I'll Be Yours

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Deal.”

  Ridley took two steps, then turned around. “Harper? Is this guy worth all this?”

  “Yes.” Life had dangled this opportunity to be with Andrew, and I was not going to let it go. He was smart, kind, musical, and obviously not afraid to get down with his bad self.

  “Okay,” Ridley said. “I’ll call you.”

  Molly and I both watched him walk away.

  “What . . . was that?” She gradually pulled her rounded eyes from Ridley’s butt to my face. “Seriously, you have major explaining to do. He has your number?”

  “I’m tutoring him.”

  “And?”

  “And in return, he’s giving me insight into what guys want, how to be a girl who catches their attention. It’s been a fascinating look into the male mind.”

  “Is that all you’ve looked at?”

  “Yes, of course.” Molly’s crestfallen face made me laugh. “I’m not the least bit attracted to him. And obviously, I’m not his type.”

  “That boy—” She fanned herself with her ring-laden hand. “That boy is the epitome of beautiful. Do you get that? If you went to a museum of sexy, he’d be the main exhibit.”

  “We’re just business partners.” Though it felt pretty good to have a connection to a cool kid.

  Molly picked up her backpack and fumbled with the strap, as if she were high on Eau de Ridley. “If you don’t want him, then give him to me.”

  “Right.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “He goes through girls like you go through mascara. You want to be just another chick in his harem?”

  “Yes,” Molly said. “Yes, I do.”

  “Forget it.”

  Molly leaped from the table and swiveled on her glittery shoe. She tilted her head and inspected me closely. “Is there another reason you wouldn’t want me to date your new friend?”

  “No, I just wouldn’t want you hurt.”

  “Because one might think you were developing a feeling or two for the fine Mr. Estes.”

  “I care about his grades.”

  “Grades.” One dark brow arched. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

  “You know he’s not my type.”

  “Right. Because you like the boring ones, and Ridley certainly does not meet that requirement.”

  Her words slid over me like sandpaper. “You don’t even know him.”

  “No.” Molly’s lips curled in a winsome grin. “But I’d sure like to.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I don’t care if Molly dates Ridley. She can have him. Like that would bother me for one second.” En route to an after-school home inspection at snooty Angela Smith’s, I flipped on my left blinker and glanced at my passenger. I was pretty sure Roscoe the poodle was riveted by my conversation. Of course, he also found it enjoyable to lick his own butt, so his standards for entertainment were quite low.

  “I’m just concerned for my friend, you know?” Roscoe panted in what I knew was agreement. “I don’t want to see her hurt, and Ridley is . . . he’s . . .” How did one describe him? Brooding, fiendishly handsome, unexpectedly endearing, deceptively intelligent, with a smile that could heat a Wisconsin winter. “But I do not like him, Roscoe. I adore Andrew.” I braked as a red sports car squalled its fancy rimmed tires to pull out in front of me. “Andrew’s my type. He’s quiet. He’s intellectual.” He hadn’t exactly warmed up to the animals yesterday. He’d made a valiant effort, helping me walk the dogs. But when we’d returned to the shelter, Andrew had pulled out his phone and taken a seat as I’d worked. A seat away from my furry friends. “Okay, so failing the animal test kind of worries me, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t learn to love them.” Roscoe planted his front paws on his door, nose flattened to the window, clearly done with our conversation.

  We pulled into the drive of a two-story brick Colonial. Tall white pillars stood like sentry guards on either side of the front door. The landscaping was immaculate, with mums in full bloom, and shrubbery so symmetrical and tidy, a stray frond could not be found.

  “Don’t pee on anything expensive,” I said to the dog as I clutched his leash in my hand and pushed the doorbell. “But if you don’t like Mrs. Smith, we leave.”

  The door opened, and the middle-aged woman greeted me with the practiced smile of a former beauty queen. She wore a fitted blazer, a blouse the shade of butter, and linen pants creased in flawless lines that pointed straight down to the leather heels on her feet.

