I’m wide awake. Leftover adrenaline from my last final.”

“Same here,” he said. We turned in unison toward my window, hearing sounds of night-before-vacation
soirées
down the street.

Henry smiled again, more genuinely this time. “Definitely staying.” He shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath was a black sweater with gray, blue and green argyle diamonds on the front.

Argyle is something of a lost art
, I thought as I watched him drape his jacket across the back of my desk chair.
But dammit all if Knightly doesn’t pull it off.

“Mind if I change the music?” he asked, pointing at my laptop, though he didn’t wait for an answer. Lowering to the floor, he ran a finger over the touch pad. “Where is my playlist?”

“Corrupted,” I said. “The tracks suddenly wouldn’t play, so I had to delete them.” I really hated to lie, but honestly, after what Mel had insinuated, Henry’s songs kind of freaked me out.

“That’s strange.”

I picked at my thumbnail. “Uh-huh.”

“Well then, I guess these will have to do.” He sat back on his heels and continued scrolling through my iTunes library. “Janis Joplin,” he said, wincing. “Seriously?”

“Sometimes it makes me happy to be furious.” I sank onto the floor beside him. “Now, if you’ll allow me.” I reached over and took control of my laptop. “I will educate
you
.”

Two hours later, my sweater was off. So was Henry’s. And his shoes. My glowing laptop screen and the street lamp outside my window were the only sources of light in the room.

“I quite like your coffee house girls,” he said. “Your Sara and Ingrid.”

“Better than Fiona Apple?”

Shoulder to shoulder, we lounged on my imitation sheepskin rug in front of my laptop. As I reached to adjust the volume, Henry grabbed my wrist. His hands were more calloused than I would’ve thought, yet his grip was gentle. A surprisingly nice combination. I didn’t mind it anymore when he happened to touch me. It didn’t mean anything. We were friends, study partners…who happened to have shared one kiss about a million years ago. Since Masen had approved the second draft, my research sessions with Henry were probably over. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“Much better than Fiona Apple.” He grimaced, hadn’t cared much for Fiona or Hole or early Alanis. Too much blatant feminist angst for him. “Your people can do better.”

“
My
people?” I said, sliding my hand out from his hold around my wrist. “That’s an incredibly chauvinistic thing to say.”

He groaned. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

I screwed up my eyes, fighting back a teasing smile.

“Another of my idiosyncrasies requiring improvement?” he asked. I nodded. “Duly noted.” He winked and rolled onto his stomach, reaching to scan to another song.

Since that incident in his dark hallway, Henry and I hadn’t shared another romantic moment. Not even close. I considered that a blessing—after all, I couldn’t be expected to take studious notes while he talked if I was constantly wondering if he tasted like cranberries. Things were better this way. Like I’d told Mel: a maturing experience.

Most of the time, Henry was pretty entertaining to hang out with. His constant oozing of self-confidence had been annoying at first, but the more time we spent together, the more natural that feature was. He wore his convictions well. Relaxed and confident was not an altogether disgusting combination.

He was reading off the track list of an album, making critical yet pretty hilarious comments under his breath while I silently gazed down at the back of him stretched across my white rug. I couldn’t help it. He was right there, making me stare.

He wore jeans tonight. A rarity for him. And a pleasure for me. Earlier in the evening, he’d pulled off his sweater, and what remained was one of his million-dollar plain white T-shirts. It was V-neck. Fitted. Very nicely fitted. His hair was as tousled as I’d ever seen it. He had a cowlick in the back that was always smoothed down with gel. Tonight, dark curls poked up in some places while falling carelessly in others.

He turned a bit, and the profile of his jaw and cheek caught the light.

Zowie.

Weeks had passed since I’d allowed my thoughts to remember him as that stunningly beautiful guy outside Julia’s window. To me, he’d become like a faceless and bodiless Unix. Tonight, however, any blockhead could see that Henry Knightly was chiseled from the very stones of Mount Olympus. Bedeck him in chain mail and fleece and he was Adonis, Hector, Odysseus…with just a touch of Fifth Avenue.

“Knightly?” I whispered to his back, though I had no idea what I wanted to say.

“Honeycutt?” he answered.

Nope, not a clue.

“Yeees?” he replied a second time.

Still watching his profile, I sighed again and finally responded with, “You’re clueless.”

He craned his neck to leer at me over his shoulder. “And yet you’re here with me in the middle of the night. What does that say about you?”

“That cluelessness isn’t necessarily indicative of intellect?” I rattled off, having a difficult time thinking straight or seeing anything but his twinkling brown eyes. His tousled hair. His mouth.

Henry chuckled. “Appalling habits we share, don’t you think?” he said as he rolled onto his knees.

“What habits?”

“Presuming too much,” he began. “Wrongfully judging. Doubting our own eyes.” He rubbed his jaw. “That’s the worst of the bunch, isn’t it?” He pressed play, and music filled the space between us. He’d just downloaded a new song. Bruno Mars.

“I…” My mouth was suddenly dry. “I just remembered something.”

Henry blinked up at me when I stumbled to my feet. “What?”

