by Jordan Lynde
“Well, what did you do last year?”
“Well, not much considering I was in jail . . .” He trailed off, sending me an amused look.
I grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, I forgot.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mr. Heywood responded, letting out a bark of laughter. “I’d rather you forget.”
“Well what did you do the year before that?” I tried again.
“I spent it with Holly,” he told me, his voice lowering considerably. I could almost pick up a tone of guilt.
It was hard not to smile. Mr. Heywood didn’t like talking about Holly with me. Not that I could blame him—heck, I didn’t want to talk about her with him either. She was a likable person, but it was awkward to talk about her.
“Um, if you want . . . I bet my mom wouldn’t mind if you wanted to have Christmas dinner and stuff at my house,” I murmured, growing hot. “You know . . . only if you want to. You don’t have to.”
Suddenly Mr. Heywood took a sharp right, sending my head into the window. I winced, pulling my head away from the glass. Mr. Heywood threw me an entertained look. “Sorry. Almost missed the turn.”
“I kind of figured.”
“But about Christmas . . . I want to go.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really. Holly, you’re really doubtful about my decisions, aren’t you?” he accused, pulling into the parking lot of a grocery store I’ve never heard of.
“That’s not it!” I denied instantly. “It just seems . . . Too good to be true.”
The sound of the engine died out and Mr. Heywood turned to me. A smirk was playing at his lips as he leaned over his seat towards me. “And why is that?”
I did my best to keep my face composed. With Mr. Heywood so near, my heartbeat had increased tenfold. “I don’t know,” I responded truthfully. “Whenever I think of you and me, I think of those crazy romance novels where something like this could only happen.”
Mr. Heywood raised an eyebrow. “So we are like a couple in a crazy romance novel?”
I nodded. “You’re the cool guy that everyone wants, and I’m girl who somehow ends up with him, even though there’s nothing special about me.”
“Well it’s a good thing we aren’t characters in a romance novel,” Mr. Heywood stated. “We’re nothing like that. I’m the one who’s lucky to have you. Now come on, the grocery store is calling.”
After an awful, minute-long walk through the freezing cold from the car to the store, we entered and Mr. Heywood grabbed a basket from the rack in the front. I glanced down the row of cashiers, searching for anyone I recognized. Luckily, no one looked familiar. Mr. Heywood started walking away from me, and I quickly hurried to catch up.
“Mr. Heywood, what are you getting?”
“Depends on what you want,” he responded, glancing over his shoulder at me. “What do you want to eat?”
I looked at him in surprise. “I get to choose?”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“Can we have . . .” I hesitated, trying to think of something that wasn’t steak. “Er . . . Tacos?”
Mr. Heywood abruptly stopped, causing me to run into him. He chuckled and took a step forwards as I rubbed my nose. “Tacos?” he repeated, sounding interested. “It’s been a while since I’ve made those. Let’s try it.” Without warning, Mr. Heywood grabbed my hand and began tugging me down aisle ten.
My face heated up as I hurried to keep up with him. Was holding hands in such a public place such a good idea? Mr. Heywood stopped in front of the Mexican section, staring down a box of taco shells and seasoning.
“Should I buy pre-made?” he murmured to himself, squinting at the box. “Maybe it’s our best bet . . . Holly, do you think you can find the cheese and lettuce? I’ll grab the hamburger and the other stuff and meet you in the bakery. Far right of the store,” he explained, pointing towards the area. “The vegetables and cheese are there too.”
Reluctantly, I let go of his hand. “Sure.”
He grinned at me. “What? Don’t want to let go of my hand?”
“No,” I denied, quickly turning away. “See you soon.”
It was a straight shot to the vegetable section. Luckily for me, the lettuce was right next to the cheese. Suddenly something flashed by the corner of my eye. I spun around quickly, my heart jumping in alarm, but found nothing. Warily I took a few steps backwards, still looking around.
“Boo!”
A loud, piercing shriek left my mouth as I twisted around in horror, half-expecting Shawn to be standing there. When my eyes landed on a familiar blond, I was relieved, then angry. I aimed a kick at his shin. “Jeremy! You scared the crap out of me!”
