Not Another Love Song

by Olivia Wildenstein

  I smile down at him. “You’re only realizing this now?” I take a seat next to him, laying the mini over my lap. “Basically, whatever you think is awful, you can be sure we’ll find cute.”

  Nev prances out of the stall in a black dress scattered with tiny red hearts.

  “Too short,” Ten says.

  “I love it,” I say.

  Nev spins around, then flattens her palms in prayer again. “Please, Ten. Pretty please. Pleasepleaseplea—”

  “Fine, but promise to wear it over tights or jeans.”

  “Deal.”

  She bounds back behind the curtain.

  The bench is so close to the ground that Ten’s knees are almost to his shoulders. Okay, the bench isn’t that low, but he does look like a giant on it. He spreads his legs, probably to get more comfortable, and one of his knees knocks into mine. A spot of heat blooms around the area of contact. I assume he’ll notice our bodies are touching, and he’ll move, but he doesn’t move.

  I’m about to shift away, when he says, “You have plans tonight?”

  I stare at our joined knees, my pulse picking up speed. “Yeah. I’m having dinner with Rae. You?” Before he can sense my skittering pulse through my kneecap, I unglue my leg from his. I’m tempted to put more distance between us, but I can’t exactly scoot discreetly away.

  “I was planning on grabbing dinner with Bolt and Archie after the meet. They run track with me,” he adds.

  “I know who they are. Been in Reedwood my entire life, remember?” I fidget with the frayed hem of the skirt on my lap. “You should go to Guido’s. Best pizza in Nashville.”

  Nev struts back out in a pair of black leggings and a plaid shirt that ties at the waist.

  “The shirt’s cute,” I say. “Ten?”

  He nods.

  Nev’s freckles grow as bright as the red squares on her new top.

  Once she’s back inside the changing room, Ten asks, “You and Rae want to come with us?”

  “Um.” My nail snags on one of the black cotton threads. “We can’t tonight.” I don’t have to look at my reflection in the wall of mirrors opposite us to know I’m blushing. “But thanks for asking.”

  Ten stays silent for so long that I sense my rejection bothers him. No one likes rejection, even when they don’t especially like the person rejecting them. Humans are strange like that.

  “Where’s the meet taking place?” I ask him.

  “Down in Arrington.”

  “Cool.”

  “Have you ever been to a track meet?”

  I shake my head. “Do you have lots of cheerleaders and fans?”

  A smile curves his lips. “It’s not that sort of sport. We have supportive parents and girlfriends. Some have girlfriends, I mean. Bolt’s girlfriend always shows up. She bakes the best blondies.”

  “I love blondies!”

  “You should come. For the blondies.”

  Nev pops back out, models a faux suede jacket and army-print cargos. Both get our approval, which earns us a massive grin.

  “Blondies are my Achilles’ heel,” I say.

  He leans against the wall and crosses his muscled arms. Maybe the coach has them run wheelbarrow races during practice, because his arms are spectacular. “You should never tell others about your weakness. They might use it against you.”

  “Good point. Only fair you tell me your weakness now.”

  His gaze roves over my face, then lands on my chin, my neck, before rising back to my lips. My stomach folds and bends under his quiet, careful observation.

  “Um, guys, yea or nay?” Nev asks.

  She twirls, displaying her low-slung black jeans and a tight boatneck T-shirt. I give her a thumbs-up.

  “Ten?” she asks.

  He’s scrutinizing his sneakers, which are crusted with red clay. From the track, I suspect. “That outfit’s fine.”

  Did he even see it?

  Nev fires off a brilliant smile.

  “Can’t believe you okayed those fishnets,” I tease Ten after his sister vanishes into the changing room.

  He whips his head up so fast his neck cracks, then stares in panic at the settling curtain. “What—She was—”

  I touch his forearm lightly. “Relax. Nev wasn’t wearing any fishnets. Just jeans. Real conservative ones at that.”

  He glances down at my fingers.

  I remove them, return my hand to my lap. “So … you were telling me about your weakness.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “One of those fancy KitchenAid mixers?”

