The Season (13 page)

Later we stood in line for food and took our plates and
sat with Mom and Dad, and I introduced them. Mom liked him because, well, he was cute and was with me. End of story. And Dad and Hank both went to A&M, which practically made them first cousins. Fifteen minutes into lunch, Mom was patting Hank on the arm, and he and Dad were deep into the haze of Aggie glory days.

“Ahh, I should have joined the Corps,” Dad said. “It's . . . well, I had the ranch, I knew I wasn't going into the military, but now, looking back—should have done it.”

“Best thing I ever did,” Hank said. “It gave me something to be a part of, for sure, but more than that—a value system, something to believe in, you know?” Dad nodded. For a moment I thought he might salute.

“How do you like the sculptures?” Mom asked.

“Oh, they were great,” I answered. “I particularly liked
Three Cheetos Dancing.
” I glanced at Hank.

“I've got a blowtorch and some scrap iron lying around. Thinking I could whip something up in an hour or two that would really get these yahoos going,” Dad said.

Mom gave Dad
the look.

“Angus, as you may have gathered, would rather be home watching the football game right now,” she said tartly. I could see the rift from last week had only widened.

“Fourteen–seven Aggies,” Hank whispered to Dad after checking his phone. “Early second quarter.”

“All right. But don't tell me any more—I DVR'd it.”

Talk of the football game was the last straw for Mom.

“I'm going to go peruse the auction items,” she said.

“Try not to accidentally buy something,” Dad said. It was a cheap shot, for sure, and Mom took it that way.

“I'm sure we can still afford for me to window-shop.” Mom gathered herself and headed toward the gallery building, and her body language—annoyed—was pretty easy to read.

“Still mad, huh?” I asked.

Dad sighed and folded his arms. He nodded.

“She's still hot about this damned land thing. I came here today, missing the game and all, as a peace offering. You can see how that's working out for me.”

“I don't get it, Dad. She said she didn't want the ranch to be fracked, either. Why is she still mad?”

“Because it's a lot of money, Megan. You convince yourself it would make things easier, and in some ways it would. And you know, when they hold it out to you, even if you're not gonna take it, you think about it—you hope.”

Hank, to his credit, had remained silent while our tacky family drama played out in front of him. Now I turned to him and smiled the way I'd seen Julia smile at Zach, and I carefully pushed my hair back behind my ear.

“I'm sorry, Hank—this isn't the right time for this conversation.”

“That's okay,” he said, and then to Dad. “Oil and gas?”

“Yeah,” Dad said.

“What is it with those guys? I mean, what part of ‘No' don't they understand?” Hank asked. “You gotta realize there really are times when folks just don't want to
sell.”

“Yeah, you know, it's more complicated than that. I would sell, frankly, if the right deal came along. I'm not gonna ranch forever. Megan, Julia—they aren't gonna run cattle for a living. But I won't sell it for . . .
that.
To have it destroyed.”

We all sat with this for a moment.

“Well, couldn't you develop it for houses or something?” Hank asked mildly.

“Sure. I wouldn't mind something like that.”

“It'd be less money and all, but . . .” Hank said.

“Enough is all I'm looking for. But those guys aren't calling me. That land's too valuable to build houses on.”

“Not necessarily. You'd be surprised how deals come together. I see it all the time at my job. Just because it doesn't work one way doesn't mean you can't figure it out another.”

“Well, like I said, nobody's ever talked to me about that.”

“Honestly,” Hank continued, “you're in a great position. When a developer brings you a deal, they've got preconceived notions of what they want, how they'd do it. And if you don't like that, then you've got to talk them around to the way you see it. But if you plan the development the way you want it, then you're just looking for a buyer.”

“Well that's interesting. I never thought of it that way.” Dad took a swig off his beer. “Got yourself a smart one, huh?” he asked me, and I beamed. You want to win a girl over, win over her dad. I smiled again at Hank, and this time it wasn't put on.

“You want another beer, Dad?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“I'll go,” Hank said, but I stopped him.

“You stay. Would you like something?” I asked.

