Bookish Boyfriends

by Tiffany Schmidt

  A car’s doors closed. I heard footsteps. “Rowboat? You okay?”

  I shook my head and blindly threw myself in the direction of Toby’s voice, knowing his arms would open and settle around me.

  As expected, I knocked into a chest and arms came up to catch me—but they weren’t the right arms. Toby’s arms had never felt like a jolt of electricity up my spine. And these arms didn’t snuggle me in, they didn’t settle in familiar positions around my shoulders. I slid my hands up a chest that was unyielding, rippled with ridges of muscles. Ridges that held rigid as my palms continued to check that, yup, this was the wrong guy. Definitely the wrong guy . . . but definitely fit in all the right places. And if my fingers wandered and lingered a bit . . . well, I’d blame that on my emotional state. It had nothing to do with the muscles beneath my fingertips and sensations sizzling across my skin. Nothing at all. The hands on my arms braced me but gently pushed me away as their owner took a step back.

  When I looked up, my stomach dropped. I wanted to drop with it. To go down on hands and knees and crawl away, because of course it was Fielding Williams I’d just flung myself at. Even worse—I’d gotten zit cream on his shirt. His perfectly fitted lacrosse uniform—seriously, did he have his jersey tailored? Because, wow. And also, surprise! Why did he always see me at my worst?

  He dropped the arms that were steadying me and we both took a step backward. Neither of us met the other’s eyes as I mumbled, “Sorry, wrong guy.”

  “Over here, Rowboat.” Toby was a few steps behind Fielding, and when I barreled into his waiting arms, he wobbled and winced.

  “What’s wrong?” Toby and I asked simultaneously. I followed up with a sniffle and a half-hearted, “Jinx—but are you hurt?”

  There was definitely something off about the way he was standing. While he had his arm comfortingly around me, I felt like I was supporting him. When he didn’t answer immediately, I asked Fielding, “Is he hurt?”

  “It’s my knee. But Merri, what’s—”

  I was not ready to answer any questions, so I asked another. “How did you hurt your knee?” Again with the delay, so again with my redirection. “How did he hurt his knee?”

  “We had a lacrosse game at St. Joe’s Prep. I fell.”

  “Is there a reason you’re asking me questions he’s perfectly capable of answering?” Fielding’s voice sounded deeper than I remembered. His eyes looked darker.

  “Because Merri puts the ‘imp’ in impatient,” said Toby. Apparently Fielding wasn’t satisfied with that answer, because he continued to stare at me, his expression inscrutable. And since I had absolutely no poker face, I resented his.

  “Because you’re here, he’s got a broken knee, and I figured you might have some purpose beyond decoration.” Had I just admitted I found him pretty? Of course I had, because that was the sort of night I was having. Maybe he hadn’t noticed?

  Regardless, I wasn’t going to be the one to look away first. Not even when his brown eyes were boring into mine. He belonged carved in marble in some museum, which would be an improvement, because then I could safely admire him. Also, cold stone seemed about right for his heart.

  Not his eyes, though. They weren’t cold at all. They blazed, crackled on the night air between us with an intensity that scorched my skin. I felt trapped in his gaze . . . but wasn’t quite sure I didn’t enjoy it.

  “It’s not broken. We stayed after the game to get it checked by the trainer,” said Toby.

  Fielding blinked. I gulped in a breath and pressed a cool hand against my hot cheek; it came away sticky with tears and melted toothpaste and zit cream.

  Fielding turned toward Toby. “You shouldn’t be standing on it. You need ice.”

  “I’ll do that.” I needed a purpose. And privacy, so I could tell Toby what had gone down in my Yankee Candle Bedroom. “Thanks for driving him home. I’ve got it from here.”

  “Um, Rowboat.” Toby squeezed my shoulders, then stepped back. “My bedroom’s on the second floor. You’re half my size.” He held up his palms in a don’t shoot gesture. “Not making a height joke, just stating a fact. I need Fielding’s help with the stairs.”

  “Oh, right.” Well, if Fielding got a job, I wanted one too. “I’ll get ice.”