  He frowns.

  “Your weakness?” I repeat.

  He smirks. “Call me old-fashioned, but I enjoy whisking batter by hand.”

  Probably the source of all that muscle …

  “Calculus, then?”

  He lets out a soft snort. “No.”

  “Am I close?”

  “Not even a little.”

  “Running shoes.”

  He eyes his sneakers. “I like them but not excessively.”

  “T-shirts with sayings?”

  He tips his head this way and that. “I do have a thing for expressive T-shirts, huh?” He’s wearing a royal-blue one today with a stylized white wave stenciled with the words FIND YOUR OWN WAVE. “But I could stop buying new ones and have zero regrets.”

  I sigh. “I’m starting to think you’re one of those people who have no weaknesses,” I say, just as two girls burst into the dressing room area. Both give Ten a once-over before entering a changing room together, whispering animatedly.

  “How many more outfits do you have in there, Nev?” he asks.

  “Two,” she says, dragging the curtain open. “In this store.”

  “There are more stores?”

  “There are always more stores.”

  He observes her outfit. “Why can’t girls settle for one store?”

  “Because they might miss out on something incredible. Thumbs-up,” I tell Nev.

  Ten nods his approval, then rests the back of his head against the wall and side-eyes me. “Or they might miss out on something incredible because they don’t look long enough around the first store.”

  I rub my neck, which feels warm against my clammy palm. “That was deep.”

  He stares at me so hard that I stand up to put some distance between us.

  The next outfit Nev models is vetoed by Ten even though I don’t see anything wrong with it, but I don’t argue, because her loot is already considerable.

  The other two girls who came in to try clothes step out of their dressing room. Ten looks at them, and it annoys me so much that I march to the register with my skirt.

  I have a date tonight, I remind myself.

  And he’s leaving.

  And he’s Mona’s son.

  37

  A Slice of Boredom

  If I were a football player, Harrison’s friend, Mike, would be the best date ever, but I’m neither a linebacker nor a fan of the sport. For Rae’s sake, I ask lots of questions about technique and strategy.

  Mike answers me with words like buttonhooks, Hail Marys, and blitzes. When I ask him what those are, he shoots me looks that make me shrink into the burgundy vinyl seat.

  At least I ask questions. Unlike him. Mike hasn’t asked me a single question since the one at the start of dinner: “Do you like football?” to which I answered, “I’m not sure.”

  After the waitress removes our empty plates, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I don’t ask Rae to come with me, although I’m sort of hoping she’ll jump out of her seat and tag along. She doesn’t. Unlike me, she enjoys football talk and is leaning into Harrison’s shoulder, eating up all his anecdotes.

  I walk to the bathroom wishing it were the front door.

  I wash my hands, then wipe them against my new denim mini instead of using the high-speed dryer. Since childhood, I’ve been terrified one of those things will suck me up and spit me out into some rat-infested tunnel. I don’t actually believe that anymor
e; I just really hate the violent noise they make.

  “Nice skirt,” someone says as I retrace my steps toward the booth.

  I stop to hunt down the owner of the familiar voice, which is a feat considering how dark Guido keeps this place.

  “Ten?”

  I hear one of his friends—Archie—whisper, “Dude…”

  Archie’s a very blond and very soft-spoken guy, the sort who’d be shocked by such a forward comment. Bolt, on the other hand, is the exact opposite. Dark hair, dark skin, and incredibly outspoken. He was class president several years in a row.

  I amble over to their table, smiling. “You don’t have to pretend to like it.” I spy empty plates piled high with fire-browned crusts. “What did you think of the pizza?”

  “It was almost as good as the ones back in New York.” I’m sure Ten’s saying this to rile me. Pizza in New York can’t possibly be better than the puffy yet thin dough here.

  “You guys knew this place, right?” I ask his friends.

  “I come here with my grandma once a week,” Archie says.

  I can totally picture him bringing his grandma here.

  “I’m a regular, too. My girl’s obsessed with their cheesy bread,” Bolt says.