“Another Diet Coke?”

“You got it.”

I practically floated to the bar. I had just ordered a mimosa, a beer for Dad, and a Diet Coke when Sydney came up next to me.

“Hi, Sydney,” I said.

“Hey.” Another bartender appeared. “Two white wines please,” she said, and then we were alone at the bar.

“Sydney, I, I remember where we met.” She looked over. “I just want you to know that, you know, if you were worried—nobody's gonna hear it from me.”

The bartender set her two wines down. She picked them up.

“Yeah, thanks,” she said curtly, and walked off. Not the gracious reply I expected. I leaned against the bar and looked out—Andrew Gage walked toward me, and our eyes met. He promptly spun around and walked away.
What's wrong with him?

“
Here you go,” the bartender said, setting my drinks down.

“Thanks.” I scooped up the three drinks, turned, and found Andrew now blocking my way.

“Megan,” he said formally.

“Hi,
Andrew.”

“I've been meaning to speak with you.”
What could Andrew Gage possibly have to say to me?
I wondered.

“I tried to apologize at your cousin's party,” he began, “but I couldn't find you alone, so I thought it best left for another time. Anyway, I want to apologize for the
comments
you overheard. I was just repeating what Lauren had said, but that is no excuse. It's really not who I am, and I'm so sorry I said that. And that you heard it.”

“Um, okay—thank you.” It was a decent apology, but it sounded oddly . . . rehearsed.

“You're welcome.”

I stood there with the drinks in my hand, and he looked this way and that, but didn't seem to have anything more to say. God, he was Captain Awkward standing there, shifting from one foot to the other.

Lauren Battle had seen us and came over.

“I've been looking for you,” she purred to him. She ignored me completely.

“Hi, Lauren,” I said, standing deep in the shade she threw.

“Oh, hi, Megan—how's
charm school
going?”
How could she know about that?

“I'm crushing it, thanks for asking.”

“She's learning to walk,” Lauren said, as if it were just the cutest thing ever. I ignored her and looked at Andrew.

“Was there something else?”

“No—that was it.”

“Okay—see you around.”

On my way back, I stopped and watched Hank and Dad deep in conversation. They could have been talking about land, or Aggie football, or the Corps. It was damn sexy and I thought about what might come later. Hank would drive me home, and based on all the little cues that day, I felt certain he would walk me to the door. I tingled at the thought. Should I invite him in? Would that be too forward? Would he kiss me?

I certainly hoped
so.

Thirteen

In Which Megan Shops for a Raincoat

WHEN WE ARRIVED AT THE APARTMENT, HANK CAME
around to open my door, but I was halfway out before I realized he was there. We met somewhere in the middle, with me standing there, and him opening the door the rest of the way.

“Oh, sorry. I should have waited,” I said.

“That's okay. Sometimes it's inefficient.” I thought again,
He's so normal.

He took my hand as we walked slowly toward the door. Mildly anxious in the car, I was buzzing now.

“My dad really likes you,” I said.

“I like him too,” he said.

“What I meant to say was—I like you.” My heart trilled at the words, so rarely said. But he took it in stride, still comfortable and smiling.

“I like you too.”

“Mind if I ask why?” I could have kicked myself, but the question was out.

“Are you kidding? You're made of awesome. Pretty, smart, athletic—I'm not kidding when I say it turns me on to think you probably squat more than I do.”

I laughed an easy, comfortable laugh.

“Really? That simple?”

“That simple.” He paused. “What do you squat anyway?”

“Max?”

“Five reps.”

“A buck seventy-five.”

“No way! You do squat more than me!”

“But you said it turned you—” His hand covered my mouth.

“It does.” And then he removed his hand, and his head bent forward. He stopped inches from my lips, and I nodded. His mouth came down on mine and I closed my eyes. He wrapped his arms around me, nearly lifting me off the ground, but the kiss was soft.

We broke apart, still just inches away. I felt he had stolen my breath.

“You want to come in?” I gasped.

He kissed me again for an answer.

