Love to Love Her YAC (22 page)

A minute later he plunks himself down next to
me with a bowl that’s overflowing with Cocoa Krispies. I don’t
realize I’m making a face until he laughs and says, “What? You look
like I’m about to hack into a live goat or something.”

I shake my head. “I just can’t do chocolate
for breakfast.”

“Are you kidding me? The only thing that
would make this better is chocolate milk poured over the top of
it.”

I shudder in spite of myself, and he laughs
harder before shoveling a heaping spoonful into his mouth. He
doesn’t attempt to divert me anymore as he eats, but I find his
slurping and crunching distracting nonetheless. Finally I give up
and just stare at him, my head propped in my hand.

Blake has lifted his bowl in both hands and
is about to gulp down the leftover brown liquid it holds when his
eyes dart over and he catches me looking at him. I’m too lost in
thought to try to cover it up or look away.

“What?” he asks. He shifts uncomfortably in
his seat.

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just weird seeing you
here, that’s all. In the house where I grew up. I still can’t quite
figure out why you’re here.”

He sets his bowl back down without drinking
from it and nods slowly. “Fair enough.” He shrugs. “I came for
you.” He says it as if he’s simply stating the obvious. His gaze
bores into me, and I notice his emerald eyes have a bluish cast to
them this morning. For a moment I forget to think.

“I don’t know what that means,” I reply,
glancing away. I look back down at my book, not at all sure which
page I was on, and begin fiddling with my mechanical pencil,
flipping it around between my fingers like I’ve been practicing
since middle school.

“How do you do that?” he asks.

I look back up and notice him staring raptly
at the swift movements of my fingers. I drop the pencil and stand
up to carry my bowl to the sink. “You’re changing the subject.”

He gently catches my elbow as I pass,
startling me. “I’m not trying to change the subject,” he says in a
low, even voice. “I came here to talk to you, and I plan to, as
soon as we have more than a few minutes alone.”

As if on cue, Dad walks in the front door
with Sophie on her retractable leash, and the moment passes before
I can respond.

Blake – 4:30 PM

I
’m being genuine
when I say I really do like Rhiannon’s parents. Her dad (“Call me
Rich”) is genial if a bit goofy, and her mom (“Please, just Patty”)
is about as sweet as they come. Tawny is great, too – she’s funny
in a self-deprecating sort of way, and she clearly worships her
sister. That being said, I’m running out of ways to insinuate that
what I really need is some time alone with Rhiannon.

First I was roped into helping Rich pressure
wash the deck (Really? In October?), then Patty asked for my help
shelling peas and replacing light bulbs while Rhiannon worked on a
paper. Next the five of us piled into Rich’s Suburban and drove to
a flea market on the north edge of town. We spent the rest of the
afternoon trolling the aisles of cheap merchandise and eating lunch
from a greasy taco stand. Meanwhile, I can’t help entertaining the
thought that maybe they’re doing it on purpose. Maybe they think
the second I get Rhiannon alone I’ll run off with her to join a
commune or the circus. All I know is, pretty soon I’m going to have
to resort to less subtle tactics.

As soon as we return from the flea market, I
hover self-consciously in the entryway, trying but failing to hatch
some genius plot to get Rhiannon out of here. Rich must have
noticed my restlessness, because he pats the sofa and says, “Come
on in, Blake. Take a load off.” I look over at Rhiannon sitting at
the kitchen table, inspecting a number of colored bottles of nail
polish Tawny has thrust before her. She’s sure as hell attentive to
her kid sister, I’ll give her that.

Instead of crossing to the sofa I position
myself on the edge of one of the stools at the breakfast bar in the
kitchen. Rhiannon glances up at me and awards me a coy smile. I
grin back at her as I feel my pulse pick up. Every time she shows
me that seductive little grin I have vivid flashbacks to her
straddling me naked, a lustful smirk on her flushed face. I turn so
my lap is hidden beneath the overhang before discretely adjusting
my growing arousal.

“I was thinking of ordering in for dinner
tonight,” says Patty. “How does pizza sound?”