  “Hi, I’m Harper from the Walnut Street Animal Rescue and—”

  “Yes! Of course I remember you. You’re right on time.” Her eyes dropped to the dog. “I was kind of hoping you’d bring Trudy.”

  “Trudy? She’s still not ready to be adopted.”

  “I see.”

  “Roscoe here is Mavis’s dog. He comes with us on many home inspections.” He had great people instincts, and he allowed us to see the potential adopters interacting with a dog.

  “Oh. Of course.” She rallied a smile. “Do come in then.” Her heels click-clicked on her dark hardwood floor as we walked through her foyer into the living room. “Please sit down. Can I get you anything? Water? Cookies?”

  “None for me. And Roscoe’s watching his weight.”

  Mrs. Smith chortled with way too much gusto, as if I’d just told the most amazing joke. We attempted to do a home visit for every applicant seriously considered, and sometimes you got a person who simply tried too hard. Yes, homing the animals was serious business, but it wasn’t like I was there representing the IRS.

  “Such a sweet little boy.” Mrs. Smith cooed to Roscoe, and the dog wagged his tail.

  “He seems taken with you.” Even Roscoe could have an off day. “Your application says it’s you, your husband, and a son.” There was a standard form we had to fill out for home visits, and I needed info on how the family would interact with the dog.

  “My husband’s at work. My son’s a freshman at Stanford.” She picked up Roscoe and placed him beside her on the couch, her hand absently stroking his fur.

  I recalled from her file that she didn’t work. Yet her clothes were definitely professional attire. “Tell me about you and Mr. Smith.”

  “Well, I’m a stay-at-home mom. I mean, I was. My husband and I have very full lives.” She focused her gaze on Roscoe. “I just started volunteering. I spend most of my mornings with the Maple Grove Ladies League. A few afternoons a week I go to some yoga classes, and I help facilitate a book club. My husband Rob is the president of the bank there on First Street. Been there for fifteen years, I guess. He’s a golfer.”

  “Your application said you’ve never had a family pet before.”

  “We had a beta fish.” She gave a reflective pause, as if remembering a time standing over a swirling toilet. “That didn’t end well.”

  “It never does.”

  “Other than that, no pets. My son was involved in everything, and we were so busy. Traveling baseball team, basketball, soccer, art lessons, school events. We didn’t have time to give to a dog.”

  “But now you do?” It sure didn’t sound like it.

  She flashed me the beauty queen smile again. “Exactly.”

  “Did you have pets growing up?”

  “No.”

  There was no way I was giving Trudy up for this inexperienced dog-convert. “I understand you’ve stopped by the shelter a few more times to see Trudy.” And called a half-dozen times. “I appreciate your concern for her health, but we’re trying to find you a smaller, more pedigreed-looking dog, like Roscoe here.”

  “I know it’s crazy, but I can’t get Trudy off my mind.”

  I couldn’t either. Because she was going to be mine. “We think we have a home for Trudy lined up.”

  “Oh.” Her disappointment suddenly made the fine wrinkles playing at the corners of her eyes appear more pronounced, her posture no longer holding at ninety degrees.

  “As Mavis probably explained on the phone, I need to t
ake a quick tour of the house and the yard.”

  Mrs. Smith recovered, her face lighting up again, as if she were not ready to concede defeat on custody of Trudy. “Right this way!” She was back to being chipper as a morning talk show host, and for some reason, it grated. It seemed I was perpetually in a bad mood these days, and apparently I was beginning to resent those who were not.

  We first toured her backyard, which was outlined in a beautiful privacy fence. Roscoe would have plenty of room to run and play. With assurances of our return, we left him there to explore while Mrs. Smith walked me through the house.

  Her home was decorated as neatly as her landscaping. Nothing out of place. Not a speck of dust to be found. A chef would’ve approved of her kitchen, and HGTV could easily have been her decorator. Family photos stood in a symmetrical line on the mantel, and the floors were so polished I could see myself frowning in the reflection.

