Authors: Niki Burnham
Then it hits me: What if my chance encounter is supposed to happen at Target?
Not that I believe in horoscopes, especially the generic, mass e-mailed ones. I mean, is every single Libra in the world going to have a chance encounter today that will change his or her whole day and possibly week?
Right.
But as I’m walking up and down the aisles with Scott, helping him pick out a new cordless phone for his bedroom, then walking through the music section to look at CDs, I can’t help but keep my eyes open for my chance encounter. Not because I really think it’ll happen, but mostly because I want to keep my brain occupied with something other than the
thought that Scott might want to head to the nursery later.
He tosses two CDs into the red Target carry basket I have looped over my arm, and we head toward the checkout. As if he can read my mind, he asks if I want to hit Starbucks for a quick coffee, or maybe head somewhere else for, in his words, “a different kind of quickie—not that it’ll be quick.” And, of course, he assures me that he won’t pressure me.
I act all smiley and flirty, but tell him I want to go to Starbucks first, if that’s all right, because I’m just dying for a latte.
I have
got
to figure out how to deal with this. He has to know how I feel about him—that I’m giddy in love with him—but he also has to not expect sex. At least not in the near future, even if I have always told him that I don’t have any issues—moral or otherwise—with people having sex before they’re married.
Because now I realize that I do, at least for me.
I glance at him as he puts the CDs, some Right Guard deodorant, a tube of Aquafresh, and the box containing the new cordless phone on the belt. Will he dump me over this? Will he see months or years
of a no-sex relationship stretching out before him and think,
She’s going to be in school for a long time … no way in hell am I waiting for this girl to decide I’m her priority?
I take a deep breath and hold it for a second. I need to handle this just the right way so that he isn’t caught off-guard. I need him to understand where I’m coming from, and maybe even see that if it’s the best thing for me, then it’s probably the best thing for both of us.
But if I can’t come up with a good way to phrase all of that by the time we leave Starbucks … then what?
The girl working the register—a totally gorgeous girl whose name tag reads (get this) Lyric—smiles at Scott as she sticks the receipt into the bag. It’s
that
kind of smile. The
if you ever ditch your girlfriend, I’m available
smile that’s more than just friendly customer service.
Does he even notice? He must, because he’s giving her a
who me?
look that’s just enough to make her feel good, but not enough to piss me off if I’m watching—which I am. And it occurs to me that he must get
smiles like this from every cute girl who walks through his line at Stop & Shop and every barista at every coffee shop he frequents.
I am so screwed. Or not screwed, as the case may be. Lyric and all the girls like her are the ones looking to get screwed.
He grabs the bag with his stuff. I see the outline of the Right Guard and the toothpaste through the side and get the bright idea that if I can’t come up with something to tell him tonight, I’ll just pretend I’m on my period. I’m irregular, so he’ll believe me. And even though I hate being dishonest, it’ll buy me some time.
Maybe I’ll e-mail Mark and confess that I’m totally stumped on how to handle this. After he mocks me, he might actually have something useful to say.
When we get outside, I suddenly wonder if Lyric is the chance encounter that might change my day. The one related to whatever options I’m supposed to weigh carefully. Or if my trying to maneuver my way out of a trip to the nursery will make my Leo partner (namely, Scott) testy, since he’s clearly not testy now.
“I hate to ask this, but what in the world is going through your head right now?” Scott asks as he punches a button on his key chain to pop the doors to the Jetta.
I look over the top of the car at him, then climb inside and get situated in the passenger seat before saying, “Nothing really. Thinking about my horoscope and all the other random e-mails I have to deal with, stuff like that.”
He lets out a little snort. “You’re on one of those e-mail lists for horoscopes?”
“Yeah.”
This time, he laughs. “You actually believe in those things? You know they’re written by minimum-wage, college-age scrubs who’re trying to make an extra few bucks between classes, right?”
“I never said I believe in them.” I mean, if there were any truth to them, presidents would consult them before making decisions. Astronauts would double-check them before strapping on their gear. “But they’re fun to read.”
“Oh, man,” Scott says, then reaches for his pocket. He stuck his cell phone in there while we were in the
store, but now that he’s pulled it free, I can hear the low hum of it vibrating. He glances at the screen. “Text message. It’s my mom.”
“What’s up?”
“She’s asking where I am. Here,” he hands it to me. “Can you type back that I’m about to walk into Starbucks? Then we’ll see what she says.”
It always takes me a minute to figure out how to text message—I know, totally lame, but I’m more of a caller and e-mailer than a text messager—so by the time I get the message typed in and sent, we’re already parking outside Starbucks.
We get in line, and just as we get to the front and order, his mom messages him back. He rolls his eyes as he reads it. “Now I remember why I had it in my head that I couldn’t stay out late tonight,” he says. “It’s money night at the Bannister house.”
Money night?
Before I can ask, he explains: “My mom has decided that I need to spend an evening learning how to properly use a credit card, write checks, manage a bank account, all that stuff.”
“Um, you don’t know how to do that already?” We even covered it in a special class at school.
“Of course I do.” He pays for our lattes, then shoves his wallet in his pocket as we walk to the pick-up area while the barista works on our lattes. “She just wants to watch me do it with her own two eyes, I guess. She sees all those newspaper articles and
60 Minutes
shows on how college kids graduate with tons of debt, and … well, you know how it goes. Plus, I think she’s still freaked out about my dad and Amber buying me the Jetta. She’s afraid I think money grows on trees.”
“Should we just grab the coffees to go?” Maybe I won’t have to use the period excuse after all.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know we just got here, but—”
“You’re leaving?” I recognize Mat’s accent even before I turn around to say hello. He gives Scott a halfhearted high five, then says, “I was just about to invite you guys over.”