  “Ooh. It kicks butt here,” I gush.

  Ten cocks his head toward my table, which he can see over the partition separating the booths. How I didn’t see him is beyond me. Then again, I wasn’t looking around. And it’s dark.

  “How’s the double date?” he asks.

  I look away from where I should be sitting. “Awesome.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “Really?”

  I can sense his friends looking at us.

  “Okay. No, it sucks.” I perch on the edge of the booth next to Ten. “You think I can hide out here until the check comes?”

  Ten grins as though he’s so damn happy I’m having a crap time.

  “How was your track meet?” I ask.

  “You’re looking at number one, two, and four,” Bolt announces.

  “Whoa! Which one of you won?”

  Ten tips his glass of Coke toward Bolt. “Where do you think this guy got his name?”

  I grin. “Congrats, Bolt. Who came in second?”

  Archie palms his hair. “Unfortunately, not me.”

  I elbow Ten. “Nice. We’re going to have to find you a nickname now.”

  Ten chuckles.

  I catch Mike scanning the aisle that leads to the bathroom, and then Rae’s turning around. I duck a little, but Rae and I are connected on some other plane, so I’m totally not surprised when she struts up to the divider and rests her forearms on top of it.

  “Hey, Ten, Bolt, Archie.”

  Archie goes red, which makes his blond eyebrows resemble crescent moons.

  “Hon, did you lose yourself on the way back?” She’s smiling, so I know she’s not mad.

  “Did the check come yet?” I ask.

  “We just asked for it.”

  Beyond her, I see Harrison and Mike looking our way.

  I sigh and stand up, tugging on the hem of my miniskirt. I give Ten and his friends a little wave, then slink around the aisle of booths to reach ours. “Sorry,” I say, sliding back in next to Mike.

  I take in a long lungful of air that smells like roasted garlic and menthol—a scent I will forever associate with crap dates from now on. Mike spent a good portion of our meal explaining how he has to rub this cooling cream into his muscles after every game. He went as far as displaying his muscles, as though I wouldn’t know what they were … Not only do I dance but I am a human, so I know what muscles are and where they can be found in the body. I can even name most of them, but I didn’t get into that. I felt it would be a tad snarky of me.

  The waitress slides our check onto the table. I reach for my purse and unzip it while Harrison calculates how much we owe.

  “Fifteen bucks a head,” he says.

  Since I don’t consider this a real date, I don’t expect Mike to pay for me. However, I’m expecting Harrison to pay for Rae—which might be antiquated of me, but I don’t know … it’s just fifteen dollars. When she takes out the exact change, he doesn’t tell her to put her money away.

  I pull out a twenty and lay it flat on the tray.

  “You sure, man?” Mike yanks the check out of Harrison’s hands. “I only got a plain pie and tap water. I remember it saying twelve dollars on the menu.” He reads over the bill. “Yep. Twelve bucks.” He digs into his pocket and comes up with a handful of ones and a balled flyer. He smooths it out. It’s a rebate for five dollars. He peels off seven ones and puts them on the tray along with his coupon. “Rae, your vegetarian pizza was eighteen bucks.”

  Her eyes widen a little, and she starts for her bag again, but I reach over and touch the back of her hand. “I got you, Rae. Hey, Harrison, did you factor in tip?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “I forgot.”

  I take another ten out and toss it on the pile of green bills.

  “Angie, you don’t have to do that,” Rae says.

  “It’s okay.” There’s nothing I dislike more than that moment at the end of meals when everyone’s tallying up what they owe. Since this dinner was already painful, I want to expedite this part, even if it means paying more than my share.

  “Your daddy has a good job, huh?” Mike asks.

  “My daddy’s dead.” Which he would know if he’d asked me a single question.

  Mike flinches.

  I stand up and hook my bag over my shoulder.

  “So what’ll it be? Guardians of the Galaxy or Outbreak?” Harrison asks, pulling Rae into his side.

  I frown.