  “I took the liberty of buying a few things for our future dog,” Mrs. Smith said as we came to a smaller, less formal family room. “I had a friend make an adorable dog bed. See the monogram? I’ve got some bowls, a few toys. My husband made me promise I won’t embarrass the poor thing with silly outfits. Oh, and I’ve found the best teacher for obedience classes.” She beamed with the expectant pride of a mother waiting for her adopted child to come home. “All we need is the dog. So you say you already have a home for Trudy? Are you certain? I really think she’d be happy here.”

  “Why do you feel like Trudy is the one for you?” I asked. “Out of all the dogs there, why her?”

  “Despite her rough start, she’s got good teeth, not too old, doesn’t seem to be a shedder. Of course, I think with some grooming and some bows, she’d be an adorable dog. Even though she’s a little bigger than we’d wanted, I believe Trudy will fit in here very nicely.”

  “Okay, then. I think I have all I need.”

  “Wonderful!” Her glossed lips grinned wide. “I have an excellent home and lots of space. I do hope you’ll keep us in mind for Trudy. We could make her very comfortable.”

  “Mavis will be in touch.”

  Minutes later, I buckled Roscoe into his booster seat in my car.

  And knew we were never coming back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After driving away from the most perfect house, which was run by the most perfect woman, I dropped Roscoe off at the shelter and had a quick visit with Trudy. She was improving a lot, and when she looked at me with those big, Hershey chocolate eyes, I knew her heart was for me only. Those eyes were saying, Thank you for rescuing me. Take me home. Feed me your homemade puppy treats. I just had to convince my mom.

  I barely had time to swap insults with Mavis before I was back in the car, late for my next session with Ridley. Even though my relationship with him was all business, a small thrill fizzed within me. I, Harper O’Malley, low on the social food chain, was minutes away from being in Ridley’s house. If this wasn’t worth a selfie with some accompanying obnoxious bragging to post all over the internet, I didn’t know what was. This one was for nerd girls all over the world. Who’d have thought I’d be invited into a popular boy’s inner domain? It was like stepping from Kansas into the Emerald City. And I was ready to ease on down this road.

  Ridley had left me a text after school that he needed to be home for his sisters, so tutoring would have to be at his house.

  I recalled his directions and turned into the neighborhood. It was a part of town dotted with houses from the seventies, most of them in disrepair. It wasn’t uncommon to see yards in desperate need of a mow, shingles hanging on for dear life, or sheets hung in windows in the place of blinds. Simply speaking, it was one of the poorest parts of town, and I was a little surprised this was where he called home.

  I pulled into the driveway of 1200 Field Springs Drive and shut off the engine. The yard was trim, the paint a tad faded, but the porch of the one-story house sagged, as if it had given up the fight and couldn’t properly rise to welcome me.

  My hand rapped on the torn screen door, and inside I could hear the sonic blare of a TV, shouting, and possibly someone having a toddler-style meltdown.

  The door swung open, and there stood a girl much younger than Ridley in a lilac dress. “Yeah?”

  “You must be Faith.” Ridley had told me there was an eight-year-old sister who liked the color purple about as much as she liked bossing him around.

  “Ridleeeeeeey!” Her hefty bellow seemed at odds with her slight, delicate frame, her doe-eyed gaze, and the feminine face that showed no signs of Ridley’s Hispanic heritage, but did hint at future modeling contracts or homecoming crowns. Like the O’Malleys, I guess you had to be beautiful to be born into this family.

  “Faith, for the fourth time, come eat!”

  I stepped into the living room just as Ridley appeared, one hand pointed at his sister, one holding little Emmie to his hip.

  “Hey, there,” I said.

  He froze for a moment, and had I not been taking in every detail, I wouldn’t have noticed the way his eyes briefly went wary and his shoulders tensed, as if he wasn’t sure he should let me into his home. Was he afraid it was like the law of vampires, and once he bid me welcome, I’d just appear whenever I got the urge?