I glance past Mat and see his laptop set up just behind where he’s standing, at a nearby table for four. It doesn’t look like Courtney’s with him, since
there’s only one coffee on the table and no purse or anything on any of the other chairs. But it might be nice to just sit and drink coffee. If Scott can stay that long.
“Thanks, but I can’t,” Scott says. “I’m being summoned by my mother. She’s got it into her head that I need some parenting. But Jenna might want to.”
I’m about to point out that I don’t have a car, and that it’s okay, I’m happy to ride home with Scott so we can have an extra ten minutes together, but then I remember that I’m supposed to be doing what I want for
me,
not what I want for anyone else. And since I really do want to stay, I figure this is as easy a time as any to start. “If you wouldn’t mind giving me a ride home?” I ask Mat, then look at Scott. “I’ve been with the Messerman kids all day. I need to chill out for a while with my latte.”
“I don’t mind,” Mat says.
“No problem,” Scott says. But he looks surprised. Not angry or disappointed, just surprised. If he really wanted me to go with him, he’d have said so, wouldn’t he?
But as Scott grabs his cup from the barista and
palms his car keys, and I grab a stir stick and a napkin to carry to the table, it all feels off to me. Scott gives me a very polite kiss on the cheek, tells me hell call later, then takes off.
As I sit down with Mat, I realize that the two of us have never had a conversation—not without Courtney there—and it’s a whole different kind of strange than the feeling I have watching Scott through the windows as he hops into his Jetta, guns it into reverse, then drives away.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” Mat says. He shifts in his chair, clicks a couple things on his computer, then shuts it down.
“Whatcha working on?” I take a tentative sip of my latte. Man, but they make them steaming hot here.
“Same thing everyone else is working on over break. College essays.” Then he smiles at me as he packs his laptop into its case. “Well, except you. I’m still completely psyched that you got into Harvard. And Early Action, too.”
He looks so thrilled for me, I wonder for a second if he’s flirting.
“Anyway, I’m glad Scott’s not here.” He takes a quick sip of his coffee and then, looking at me over the rim, he adds, “I’ve been trying to find a way to talk to you alone for a while now.”
Me? Alone?
Oh, please,
please,
God, do not let Mat be flirting with me. Courtney’s told me a zillion times what a flirt he is, though she always adds a disclaimer about how she thinks it’s probably just a Brazilian thing. But I can tell that deep down inside, she’s not sure. And she can’t work up the guts to just come out and ask any of our Brazilian girlfriends if the flirting is an innocent cultural thing, because she’s afraid they’ll think she’s prejudiced or ignorant or both.
So she just stresses herself out about it while telling herself there’s no reason to stress out.
But either way—innocent or not—Mat flirting with me is the absolute last thing I need, especially when I just might be getting things on track with Courtney again.
If
she quits stealing and starts acting like herself again.
“What’s up?” I ask, making an effort to look and sound as laid-back possible. Especially since the whole point of staying was to be able to have a few minutes where I can be laid-back and enjoy a coffee without complication.
For a split second he gets this expression on his face like he’s decided he made a mistake to tell me he needed to talk privately, and he’s going to play it off by making a joke or something. But then it disappears, and he gets completely serious again. “Well, this is kind of awkward, ‘cause I know you’re Courtney’s best friend and all. And the two of us”—he gestures to himself, then to me—“haven’t spent much, well, I guess any, time alone, you know? Either Courtney or Scott or a whole group of people
are around. So I’m taking kind of a risk with this conversation. And I’m not even sure this is something I’m right about, just a guess on my part—”
“In other words, it’s about Courtney?” I get the feeling this preamble is going to go on forever, and I’m dying for him to get to the point since he apparently has one.
“Sim.
Yes.” His cheeks get red, right in the apples. “I just … well, I think there’s something going on with her, and I’m worried. And I’ve wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Something you couldn’t bring up in front of Scott?” Does Mat suspect she stole the nail polish? Has he seen her taking five-fingered discounts on other items?
Or is he simply noticing the same thing Anne has: that Courtney’s been in her skinny-stressed-out mode lately?
“I think Scott might be the problem.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Okay, that didn’t come out the way I wanted, but Scott was so not the answer I’d expected. In a somewhat calmer voice, I say, “How is Scott a problem?”
He sucks in a deep lungful of air, then exhales while I try my best not to look disturbed by this little tidbit. “Well, maybe not
the
problem, but part of the problem,” he says. “Which is why I wasn’t sure how to bring it up to you. Um, did you know they went out together after work last week?”
Um,
no.
I just shrug, though, and try to look as casual as possible while I tell myself to not jump to conclusions. Maybe it was Scott trying to make things right between me and Courtney. Or maybe it has something to do with the conversation they were having at Stop & Shop involving making dead meat out of each other (though it occurs to me now … isn’t meat, by definition, always dead? I mean, does anyone say “live meat”? Isn’t live meat just called a cow or a deer or whatever animal?).
“Scott and Courtney have known each other since, I dunno, like, fourth or fifth grade,” I tell him, even though I know I’m really trying to rationalize it to myself. And to get the image of dead meat out of my brain. “They go out together sometimes—I don’t think that means there’s something going on,
necessarily. I mean, I’m sitting here with you, you know? And we’re not doing anything questionable.”
“I don’t think anything is going on between them in that way.” He’s looking me right in the eyes as he says this. “Courtney and I are getting along great, you know? And I love her. Probably even more than I should.”
I can tell from his expression that he’s completely sincere, and I suddenly get embarrassed about thinking—even for a second—that he was flirting with me. He might be cute as hell with his deep-set black eyes and gloriously sexy accent, but all that cute is 100 percent for Courtney.