Jeremy laughed, easily avoiding my assault. “Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t have screamed so loudly. I’m sure the whole store heard that.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked with a frown.
Jeremy looked pointedly at his chest. I followed his gaze, realizing he was wearing a black apron. A little nametag was placed on the right side of his chest, reading Jeremy R.
“You work here?” I asked.
Jeremy nodded. “I have to pay for college somehow.”
“You go to college?”
“You don’t know anything about me, do you?” Jeremy asked with a sigh. “After all that we’ve been through, you’d think I’d leave a lasting impression.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “We don’t ever talk about you, Mr. Secretive Grocer.”
“I know,” Jeremy responded with a grin. He took the lettuce from my hand and weighed it with his palm. “So are you here alone?”
“No, um, Mr. Heywood is here too.”
“Chris is here? With you?”
“Yep.”
Jeremy suddenly had a huge grin on his face. “Really? That’s great!” He suddenly threw himself at me, nearly knocking me off my feet as he gave me a giant bear hug. He squeezed me so hard that I found it difficult to breathe. “So I take it something good happened?”
“Jeremy,” I wheezed, trying to get him to let go. “You’re killing me.”
“What?”
I struggled to push him off me. “I can’t breathe!”
“I can’t hear you,” he sang, holding me tighter.
I opened my mouth to protest again, but Jeremy was abruptly pulled away from me. He looked behind me and grinned sheepishly. I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Mr. Heywood.
“Hey, Chris,” Jeremy greeted.
“Mind telling me why you tried strangling Holly?”
“I’m just happy!”
“I’d hate to see what you’d do when you’re on cloud nine,” Mr. Heywood muttered, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Did you get the cheese and lettuce?
I pointed to Jeremy’s hand, turning around to look at him. “He’s got the lettuce. I’ve got the cheese. And I thought we were meeting at the bakery.”
Mr. Heywood gave me a flat look. “When I heard you scream, I came to see if you were okay. Good thing I did, otherwise Jeremy might have actually killed you.”
“I would not have,” Jeremy protested, sniffing. “Well, if I did it would have been an accident.”
I smiled wryly at him. “You sound so concerned.”
He shrugged. “Que sera sera. Anyway, what are you two doing tonight?”
Mr. Heywood raised the basket in his hand. “Making tacos.”
“Oh, can I come?”
“Nope,” Mr. Heywood drawled, reaching over and yanking the lettuce out of Jeremy’s hand. “You’d better get back to work.”
Jeremy turned to me, pouting. “Holly?” he said in a begging voice.
I stared back at him, biting my lip. He jutted his lower lip, giving me the puppy-dog look, and took a step closer to me. Mr. Heywood sent me a meaningful look and I quickly ducked my head. “It’s his house. I can’t just invite you over.”
Mr. Heywood smirked as Jeremy’s expression fell. He crossed his arms and turned his back to me. “I see ho
w it is, Holly.”
“Aw, Jeremy—”
“Nope, nope, I understand,” he said, holding up his hands. “You two don’t need me anymore.”
“Jeremy that’s not it,” I protested, grabbing the back of his apron. “What are you talking about?”
Jeremy glanced at me from over his shoulder. “Now that you two are together you want me out of the picture.”
“Yep,” Mr. Heywood responded just as I cried no.
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Don’t listen to Mr. Heywood,” I told Jeremy, shooting Mr. Heywood a dirty look. “I don’t want you out of the picture.”
Jeremy took a step closer to me. “But I want you out of the picture.”
I stared at Jeremy incredulously. “Huh?”
I took a step back, eyeing him warily. Jeremy sighed, shaking his head. “You see, Holly. I want Mr. Heywood for myself. We’re destined to be lovers and I—oof!” Jeremy doubled over, clutching his stomach as Mr. Heywood punched him in the gut.
“Jeremy, go be stupid somewhere else,” Mr. Heywood demanded, grabbing my hand. “We’re leaving.”