  Rae tucks a blonde lock behind her ear. “I suggested a movie at my place. What would you rather see?”

  I’d rather see Harrison and Mike drive off. Since I don’t think that’s one of my options, I say, “I think I’m going to head home. Mom texted me that her date didn’t go too well.”

  “Oh no.” If Rae senses I’m lying, she doesn’t let on.

  “Rain check on our sleepover?” I ask.

  “Sure, hon. I’ll drop you off.”

  “That’d be great.”

  As we head out, Mike falls in step next to me. “My homecoming’s next weekend. Want to go with me?”

  I blink at him. “Are you serious?” Did he think this date went well?

  “You don’t have to be a bitch about it,” he huffs.

  The fringes of my long, sheer vest swing against the backs of my thighs as I walk through the door Harrison is holding open.

  Since Mike’s still giving me the stink eye, I mutter, “Sorry. I’m trying to get over someone.”

  Can this night be done already?

  The door of the restaurant flies open and out strides Ten. I wait for his friends to materialize, but it’s only him. He stops beside us and nods at Harrison.

  “Hey, Ten,” Harrison says.

  “You’re named after a number?” Mike asks.

  Ten gets that crooked, provocative grin of his that gets me every time. He slides his gaze off Mike and onto me. “I was on my way home. Want a ride?”

  My heart bwirls.

  “It’ll save Rae a detour,” he adds.

  “I don’t mind.” She hooks her hands around Harrison’s arm. “Angie?”

  I choose Ten.

  Rae blows me a kiss before heading toward her Beemer. Harrison gets behind the wheel. Rae loves driving, so I’m a little surprised she’s relinquished control of her steering wheel to her boyfriend. Then again, I feel like she’s relinquished control over a lot of things since hooking up with Harrison. I realize that dating requires concessions, but molding yourself into someone you’re not seems wrong. Which is one of the reasons I can’t entertain thoughts of Ten and me together. I could never shun Mona Stone to please him.

  Mike walks away without so much as a goodbye and gets into his own car.

  “Are you having regrets?” Ten asks.

  “Abou
t not spending more time with a guy who called me a bitch? Not really.”

  Ten stiffens beside me. “He called you a bitch?”

  “In his defense, I was rude to him.”

  Ten rests one hand on my shoulder, his palm making contact with a piece of skin that feels acutely sensitive. “Never make excuses for a guy who insults you.”

  His quick pulse nips my skin, beat-matching my own. For a second, I forget what we’re talking about, but then a car revs up and I’m reminded of my sucky date.

  Ten’s hand slips off my shoulder, and I shiver from the sudden nippiness that replaces his fingers’ warmth.

  I look at the door of the restaurant, still expecting Archie and Bolt to step out. “Where are your friends?”

  “They wanted dessert; I didn’t.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Real glib, Angie.

  “Unless you want dessert? I noticed you passed on it.”

  I fold my arms, unsure what to think that he noticed this. Then again, Ten seems to notice a lot of things most people miss. “I’m not hungry anymore,” I end up saying, not because I couldn’t have dessert—I always have room for dessert—but I’m not sure what it would mean to go back inside with Ten.

  “All right. Let’s go, then.”

  We head toward his gleaming steed, which is parked at the end of the full lot. He powers his car open. For a split second, he hesitates by the front bumper, as though debating whether to open my door. I hurry to do it to make things less awkward.

  A thick envelope rests on the passenger seat. I lift it and am about to chuck it into the backseat when I see the address and the row of stamps.

  38

  Mailing My Heart Away

  I squeeze the envelope. “Is this your application?”

  The beams of a car turning into the lot highlight the nerve fluttering in Ten’s jaw.

  “There’s a mailbox right over there.” I jut my chin toward the street corner. “Want me to drop it inside?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re gonna mail it, right?”

  The envelope crinkles in my tense grip. I ease up before I inflict irreparable damage.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  A gust of wind dances through the fringes of my sheer vest, making my thighs pebble with goose bumps where fabric meets bare skin. “Seems like you did.” I nod to the stamps.