Inside I dropped my purse, and Hank and I kissed again, deeper. He walked me toward the couch and we fell together, side by side. We kissed some more, and then he rolled on top of me. His hands swept my hips and came up to my hands, and he pinned them back, looked down at me. He
was very strong, and his body weight pressed into me.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” He pressed his lips against mine, pushed his tongue through my lips. I responded, dizzy with lust. His hands went to my breasts just as Julia's keys jingled in the door.

She nearly fell over when she saw us on the couch. Hank, understandably, was not in a rush to stand. I just lay there with him on top of me, looked over at Julia, and laughed.

“So sorry!” she said, and started to back out of the door.

“No, stay,” I said, still laughing.

“Yeah, stay.” Hank laughed too.

“Are you sure? 'Cause this looks . . .” I could tell from Julia's smile that she was actually happy for me, and was perfectly willing to go if I wanted.

“I'm sure,” I said, and squirmed out from under Hank. I straightened my clothes, wiped my hand under my lips to clean up my lipstick. Hank sat up and . . . adjusted.

“I should go,” he said.

“Don't go,” I said. “Not yet.”

Julia put her purse in the kitchen, rummaged in the fridge for a soda, giving us time to get it together.

“You want something to drink?” she called out.

“Uh, sure, a Coke. Or whatever,” Hank said.

“Fuzzy water!” I yelled.

“Fuzzy water?” Hank asked.

“Oh, yeah. As a little girl I mixed up fizzy and fuzzy, so . . .
fuzzy
water.”

“How cute are you?” he said. What could I answer to
that
?

Julia brought in a soda for Hank and a sparkling water for me. I opened it and took a quick sip, then another. Whew, it was hot in here.

“Where were you?” I asked, aiming for nonchalant.

“With Zach. We went for a drink after.”

“Nice.”

“We talked about Lauren's party—weekend—at their ranch in Pilot Point,” she said.

“I can't wait,” I said, not brimming with enthusiasm.

“Then I guess you don't want to share the private cabin he offered me?”

“He offered you a cabin at their ranch?” I asked. She nodded, smiled.

“Sounds . . . nice,” I said, glancing at Hank.

“I was gonna talk to Ann about being your escort,” Hank said to me. “If that's okay?”

“Um, yeah!” I paused. “I wasn't sure if you were going.”

“Why wouldn't I go?” he asked.

“Just, you know, it's Lauren's big weekend. . . . Andrew will be there.”

“So? I don't avoid him. If I want to go somewhere, he can deal with it.”

Tough-guy talk.
I took a gulp of cold sparkling water.

“I really should go,” Hank said.

I walked him to the door, where he kissed me again, and I blushed a little.

“I had a great time,” he said.

“Me too. Call me.”

“Promise.” And he was gone.

I closed the door and leaned against it, shut my eyes, and dreamed my little dreamy dreams of lust and romance.

“So, where was that going?” Julia asked, breathless to know.

“I don't know . . .” I giggled like a sixth grader, grinned, and fell back on the couch. I took a deep breath, and I could still smell him there. My body tingled and my ears were ringing.

“Were you going to . . . ?”

The question hung there.

“Um, maybe—probably.” My answer surprised me—were we about to?

“Do you have a condom?” Her tone, slightly mother hen, brought me down to earth.

“No,” I answered honestly. “But I'm sure he did.”

“Okay, he probably did, but you cannot rely on the guy.”

“You're right. Can I borrow some?”

“Ewww, Megan, you don't
borrow
condoms.”

“You know what I mean. Not borrow, but like, give me some?”

“You are twenty years old. Go to the store and buy a box of condoms—there is no shame.”

The next afternoon I walked into the Tom Thumb full of confidence, secure in my purpose, ready to plunk down my money for a box of condoms. Contrary to Julia's opinion,
however, there was shame in buying condoms. Massive shame. Because there is massive choice—really overchoice.