  “Thanks.”

  I stopped in my bathroom and wiped off smeared tears and polka dots. Yanked a comb through my hair. I grabbed a clean towel, then ran to the kitchen. Dad was washing dishes and had a podcast about small businesses cranked extra loud, which explained why he hadn’t intervened despite all the yelling—and why he jumped and spilled dish soap when he noticed me. He turned it down and flicked a handful of suds my way. “I thought you went to bed?”

  “I got thirsty.” I looked away as I answered, filling the biggest glass I could find with ice.

  “Ah, there’s a book, isn’t there? Don’t stay up too late reading.”

  “I won’t.”

  From there, I ditched the cup on my desk and climbed down my balcony and up Toby’s with the ice-filled towel. Fielding was putting a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on Toby’s bedside table, which annoyed me because I should’ve remembered those. Toby was sitting on the edge of his bed grimacing at the shoes beside his socked feet.

  “I could’ve helped with your sneakers.” I shot a what good are you? look at Fielding. “I’ve got it from here,” I told him. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “She’s right. I’m not moving until the doctor’s tomorrow, so I’m all set. Thanks for getting me home and everything.”

  “Sure.” If it were Curtis or Lance, this is where they’d do a bro-dude handshake. But Fielding just gave a stiff nod. “I’ll bring your work by tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do that.” I wasn’t sure why I was being so possessive. I’d never had the whole pee-on-my-friends urge before, but Fielding brought out the worst in me. Every single emotion that wasn’t kind or patient or sweet. I felt like one of Rory’s abstract paintings—the ones she’d done in all reds and grays and blacks.

  “But you’re not in his French or music classes,” said Fielding.

  “You’re not in his English, bio, and math. Three is more than two. And I live next door.”

  “Plot twist,” interjected Toby. “How about you both bring my stuff? That way Fielding can drive you home after practice, Merri.”

  “Oh, he really doesn’t need to do that.” If my face looked as horrified as Fielding’s did, then it still only showed half the horror I felt.

  Fielding took a deep breath like he was fortifying himself. “That’s fine.”

  “Be right back, Toby. I’ll walk him out.” Which was about as weird as it got, because it put me alone with Fielding and required me to walk through Toby’s house. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used his stairs. They were covered in the same white carpet I’d dropped a grape juice box down when I was eight. The stains had been professionally removed, but I could still picture the purple splash marks.

  Fielding gestured for me to precede him. Of course he did. Then he could glare at my back. And it robbed me of the chance to glare at his. I whirled around at the bottom of the stairs, fully prepared to catch him. But while he was staring, he looked pensive, not angry.

  I hated him a little more for it. How dare he be an enigma while I was practically a master class in how not to have a poker face?

  He held the front door for me. How dare he have manners. How dare he have grace. How dare he breathe. “You don’t have to drive me home.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, really.”

  “Toby normally drives; you don’t have your license. It’s fine.”

  “But—”

  Fielding gave me one more appraisal. One more look that told me I didn’t measure up. “Are you aware your socks don’t match?”

  “What?” Looking down was a reflex reaction: there were mermaids on my left foot and teapots on my right. Of all the ridiculous aspects of my outfit, that was what he chose to point out?
“They’re not supposed to.”

  “They’re sold in matching pairs.”

  Seriously, what the double negative was wrong with him? My kindergarten teacher always said, “You’ll never know unless you ask,” so I did. “Ugh. What is wrong with you?”

  He blinked at me. Like I was the one being rude. Fine, I guess I was. So when he responded with a stiff “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Wait.” I could feel the muscles tense beneath my fingers, but his skin was so warm and he felt so steady that it was hard to convince my knuckles to unbend and let go. “Thanks for bringing Toby home.”

  He paused, confusion on his face as he searched my words for double meaning. “Of course.” His tone was missing its usual haughtiness. For a second, when his expression was soft and open, I wished we’d met differently. I wished he didn’t feel like a mortal enemy, because I wondered what it would be like to be his friend. The sort of person he’d drive home injured and help up to bed.

