You and Me and Him (13 page)

“Said he’ll be back later. And to tell you to ‘breathe.’” Quinn finishes sorting the bin and sits down at the computer to enter some inventory. “It’s good advice,” he adds.

“Easier said than done,” I mumble. But then I do breathe. I take a big breath, in and out, and then another. And I feel better.

It isn’t long before Tom comes back. He scans the store, but I am in the far corner, restocking Jazz W–Z, so he doesn’t see me right away. I scrunch down and try to hide behind the stack of records I have clutched to my chest. When he finally spots me, he comes right over. His face is pulled together in a worried, questioning sort of way. I brace myself for niceness.

“Hi,” Tom says, stopping across from me in the next aisle over.

There are two record-bin widths between us, but I feel cornered anyway.

Quinn puts on a new record, and Billie Holiday comes over the speakers singing “Them There Eyes” and how they are going to get her in trouble.

I glare at Quinn until he turns it down.

“You okay?” Tom asks, and when I look up at his eyes, I can still hear Billie’s warning. Those eyes could cause a lot of problems.

“Yeah.” I flip through the records. “Sorry about losing it like that.”

“Sorry if I crossed a line I shouldn’t have crossed.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” I ask. “Does your body produce some sort of truth serum or something? You skipped over a lot of the getting-to-know-you stuff and went right for the jugular. What else did Nash tell you?”

“I know. I have this habit of going directly to the juicy bits.”

“And yet you share nothing about yourself.”

“I share stuff. Sometimes. But people just tend to want to talk to me, and sometimes they tell me things they didn’t mean to. Sorry. I know that’s not everyone’s favorite.”

“Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner!” I say, and Tom finally smiles, but his eyes are stuck in worry mode.

“So, do you hate me? Or does the new guy get another chance?” The words sound like he’s joking, but I get the sense he’s afraid he’s blown it. He’s chewing gum, and his jaw works the gum a little faster as he waits for my answer.

I decide to give the guy a break. “It’s your lucky day!” I say. “Two-fer Tuesday at Square Peg Records means you get two fabulous albums for the price of one. In your case, you get two chances.” I lean over the bins, and Tom leans in too, and our faces are close enough that I can smell the clove. I wag my finger at him, emphasizing each word. “Limited. Time. Offer.”

He nods and reaches both his hands out over the bins, grabbing my hand.

I look at his hands holding mine, and I feel that little tremor of electricity. The bell rings and our eyes go to the door.

Kayla’s standing in the doorway. She’s staring right at us, but I can’t read her face. She’s still there when the bell rings again.

Now Nash is behind Kayla, eyes darting from her to us and back again. His face pinches like he’s eaten some bad sushi. They’re both staring at our clasped hands, and I realize too late what this must look like to both of them.

I drop Tom’s hands and go back to returning the records to their bins.

Quinn assesses the situation in an instant. “Nash!” he says. “I have that live Clash album you’ve been asking for. Came out of an estate sale. A suicide, I think.” Quinn gives an involuntary shiver. “Come on back. I’ve been holding it for you.” Nash gives us another glance but allows the diversion.

“Hey, guys.” Kayla gives a little wave. Her voice is bright and warm, like honey drizzling over us, trying to make everything sweet again. She sidles over to one of the bins near the door and starts looking at the sale albums. Every few seconds she glances up at us. I’m not sure if she’s here to see me or Tom, but either way, with Nash on the premises it would be best to get her gone before Quinn is done with him.

“Look, it’s Kayla,” I say to Tom. “You should go talk to her.”

But Tom, a little slow on the uptake, stays where he is. As I flip the records back and forth, trying to find the proper spot for the album in my hand, he pushes them back before I have a chance to drop the record.

“Quit!” I hiss at Tom, but I’m trying not to laugh. When he won’t stop, I march the unfiled records back over to the RAP box, sliding them in while glancing at the office where Nash and Quinn are examining an album.

Tom follows me, and Kayla follows him, standing closer to Tom than is strictly necessary. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He bumps shoulders with her, she bumps back, and pretty soon they are laughing and jostling for space at the counter.

“You win!” Tom says, holding up his hands.

“I usually do! Remember that,” Kayla says. “Maggie, I wanted to double-check: You’re coming over on Saturday to work on that history project?”

“Yeah, I’m in.”