I worked my way down the pharmacy aisles to “Contraception,” which shared an aisle with “Shampoo.” And there I found the Great Wall of Condoms. Racks and racks of boxes stacked, hanging, a blur of words and images so diverse I thought I had mistakenly stumbled into the cereal aisle, except the boxes were far too small. I frowned, bent forward, and examined the first one that caught my eye, realizing as I did that my errand might take a tad longer than I'd imagined.

The overchoice started with the brands. Sure, they had Trojan, and Durex, and Crown, but they also had Lifestyles, Kimono
,
and Rough Rider
—
this last one did not sound appealing. And next to these were generic condoms with a sign that read, “Compare to Trojan and other leading brands,” and a sticker price half of the others. Now I'm not a label snob, and I appreciate a bargain, but I don't think condoms are the place to save a buck. And it would take a girl made of tougher stuff than me to present a condom to a guy, any guy, whether it was the first time or the fiftieth, and say, “I went with generic.”

Worse, they came in different
sizes
. Should I text him and ask, “Hey, what size is your doppelgänger?” Or
assume
he was a big guy and then be faced with the unforgettable and ruinous possibility I had bought a size-twelve sock for a size-eight foot? If only I had paid more attention to his shoes! But the other choice was “Regular.” This too led
down a slippery slope—I imagined the conversation in the semidark. “You bought me the small?” “Not a small! There is no small! It's a
regular
!” And while I felt pretty certain the elastic qualities of latex would win out, who on earth wants to have this conversation?

And there were near-endless permutations. “Ultrathin”—as opposed to what, an oven mitt? Red, blue, pink, purple, or clear? “Pleasure for her?” “Pleasure for him?” Wasn't the idea to get both—must I choose that now? I had now been on this aisle for five minutes, and I was more confused than when I arrived.

“Hi, Megan.”

Ashley Two stood beside me, for how long I didn't know.

“Ashley—hi.” We shared a look. I was, after all, standing in front of a few hundred boxes of condoms, and held a box of Kimono MicroThins in my hand. I glanced around for help and made a break to the nearest item not in the promiscuous section. “Aussie shampoo! Don't you—I just love Aussie shampoo!”

“Never tried it,” Ashley Two said coolly, clearly enjoying watching me sweat.

“Well, you should—because you'll love it. And the conditioner too!”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“You're welcome!” Was I shouting? I really couldn't tell.

“Well, gotta go.” Now she looked pointedly at the condoms in my hand. “See you at Lauren's?”

“Yes you will. With my shampoo, that I'm here to buy!”
I prayed that Ashley Two would just show mercy and move on, though I knew word of my purchase would be passed to Lauren the second I turned my back.

“Okay, see you there.”

“Bye now!”

I waited for her to turn the corner, counted to ten, and went back to the wall of condoms. I had to decide, quickly.

When I arrived home, Julia was practicing the Texas Dip. She wore a weight belt to simulate the train and still used a chair for support. She began to bow and flowed down, down, down to the floor, just one finger on the chair. And then rose back up with only a tiny wobble.

“Very nice,” I said, and went into the kitchen, threw the bag down on the table, and started rifling through the fridge.

Julia poured the bag out onto the table—six boxes of condoms, a Mountain Dew, and the Aussie shampoo, which for some strange reason I'd felt obligated to buy.

She examined the receipt—$96.43.

“Jeez, Megan, what are you planning? To sleep with the marching band?”

“I couldn't decide—it was . . . crazy. So I just grabbed a bunch.” I picked up a box. “Like this one is purple, and ribbed, but I'm worried—does that make me playful, or a slut?”

“It's fine,” she said.

“What about—the ribbing? Good idea?”

“It's, God, I can't believe you're asking me this. Truthfully, it doesn't make much difference.”

“There were so many flavors.” She rolled her eyes. “But I wasn't sure—there was tropical punch and bubble gum, but I just thought they sounded fruity, so I went with grape because, well, I just thought he would like that better.”

She gave me her very best withering look.

“Megan, the flavor—it's for
you
.” She walked out and went back to practicing the Texas Dip.

I knew that. I did. Really.

“Damn. I should have bought the bubble gum.”