  My cheeks blushed and I looked away, barely managing a nod when he asked, “His dad won’t be home until midnight—you’ll be around if he needs anything?”

  Maybe we’d learn to tolerate each other in the smallest of doses after all.

  “And—” He hesitated, and I tapped my foot impatiently while he cleared his throat and memorized the cracks in our sidewalk. His eyes were blazing when he looked up. “I don’t know what happened with you and Monroe tonight, but I hope you’re okay.”

  “Oh.” The earnest sincerity in his voice crowded out all my thoughts and words. He was halfway into his car before I remembered to call out, “Thanks.”

  23

  “How are you?” Toby asked once I had both feet over his railing, the tail of my bathrobe trailing behind me.

  “I’m . . .” Relieved, exhausted, confused. I laughed and shrugged. I’d gotten home from the store at nine—so much had happened in the two hours since then. “How are you?”

  “Pissed at the St. Joe’s midfielder who tripped me with his stick.” He rearranged the ice on his knee—wincing from either cold or pain. “You were crying, Rowboat.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed and sank down next to him on the bed. “Monroe and I broke up.”

  Toby’s jaw went hard. His nostrils flared in a way I recognized from our stubborn spats. I watched him inhale and exhale slowly before he said, “I’m trying not to go all machismo here and say ‘I’m gonna have a talk with him.’ But you were crying. He made you cry.”

  “Don’t.” I leaned my head on his shoulder and wished we were on the roof. Every conversation felt better up there. “I’m really fine. I initiated it. I’m happy about it.”

  There was a surge of hope in his eyes that made my stomach drop. I scooted down a few inches, and when that didn’t feel sufficient, stood up. And if his transparent feelings weren’t enough, my mind was falling back into familiar patterns. If Monroe and I had been all star-crossed and Verona, and Toby was threatening to confront Monroe . . . then that made him Tybalt. And Fielding was, I don’t know, Benvolio. Maybe Mercutio? No, definitely Benvolio; he was useless. But Tybalt, he . . . I leaned over so I was eye to eye with Toby. “Don’t wind up dead, okay?”

  “Usually I can follow your Merri-logic, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Tybalt. Juliet’s cousin.”

  “I know who Tybalt is—we are in the same English class—but why are we talking about him?” He struggled to sit up.

  “Just . . .” No, I wasn’t going to tell him my theory. Because it wasn’t my theory anymore. I was so done living my life like that play. “Never mind. Monroe and I are over. Everything is good.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “A thousand percent sure. Now what can I get you before I head home?” I glanced around his room, wanting to do something helpful. “You’ve got water and pain meds and ice.”

  He looked up at me with those puppy-dog brown eyes, the ones that had talked me into a lifetime of trouble and turned liquid every time we got caught. He reached for my hand and laced his fingers with mine. “Stay?”

  For a few long seconds, I blinked at him. “Toby, we’re not—I don’t . . .” Gah, apparently being single for ten minutes meant he was back to pushing at boundaries. “I’m not—”

  “Kidding.” He grimaced and shifted. Or shifted and grimaced. I wasn’t sure which came first, but there was no humor in his word, and he’d dropped my hand like it was contagious.

  “I’m—I’m going to go.” Because I was annoyed and frustrated and sad. There was no room for these new emotions on top of the Jenga pile of feelings today had already built, and I didn’t want the whole thing crashing down on his head. “I’ve got a whole Yankee Candle massacre to clean up in my room.”

  Toby scrunched his face. “A what?”

  I shook my head. “Feel better. And call me if you need anything. Okay?”

  He nodded, but right before I slid my second foot over his balcony railing, I thought I heard him say, “I’m sorry.”

  My heart cracked a little, because we were trapped in a space where I couldn’t change his feelings, and he couldn’t change mine. Maybe he heard me, or maybe he didn’t, but I whispered back, “Me too.”

  “Did you sleep on it? Maybe change your mind about Monroe?” Rory’s questions and eyebrows were pitched way too high for this early in the morning. Way too hopeful after a night I’d spent not sleeping. She was a champion eavesdropper, and for the first time in my life, I was wishing she had gone all Harriet the Sibling Spy on me so that she’d already know the answer. Instead she’d probably been all noise-canceling headphones and, if the ink stains on her fingers were any indication, nose deep in a sketchbook.