“Great. Come around ten. I might still be in my PJs, but I’ll be ready to work.”

“Sounds good,” I say.

“Do you need directions?” Kayla asks.

“No. I remember.”

Kayla turns on her thousand-watt smile. “What are you up to, Tom?” she asks. “I was going to go get some frozen yogurt.”

“Tempting,” he says. “But I have plans. Thanks.”

“Okay. Another time?”

“Definitely.”

Kayla leaves, the bell jangling behind her.

I start straightening things on the counter that don’t need to be straightened. I want to ask what his plans are. Tom leans against the counter smiling this Cheshire cat smile. It simultaneously makes my eyes roll and my toes curl. Nash and Quinn emerge from the office, Nash clutching the album in front of him like a shield.

“Hey, Nash.” I make a stab at nonchalance, but he’s clearly miffed, probably about Kayla. And the fact that she showed up at Square Peg, a place she never comes—or at least never did until Tom moved to town—just confirms all of Nash’s fears.

“Nash, what’s up?” Tom says, throwing his arm over Nash’s shoulder.

Nash puts on a smile for Tom. “Picking up an album I’ve been wanting. What about you?”

“Oh, making the rounds. Thought I’d come in and say hi to everyone.”

“Really?” Nash says, his voice moving in rapid-fire fluctuations between hurt and anger. “I looked for you guys after school today.”

“I had a minor breakdown before PE and fled the building,” I say.

“You seem fine now.” Nash adjusts the watch and bracelets on his arm.

“Just a bout of teenage angst combined with a completely rational fear of Ms. Perry. Tom was concerned, but you would have slapped me right out of my amateur hysterics. Disaster averted by Diet Coke, new lip balm, and skipping my last class.” I smile at Nash, and he nods. But I can tell he’s still trying to decipher the array of information he saw when he first walked in to Square Peg.

“Interesting,” he says.

“Actually,” Tom says, “Maggie and I were hoping you’d come to dinner with us after she gets off work.”

I stare at him. Tom flicks my wrist with his fingernail, and I catch on enough to play along.

“We were,” I say. “Totally hoping.”

“I can’t go to dinner,” Nash says to Tom, ignoring me. “But we could hang out until then.”

“Maybe Maggie could meet us after work?” Tom says, as Nash drags him to the door. It’s futile to fight Nash when he’s got a plan. Tom shakes his head and gives in. The bell rings, the door slams, and the empty shop is quiet and still.

“Nash owes me for that record,” Quinn says, still looking at the door. “And what the hell just happened here?”

“Kayla Hill just happened here,” I say. “Ancient middle school feuds happened here. Nash’s jealousy happened here.”

“Ahhh, that’s why he was such an ice king,” Quinn says. “Well done, Mags.”

“What do you mean?” I say. “I have been flawlessly following the best friend guidelines, trying to give Nash and Tom every opportunity to establish a relationship while simultaneously running interference by keeping Kayla occupied.” I collapse on the stool and put my head in my hands. “Why isn’t it working? I’m doing everything right.”

“Well, let me ask you this,” Quinn says, stroking the divot in his chin like he does whenever he’s trying to solve a big problem. “You’ve been doing all this work to preserve Nash’s claim. And that’s to be commended. But who does Tom like?”

“That’s part of the problem. He’s not giving off the usual signs.”

“What are the usual signs?”

“Well, typically the object of Nash’s affection runs away, avoids him, and makes it clear that he is not interested in dating Nash, ever.”

“That kind of clarity would make things easier,” Quinn says.

“But Tom’s kind of a flirt.”

“Definitely a flirt.”

“With everyone.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It makes it hard to tell if he’s being charming or if he’s really interested. When he’s with Kayla, he flirts with Kayla. He kind of even flirts with me, if that can be believed. But when he’s with Nash, I think he really could like Nash.”

Quinn shakes his head. “Honey, that dog won’t hunt.”

“Huh?”

“Tom does not like Nash.”

“What?” I say. “You’ve only known Tom for like ten seconds.”

“Trust me on this one. When you’ve been gay as long as I have, you get a sense for these things,” Quinn says. “And perfect, smiling Kayla seems a little obvious for a man of Tom’s apparent taste and wisdom.”

I nod. And then it hits me what Quinn’s hinting at. “Puh-lease!” I say, and grab the same stack of records for the third time.

“Okay, let’s try this another way. Boy meets boy. Boy meets girl.”