“Actually I was thinking of taking Rhiannon
out somewhere,” I announce, surprising even myself. My eyes flick
to Rhiannon, who’s regarding me with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh sure, you kids have fun,” says Patty
absently as she lugs out a big yellow phonebook and begins turning
the fragile pages. In the living room Rich has clicked on the
television and is flipping through channels, oblivious to his
surroundings.
Well that was easy
.

Rhiannon – 6:00 PM

I
painted Tawny’s
fingernails a dark fuchsia (Plugged in Plum according to the
bottle) while we waited around for the pizza to show up. As soon as
Mom had the box open on the counter and began dealing out slices,
Blake gave me a not-so-subtle look that said,
Let’s get the hell
out of here
.

I hadn’t known how badly I wanted an escape
until now that we’re outside the four walls of the house. The heady
feeling of being out from under my parents’ noses and back in the
front seat of Blake’s truck causes me to bust out in a fit of giddy
laughter. Blake looks at me, amused, as he starts the engine and
backs out of the driveway. “Where to, miss?” he asks me.

“How do you feel about omelets?”

“For dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Love them.”

I grin. “Man after my own heart.”

I direct Blake to the center of town as the
sun slips behind the dusty mountains. We drop a few quarters into a
parking meter on the main drag and walk up a block to Ollie’s
Omelet House, possibly my favorite haunt during my formative years
in this town, or at least the one I’m most nostalgic about. The
inside is cozy, with scuffed laminate flooring and big stained
glass lamps suspended on chains over each table. The walls are
painted with a chipping mural of zoo animals ranging from lions to
lemurs, ostensibly chosen by the original proprietor’s
granddaughter in the early seventies when the restaurant first
opened.

The diner is packed; the bell that rings over
the door as we enter is barely audible over the clamor of dozens of
conversations. An apron-clad woman I vaguely recognize spots us as
she carries plates of food to a table near the front window. “You
can sit wherever,” she tosses over her shoulder when she
passes.

Blake’s superior height serves a distinct
advantage in this situation. He cranes his neck to peer out over
the diner and touches the small of my back to nudge me toward a
booth in the far corner. A flustered looking waitress whose nametag
says Chelsea approaches our table to take our drink orders as soon
as we sit down.

“Damn, that’s a lot of omelets,” Blake
remarks as he scans the laminated menu. “What do you
recommend?”

“What are you in the mood for?” I counter.
“Savory or sweet?”

He’s still pondering that thought provoking
question when the waitress delivers our drinks with bendy straws in
them. “Ready to order?” she asks. Blake looks like he’s about to
crack under the pressure, so with his blessing I order for the both
of us.

As soon as Chelsea walks away, a wall of
silence passes between us. Blake looks at me while I look at
him—his radiant green eyes, his even pink lips, and the section of
sun kissed hair that’s fallen forward to cover his forehead, making
my fingers itch to comb it back into place.

“So, Rhiannon—“ he begins.

I hold up a hand. “Wait. Before you start, I
just want to say something.”

He cocks his head. “What?”

“I…I—“
Quit stammering
. “I’m sorry,” I
finally manage to spit out. His confused expression rearranges
itself into a frown, a deep V cutting between his eyebrows. “I’m
sorry for what I did. You know, last weekend. I know it wasn’t just
me, but I didn’t exactly do my part to stop it. And I want you to
know I do respect the fact that you have a girlfriend. I was
just…way out of line.”

He reaches a hand across the table and places
it on my forearm. He ducks his head to catch my downward gaze at
the same time he slides his hand up to my elbow and gives it a tug,
inciting me to glance up. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. “It was wrong,
but—Rhiannon? I’m not sorry in the way you might think.” He opens
his mouth as if to continue, but behind his eyes I can see his mind
working, forming the words he’ll use next.

As he thinks, my gaze drifts up over his
right shoulder to the bank of windows facing the street, and I do a
double take. A familiar head of brown curls passed by, and just as
I begin to wonder whether I might have imagined it, my suspicions
are confirmed by the jingle of the bell and the unmistakable figure
who next enters the diner.
Reggie
.