“I see you still can’t take a joke,” Jeremy wheezed, looking up and grinning at us.
I blushed, remembering the time I had blurted out that Mr. Heywood wanted to be with Jeremy.
“Holly, let’s make plans to do something soon. Maybe take Jenna and Jane somewhere,” Jeremy said, brushing his hair out of his face.
A smile spread across my face. “Sure!”
“Let’s go,” Mr. Heywood ordered, tugging on my hand. “I want to get something for dessert.”
“May I suggest the chocolate mousse cake?” Jeremy called as Mr. Heywood started dragging me away.
“I don’t like chocolate. Goodbye, Jeremy,” Mr. Heywood called.
I looked up at Mr. Heywood in surprise. “You don’t like chocolate?”
“Some of it is okay, but most of it is too sweet for me,” Mr. Heywood explained.
“Too sweet?” I repeated in a skeptical tone. “Coming from the man who uses three pounds of sugar in his coffee?”
Mr. Heywood smirked down at me. “Hey, sugar and chocolate are completely different.”
I laughed. “Whatever you say, Mr. Heywood.”
“Mr. Heywood,” he said forcefully. “Holly, call me Chris.”
My cheeks blazed and I ducked my head. “Sorry, um, Chris.”
“That’s better,” he responded, emitting a low chuckle. “I like the sound of that much bet—shit.”
Before I knew what was happening, Mr. Heywood shoved me to the side with enough force to send me toppling away. I fell behind a large display of cereal, landing painfully on my wrist. When I looked up to glare at Mr. Heywood, I saw him with an eerily familiar person. My eyes nearly bulged out of my sockets when I realized it was Ms. Long, the gym teacher.
“Mr. Heywood! Funny seeing you here,” she crooned, smiling widely at him. “What are you doing?”
Mr. Heywood held up our shopping basket. “Just getting dinner.”
I scrambled to my feet and quickly turned, sprinting down the aisle and towards the exit. My heart thudded in my chest as I pushed open the door and jogged outside. The cold air instantly sent goose bumps up my arms, and I pulled my jacket tighter, heading towards Mr. Heywood’s car.
We were two towns over! Why was Ms. Long here? That was too close. A shiver ran through me, and I leaned back against the car, watching my breath come out in white steam. Frowning, I glanced around the dark parking lot, seeing if anyone was around. From what I could see, I was alone . . . My heart skipped a beat and I groaned, sliding my back down the side of Mr. Heywood’s car until I was squatting.
The paranoid feeling was back, even though I knew Shawn was in jail. To stop myself from looking around and freaking out more, I dropped my head into my arms, focusing on the sound of my breathing. No one was out here—there wasn’t anything to be paranoid about. Well, besides someone finding Mr. Heywood and me together. But other than that, I was safe.
Five minutes later I was literally shivering in my shoes. I plucked at the strings of my jacket, wishing I had a pair of mittens. And a hat. And a scarf. And anything else that could keep me warm.
“Holly!” Mr. Heywood jogged towards me, a grocery bag in hand. He slowed to a walk and stopped in front of me, looking annoyed.
“Why did you come out here?” he demanded. “Do you not realize it’s only about thirty degrees out?”
I frowned at him. “I couldn’t stay in there!”
“You could have waited by the front of the store. It’s not weird for two people who know each other to be in the same store,” Mr. Heywood pointed out, frowning back at me. “Get up.” He held his hand out to me and I grabbed it. “Your hand is freezing,” he told me, making a face as he pulled me to my feet.
I blushed. “Sorry.”
Mr. Heywood rolled his eyes. “Sorry? Come on, get in the car.” He opened the door for me.
I climbed in, my eyes following his form as he went to the other side of the car, tossing the bag of groceries in the back before hopping in the driver’s seat. He quickly turned the key in the engine and flipped the heat on high.
“Give me your hands,” he demanded.
Curiously, I moved my hands toward him. He enveloped my hands in his, pulling them into the sleeves of his jacket. Immediately my hands felt much warmer. Mr. Heywood smirked at me. “Better?”