“Um…Coos Bay is getting a lot of moisture this winter,” I said, backing up toward my door. “I’m just going to run downstairs and get my raincoat so I don’t forget to take it home.”

“Okay,” he said, maybe wondering why I suddenly had to be out of the room.

The moment I was down my creaky stairs, I pressed both hands over my heart and exhaled. After a few more breaths, I felt better, calmer. My head was clearer, too. Maybe I’d been breathing in his cologne or something. That should be my next rule: no hanging around guys who smell like heaven. Or play me Bruno Mars. I really needed to make a list.

I grabbed my coat and was back in my bedroom a few minutes later, but Henry wasn’t down on the rug where I’d left him. He was in the corner by the window, his phone at his ear.

“Yeah.” He paused to laugh then noticed me. “Okay, okay, but look, I gotta go. See you later.”

I glanced at my alarm clock. “Who was that?” I couldn’t help asking.

“My father.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Not where he is.”

I folded the coat across my bag. “You’re not spending the holidays with your family?”

“I am,” he said. “I just remembered something that I wanted to run by him.”

I sat down on the rug. “But you didn’t spend Thanksgiving with them,” I suddenly remembered.
I
hadn’t gone home because home was depressing, but why hadn’t Henry left?

“It wasn’t worth traveling overseas,” he explained, taking his same spot at my side on the floor. “During the shorter breaks, I sometimes go to my extended family in LA and Washington, cousins, aunts, grandfather.” He shrugged. “Or sometimes I’ll go with Dart to New York. So, anything happening downstairs?” he asked, turning on a new song.

Why did I get the feeling he was trying to change the subject?

“Dead quiet,” I reported, leaning back against the bed frame. “Anabel is out for the night, and I’m guessing Julia is with Dart at his place or they’re in her room.”

“Really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, I…” He scratched his chin. “She was over earlier today and I caught part of their conversation. I didn’t think they were hanging out tonight.”

I almost laughed. Julia had been looking forward to tonight all week. She’d even had another “chat” with Anabel, though who knows what came of that. I couldn’t help feeling excited for Julia.

“Why are you smiling?” Henry asked.

“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “Nothing, nothing. What song is this? Turn it up.”

…

Sounds from the street had ceased hours ago. Henry laid stomach-down on my bed with his head hanging over the edge, while I lolled comfortably on the floor. I could hear his even pattern of breathing above and thought he was asleep.

Which was why his question startled me. “What do you want out of life?” he asked.

“Pass.” I cracked one eye open to find him frowning down at me. “Topics like that are outlawed for us, remember? No more arguing.”

He bent his elbows and placed them flat on my bed, chin on top of his hands. “I’d really like to know, though. Tell me.” He chuckled and rubbed his eyes, adding, “Please?”

From his tone, I knew it wasn’t wittiness he was after, it was information. I could give him that. “Well, if you must know, I want to change the world.”

Even though it was dark, I could see he was smiling. “That’s a pretty tall order. Do you have a plan? Besides spreading the joys of sustainability, I mean.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s definitely step one. And since step one could take the next twenty years, I might stick with it for a while.”

Henry laughed quietly and ran a hand over his face. “I like your answer very much,” he said, his eyes following me as I sat up. “And I use the word
like
because I can’t think of another verb to do the sentiment justice.”

I smiled in the dark, amused at how I’d grown so used to his verbal formality.

“I’m all for you changing the world,” he added.

I couldn’t help feeling a little glow, and was grateful for the dimness of the room in case I was blushing. “Speaking of change, it’s getting late.” I handed him his crumpled scarf that I’d been using as a pillow. “Or
early
, I mean.” I flexed my bare feet out in front of me. “We’re both leaving in, like, two hours.”

“Right,” Henry said, running his index finger and thumb over his eyelids. “I guess I should go now.” I didn’t think he’d actually been asleep, but he did seem distracted again, like there was something he wanted to say but hadn’t. He’d behaved the same way when he’d climbed through my window six hours ago.

He slid off the bed and onto the floor beside me. After a yawn and stretch, he bent forward, leaning across my legs. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, until I realized he was reaching for his shoes.

His left shoulder pressed against my right. Even in the half-dark, the definition in his reaching arm caught my attention. Tight tendons stood out on the inside of his elbow and forearm as ropes of muscles flexed and contracted every time he moved. His T-shirt stretched against the hard ball of his bicep. I didn’t see Henry in short sleeves often due to chilly Bay Area weather. I was enjoying the view.

He grabbed his shoes and straightened, his shoulder still touching mine. I bent my knees and scooted a few inches back, giving us both a little space. Henry eyed me as I moved away.

“Before I leave,” he said, fumbling with the laces on one shoe, “I’d like to tell you something—two things, actually, if you don’t mind.”

His voice sounded thick, hesitant, and his cadence was more formal than usual. I excused this, blaming it on how we’d just stayed up all night even after a week’s worth of stressful finals.

When he lifted his brown eyes to me, there was a softness in them that I recognized. The next thing I knew, it was like we were back in his hallway, legs entangled on the floor, Henry’s hand on my arm. But this time, my music was playing in the background, we were on a sheepskin rug, totally alone, no roommates to disturb us, no Lilah to interrupt.