  “Practice ran late.” Ridley put Emmie down, and she waddled toward me, her fingers in her smiley, drooly mouth. “I need to get the kids’ dinner, then we can hit the books.” He walked toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink? We have water or water.”

  Faith climbed into her seat at the table. “Ridley says we have a very fine vintage on tap.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll have.”

  He lunged toward a chair and picked up a stack of coloring books, putting them on the counter. “Sit down. You hungry?”

  “No, thanks. Smells good though.”

  “It’s nuggets and mac-n-cheese,” Faith said. “It’s his specialty.”

  “Nuggies!” Emmie echoed.

  “It’s all about the dipping sauce.” He scooped Emmie up and plopped her in her high chair. “Secret recipe passed down for generations. A sauce our ancestors carried over on the Mayflower.”

  Faith smiled. “I thought one of our ancestors clutched it in her teeth as she jumped off the Titanic and swam for her life.”

  Ridley put a hand over his heart and nodded his solemn head. “A little ice wasn’t going to stop her.” He took a cookie sheet of chicken nuggets out of the oven, making quick work of dividing them out between the sisters. I wondered where his share was. He dished macaroni and cheese onto plates, followed by one more final item.

  “Ew, it’s broccoli night?” Faith wrinkled her nose.

  “Yucky.” The baby shook her head, but maintained that killer grin.

  “Harper can have mine,” Faith said.

  “Eat what I give you or it’s double tomorrow.” With practiced hands, Ridley cut Emmie’s chicken into tiny bits. “And I don’t mean stick them in the flowerpots on the back porch.”

  “You caught that, did you?”

  Ridley scrubbed his hand over his sister’s head. “Zero creativity.”

  I wondered how many got to see this side of the star football player. He was more than a brother to these girls—and more like a father. Where was his mom? Ridley never spoke of her, but maybe she worked nights? Ridley was known for being a fearsome opponent on the field, but as I watched him airplane a spoonful of noodles into Emmie’s mouth, I wondered what his adversaries would think of this tableau.

  “Harper and I are going into the living room.” The girls received Ridley’s best warning glare. “I want to hear chewing and that’s it. Got it, team?” He put his hand toward the center of the table, and I watched as Faith and Emmie followed suit. “One-two-three, break!”

  I followed him into the living room and settled onto the gray couch, only to jump back up at a squeak.

  “That’s Emmie’s ball. The maid must be slacking again.”

  I studied Ridley over the screen of my l
aptop as I waited for it to power on. “You’re really good with them.”

  “My sisters?” He shrugged it off, but he smiled like he was recalling a fond memory, a sweet time. “They’re good kids.”

  “Do you babysit them often?”

  He flipped open his own laptop, which was sheathed in a USK protective case. “I read the first two chapters of 1984. It’s a little slow.”

  He wasn’t going to answer my question. “You’ll get used to not having pictures.”

  “I’d rather read Sports Illustrated.”

  “Be sure to put that on your college applications.”

  “If they fire your dad, I might not be going to college.”

  “Of course you are. And I don’t even want to talk about that now.”

  He scooted over, his knee bumping mine. Nimble fingers stroked his track pad until his document finally appeared. “Have you heard anything?” Ridley was now all business. “You talk to those football guys. They have to know something.”

  “Haven’t heard a word. The only one who knows what’s going on right now is the athletic director. He’s deliberating, I guess.”

  “It’s taking forever.”

  “I’m sorry you’re so inconvenienced.”

  “This is a big deal to me too.”

  “Really? Because are your parents weighing the idea of divorce? Are you going to have to pack up and move? Are you enduring the stares of everyone in town? Have you had complete strangers come up to you and say vile, cruel things like it was all somehow your fault?”

  Ridley opened his mouth, then apparently thought better of it. He nudged me with his pointy elbow. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard for you.”

  It was impossible not to like the boy when he acted like that. “Michael said scouts have been showing up again at your games. He said you could go anywhere you wanted if you’d get your legal matters settled and get back on the team.”

  “That will have to work itself out.”