“Boy likes boy,” I say.

“Not gonna happen, sweetie!”

“You don’t know that. How can you know that?”

“Years of experience punctuated by painful trial and error.”

“And even if you’re right, that doesn’t mean—” I start to object but Quinn holds up his hand.

“I know what’s in front of me, Maggie,” Quinn says. “And right now it looks like Tom and Maggie sitting in a tree.”

“Quinn, seriously,” I say. “I’ll admit to some moments of wishful thinking in this case, but in the real world, guys like Tom do not go for girls like me.”

“You can believe what you want, Maggie, but that boy sees you, and he likes what he sees.”

I head back to Jazz with the records.

“Just think about it,” Quinn says, turning to the computer. “You and Nash don’t get to make all the rules.”

Tom comes back to Square Peg at closing time. “Where are we going?”

“How am I supposed to know? This is your party.”

Tom laughs. “Do you guys have any good Vietnamese around here?”

“There’s PhePhiPho.”

“Mmmmmm. Hot noodles on a cold night? Lead the way.”

We walk toward the restaurant, tucking our chins against the chill.

“How was your time with Nash?” I ask.

“Good,” he says. “Confusing. He seemed mad, but not at me. I kind of thought it was at you, and that made me a little mad.” He rubs the back of his head, like he’s trying to stimulate his brain. “But I don’t really know why anyone would be mad.”

“Nash is . . .” I search for the right word. “Passionate . . . about his art, his friendships, loyalty.”

“Has someone been disloyal?” Tom asks.

I shake my head. “No, not really,” I say. “But he feels . . . threatened? Uncertain, I guess?”

“About me?”

I stop, not sure how to answer, then start walking again without looking at him. “Nash thinks you’re great.” I tiptoe across the words so I don’t make a misstep. “What do you think of Nash?”

“I think Nash is great,” he says. “I think you’re great. Kayla’s great. I really can’t complain about anyone I’ve met in Cedar Ridge.” He takes a deep breath, and I see the cloud his breath forms as he blows it out. “Look, usually I have a strong belief that conversations about friendships should happen between those two people.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

“But in this case, well, I’m kind of getting that Nash likes me . . . more than I can like him, if that makes sense?”

I stop and look him in the eye. “So Nash is not your type?”

“Nope.”

“And that’s because he’s too tall?”

“Nope.”

“Too sarcastic?”

“No.”

My heart sinks. “Too male?”

Tom nods. We walk again, letting that information rattle around us for a bit.

“So my brother’s gay,” he says.

“Okay. Good to know.” I’m wondering if Tom told Nash.

“He got messed with, a lot. You know, every time we moved, he had to go through this whole process with the local brand of bullies.”

“That must have been tough.”

“It was. And I wasn’t always there for him like I wish I’d been. We’re okay now, but we weren’t for a long time. I was kind of an asshole. A lot.”

“So hanging out with Nash—”

“Listen, Nash is fun and smart and interesting. I want to be friends with him.” Tom shoves his hands in his pockets. “But yeah, hanging out with Nash might be a little bit about making up for the shit with my brother.”

“And that’s a problem because . . . ?”

“It’s not a problem. But he’s very . . . for whatever reason Nash obviously thinks he and I . . . and I’m not . . . That’s not happening. That’s not my deal.”

“‘For whatever reason’? Could it be because you are excessively friendly to everything with a pulse?” I ask.

“What? I’m not—”

“Bullshit.”

Tom opens his mouth like he wants to argue, then looks away. “Okay. Sorry. I know. It’s a bit of a survival mechanism. It tends to accelerate the friend-making thing at a new school.”

“And I’m sure this isn’t the first time your ‘friendliness’ has been misunderstood?”

“Yeah, well, no, not exactly. Anyway. You’re Nash’s best friend. What do I do?”

“If you’d asked me a couple weeks ago, I would have told you not to play with his emotions in the first place.”

“I wasn’t playing. Not on purpose. But whatever. Now what?”

“You’ve got to tell him. Soon.”

“Then what happens?”

“Shit, Tom, give it some time, I guess. And it’s going to be awkward.”

“It already is.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should be a little more careful. Clearly flirtation is your superpower. Someone could get hurt.”

We walk a couple more blocks along Main Street, turning onto a side street. “Can I ask something slightly more philosophical?”