  “It’s done. It’s over.” There. Four words and that topic should be finished.

  Except this was Rory, not Lilly or Eliza. They’d notice that I was practically vampiric between my pale complexion and under-eye circles that makeup wouldn’t cover. I’d also given up attempting to button my shirt straight after three tries, and I hadn’t yet mustered the effort to tie the laces spilling from my shoes.

  “Noooo!”

  Gatsby added his “Aroooo” to Rory’s whine, and the chorus was just about all my throbbing head could take.

  My phone beeped. “It’s Toby.”

  “What?” Rory’s eyes rounded in shock. “Toby? But you said you and he—”

  “The text.” I held up my phone and read the group message. “He says he’s not going to school, but our ride should be here in a minute.”

  Eliza, ever efficient—had already responded that she’d walk. I was halfway through typing that I’d join her—because I badly wanted the chance to talk to her about last night. But if I walked, Rory would too. I groaned and backspaced through my message. I’d tapped out the Who’s in “Who’s driving?” when a knock sounded on our front door.

  If it was possible to have PTSD flashbacks to two days prior, then I was having one. I didn’t care about Byron’s barking or Gatsby’s howl, or Rory’s pouting as she slammed her books into her bag and grumbled. All that mattered as I tiptoed to the door with fingers crossed and breath held was that the person on the other side of it wasn’t Monroe. That this wasn’t another game of him showing up uninvited and ignoring everything that came out of my mouth. Anyone would be better than Monroe.

  I exhaled, chomped down on my lip, and flung the door open.

  “Good morning.”

  Well, maybe not anyone.

  Fielding was crisp and shiny. A portrait of prep-school perfection. Whereas I was a rumpled, misbuttoned mess—still wearing the socks he’d objected to last night. I hadn’t even managed to wash my face. There was probably drool crusted by my mouth. Drool I’d be adding to right now if he were anyone other than him, because, man, the morning light loved his angles. Dust motes practically did the shimmy just to be sharing the same air. Not that they’d dare to land on his immaculate blazer.

  Fielding cleared hi
s throat and repeated, “Good morning?”

  I needed him to be less than superhuman, because I was definitely some subspecies right now. I pressed the corners of my mouth into something like a smile and mumbled, “Excuse me for a sec,” before shutting the door. Luckily he hadn’t attempted to cross the threshold—maybe he was part vampire and needed to be invited? Regardless, whether startled vampire or startled human, he’d been eyebrows up and eyes wide when the latch clicked in his face.

  I unlocked my phone and power-typed: T, what did you do?

  Toby’s three dots were quickly replaced with an answer: Consider it my apology for overstepping last night.

  “This is an apology?” I’d aimed the question at Gatsby, who was trying to get me to move so he could continue howling at the door handle or lick to death the new person on the other side. I’d said no to sharing a drive home with Fielding, so Toby thought that was a yes to a ride in the morning? And maybe Toby had perfected cyber-hearing, because my phone lit up with another message.

  I knew you’d forget to get another ride.

  Which, fine, okay I had. But I could walk. I could definitely walk and—

  & after the messenger debacle yesterday, I didn’t want you late for your meeting with Ms G

  Oh! I’d forgotten about that. And the clock on my phone told me I didn’t have time for a proper meltdown. Not unless I wanted to add tardy to unkempt, half awake, and disobedient. My stomach wrenched itself into a knot, and there went any chance of choking down breakfast or imbibing the sweet heavenly nectar called coffee. Not unless I wanted it to reappear all over whatever gorgeous shoes Ms. Gregoire was wearing that day.

  I turned to Rory, who was standing in the kitchen with her book bag in one hand, a pear in the other, and a smug look on her face.

  “You coming?” I asked. “Or does Clara forbid you from interacting with him?”

  “Oh, Clara’s moved on to Keene.” Her lips twitched. “Besides, I wouldn’t miss this train wreck for the world.”