Ducking my head, I nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Anytime,” Mr. Heywood told me. “And I’m sorry for pushing you. I was surprised and pushing you away was the first thing I thought of. Are you okay?”
I smiled at him. “I’m okay.”
“Good,” Mr. Heywood breathed in relief. “But that was close. I guess if we want to go somewhere together, we’ll have to go further.”
I looked up at him with a frown. “Is that okay?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is what okay?”
“Won’t that be wasting gas?”
Mr. Heywood laughed. “Holly, us doing stuff together is way more important than how much gas it takes to do so.”
My face grew hotter and I looked away from him. “I—I see.”
Mr. Heywood chuckled, letting go of my hands. “Alright, let’s go home.”
LESSON forty-three
The smell of tacos wafted around the room as I relaxed on the couch, barely focusing on the images on the television. A yawn escaped my lips and I glanced towards the kitchen, pursing my lips. The sounds of cooking could be heard, but the person doing the cooking could not be seen. And I couldn’t go in there to see him either, since he had banished me from the kitchen.
I smiled and turned back to the TV, picking up the remote to change the channel—I could only watch so many infomercials before going crazy. As I was flipping through the double digits, a familiar face flashed on the screen. My breath caught in my mouth as I stared at Shawn’s mug shots. The text on the bottom of the screen relayed information about the trial tomorrow. Swallowing nervously I quickly switched the channel again, landing on SpongeBob.
“Holly?”
My heart leapt into my throat and I quickly turned my head up, coming face to face with Mr. Heywood. My shoulders sagged and I let out a quiet breath. “You scared me,” I accused.
He chuckled. “Sorry. Do you want everything on your taco?”
“Depends on what everything is. I don’t like onions—”
“Or peppers?” Mr. Heywood interjected with a small smirk.
I stared at him in surprise. “Oh, um, yeah. How’d you know?”
“You and I are more alike than we could ever have guessed,” Mr. Heywood responded with a shrug. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Sure.”
A commercial for Christmas sales at a department store came on and I zoned out, focusing on the picture of Mr. Heywood and his parents next to the television. A smile spread across my face as I remembered the first time I saw it. It was
hard to believe that only three months had passed since I first met Mr. Heywood. It felt more like two years had gone by.
My phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket, knocking me out of my reverie.
Where are you?
The contact read Lance, sending a jolt of terror through me for a moment, until I remembered Lance bought a new phone with a new number. Seconds later I sent my reply telling him where I was—truthfully. Lance was one of the select few who could know about my relationship with Mr. Heywood.
Really? Behave.
My face heated up quickly. Shut up. What do you want?
Meet me at the café on the corner of James Street before the trial.
Why?
There were a few moments of silence before my phone vibrated again. Ever heard of the term breakfast?
Nope. Must be some British thing that didn’t make it to America.
Are you going to be there or not?
I’ll be there, I typed back, grinning.
“What are you grinning about?”
A startled squeak escaped my lips and I dropped my phone, a hand flying up to my mouth. My face flushed as I looked up to see Mr. Heywood looking down at me. “I didn’t know you were part mouse,” he commented.
“I—I’m not!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Really!”
Mr. Heywood gave me a smug smile. “Whatever you say, Holly. We’re eating at the table.”
“You have a kitchen table?”
“I’m not a barbarian,” he responded in a flat voice. “Now go.”
“Okay, Dad.”
As soon as the words left my lips, an awkward silence settled in. Mr. Heywood looked caught between amusement and discomfort. Another blush spread across my cheeks as I headed towards the kitchen, ducking my head. Note to self: Don’t call Mr. Heywood “Dad.” I really needed to think before I spoke. And I really needed to learn not to make things awkward.
“Holly? Hey, Holly.”
A hand on my shoulder made me blink in surprise. I turned my head to Mr. Heywood. “Huh?”
“I asked if you were allergic to peanuts,” he told me, raising an eyebrow. “Twice.”
“Sorry,” I apologized, looking away from him. “And no, I’m not. Why?”