I haven’t seen him since I came home for
Christmas my freshman year at WSC. He had taken the year off to
work on his dad’s hog farm; the following summer he left for
Phoenix to play baseball for Arizona State. His brown curls have
grown out some, but his dimpled face is the same: it’s the face of
a boy. He’s with another guy from our grade named Luke, who I
haven’t seen or thought of since we graduated.

As if I’m emitting a radio signal perceptible
only to him, Reggie’s head swivels and his eyes lock onto mine from
across the crowded restaurant. I can feel the heat creeping up my
cheeks, no doubt painting them an unsavory shade of magenta. Blake
is looking at me like I’ve sprouted tentacles; he turns to follow
my gaze as Reggie picks his way toward us with Luke trailing on his
heels.

“I take it you know him?” he asks in a low
voice.

I tilt my head in a nod but don’t have time
to elaborate before he’s standing right there, a huge grin on his
face. “Oh my God, it’s good to see you!” he cries, lifting me out
of the booth to gather me up in a giant hug. Reggie’s hugs were
always my favorite thing about him. They were never half-assed,
because he never held back; he meant every one of them, and he made
you feel it in the way he held every part of you like you might
fall to pieces if he didn’t.

“Good to see you, too!” I say, and I realize
it’s true. I don’t have
those
kinds of feelings for Reggie
anymore, but we ended things on good terms, and he actually turned
out to be a pretty decent friend, somehow able to support me
through the early stages of Tawny’s illness in ways he couldn’t
when he was my boyfriend. “What are you doing here?”

“I just came back for the fair. Dad was
showing one of his hogs.”

“Oh right, makes sense.” The fair is a big
deal in Reggie’s family.

I hear shuffling behind me and I’m reminded
how rude I’m being. I whirl around to find Blake poised at the edge
of his seat looking curious and a little wounded. “Shit, where is
my head? Reggie, this is Blake. Blake, this is Reggie. And that’s
Luke behind him—Hi, Luke.”

“Hey,” he murmurs as Blake stands and shakes
Reggie’s hand, then Luke’s.

Chelsea comes back bearing steaming platters
of omelets that look like an entire carton of eggs went into each
one. She looks around at the four of us standing next to the table
before setting the plates down. “Are you all together?” she
asks.

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” says Reggie. “I’ll
have a Coke.”

Blake – 6:45 PM

F
ucking shit
.
Who the hell is this guy? I watch helplessly as he scoots in on
Rhiannon’s side of the booth, leaving Luke to slide in beside
me.

It’s evident he and Rhiannon have been
involved somehow in the past—I’m just trying to figure out
how
involved and how
distant
that past might be. The
way he looks at her and his level of comfort in touching her make
it painfully apparent he once had feelings for her, and maybe still
does. I think back to what Spencer said about her having been in a
serious relationship in the past and wonder whether this could be
the guy.

“So what are you doing in town?” he asks as
he lays his arm across the back of the booth behind Rhiannon. I
have to work to keep from glaring at him, or at least to make my
disdain slightly less obvious. The thought they may have once
shared some level of physical intimacy sets me on edge; I hate
myself for the tension that flares between my shoulder blades, the
ache of wanting her for myself.

“Just visiting family,” says Rhiannon with a
casual shrug of her shoulders. For a moment I derive guilty
pleasure from the fact she isn’t divulging the whole truth, but
then I remember she hadn’t wanted to open up to me about what was
going on either. I’m on more of an even playing field with this guy
than I’d like to admit.

“Cool, tell them I said hi. How’s your dad
doing anyway? My old man said he doesn’t see him around much these
days.” Great, they know each other’s families. I suppose I
shouldn’t be surprised; this is a pretty small town. Everyone knows
everyone—it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility for these
two to end up being somehow related.

“He’s really good actually. Seems pretty
happy. He’s got a lot of home improvement projects in the works,
you know how that goes.” They share a laugh over her reference to
some private joke, and my blood churns in a low boil.

“So Blake, how do you know Rhiannon?” asks
Reggie. Suddenly I wish more than anything I’d had time to get out
what I planned to say to Rhiannon before this douche walked up, so
I’d have something to tell him other than the current shitty
truth.