Chased

by Hazel James

  The last issue is seating. There’s not enough space on the floor at the foot of the bed, and he can’t see the TV if he sits beside the bed because of the angle of the wall mount. That leaves sitting on the bed with me. I stack two body pillows down the center of the bed, clearly marking our respective sides, and return to the kitchen as DH pulls a steaming bag of popcorn from the microwave. He divides it between two plastic bowls and slides mine to me.

  “You got any toothpicks?” I point to the shot glass next to the salt and pepper shakers, and he plucks one from the holder and tucks it inside his cheek. The gesture screams “sexy country boy.” Chad thinks toothpicks are impractical because they can’t reach between your teeth. He’s more of a plastic flosser kind of guy and loves to brag about being cavity-free when he leaves the dentist. Maybe I can get him to live on the wild side and give toothpicks a chance.

  DH rustling the white grocery bag brings me out of my thoughts. “Please don’t tell me you’re putting that on your popcorn.” My upper lip curls in disgust.

  “Yup.” He grins and uncaps the bottle of hot sauce. “Tapatío is the shit.” He freckles his popcorn with red dots and spears a piece with his toothpick, moaning as he chews.

  “You are so gross.”

  “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He makes a show of stabbing another kernel.

  “Aw, too afraid of getting your pretty little fingers messy?” I ask, recalling our conversation at Sonic.

  He focuses on my face while he finishes his bite and swallows. “Let’s make no mistake. I don’t mind getting my fingers messy at all.” His voice is husky, and I don’t think he’s talking about hot sauce anymore. “But growing up with spicy food teaches you one thing—washing your hands doesn’t mean they’re clean. If you don’t believe me, try wiping your eyes or,” his eyes dip to my sweatpants, “any other sensitive places after touching spicy food. I promise you’ll only do it once.”

  “Or you could just eat popcorn like a normal person and it wouldn’t be a problem.” I toss a kernel in the air, catching it with my mouth, then grab my cell phone from the counter and lead us toward my room. I type a one-handed message along the way letting Chad know I’m watching a movie with a friend and that I’ll call him in the morning before he leaves for class.

  “Wow. You really are into this Wizard of Oz stuff. How old were you?” DH points to a framed picture above my dresser.

  I smile, remembering how special that night was. “Nine, I think. I’d never seen anything so magical in all my life.”

  “The fairy chick is kind of hot.”

  “Oh my God.” I roll my eyes and chuckle quietly. “First, she’s not a fairy. She’s Glinda the Good Witch. Second, that’s my mom, so ew.”

  “Your mom was Glinda?” His eyebrows shoot up and his eyes dart between me and the picture. Pride oozes out of me.

  “Yup, she starred in the Broadway cast of Wicked for three years. This picture is from her last performance. She was two months pregnant with my little brother. The running joke is that she’s been the Wicked Witch ever since.”

  “So why didn’t you go into acting?”

  “I was never bitten by the bug. When I was little, I wanted to be a teacher, but that changed when my dad got heat stroke when I was eight. Mom was in New York and he was mowing the lawn. It was about ninety degrees that day. I called 911, but I didn’t like not being able to help him. From then on, I wanted to be a nurse.”

  “Was he okay after that?”

  “Yeah. He was actually happy. He’d wanted a rider mower, but Mom said he didn’t need it. She bought him a top-of-the-line model once he got out of the hospital.” DH laughs once, but his smile looks forced. “What?”

  “It must be nice.”

  “A rider mower? I guess.”

  “No. Having normal parents.”

  A pang of sadness shoots through me. Knowing DH had the opposite of my childhood until he moved in with his cousin makes my heart ache. “Yeah, Mom and Dad are pretty great. They’re supposed to visit next month. Maybe you can meet them.”

  “Already want me to meet the parents, huh?” he jokes, making an effort to lighten the mood.

  I can’t help but laugh though. “You’re horrible, you know that?” I load the DVD player, grab the remote, kill the lights, and point to the bed. “That’s my side, and that’s your side. We are here for movie watching only. No touching, and no sex.”

  “You didn’t say anything about kissing.” He pops a brow and takes another bite of Tapatío-infested popcorn.

  I narrow my eyes and point a finger for emphasis. “No kissing.”

  DH flops on the left side of the bed and adjusts the pillow behind his head while I do the same on the right. “You know, this is a first for me,” he notes.

  “Watching The Wizard of Oz?”

  “Being turned down in a girl’s room.” We’re both lying down now, so I can’t see his face, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.

  “Get used to it, Rhoads. Your sexual prowess is dead to me.” I hit play on the remote and toss it on my night stand.

  “Keep telling yourself that… what the hell is your last name?”

  “Landry.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Landry. You might actually start believing it.”

  “Shh! It’s starting!”

  “You expect me to be quiet the entire time?”

  “It’s only an hour and fifty-two minutes. You can make it, tough guy.” I’ve seen this movie so many times I can recite it in my sleep—and sometimes I do, according to Chad—but talking over movies bugs me.

  DH makes it to the tornado scene before he starts laughing so hard he’s shaking the bed. “Clearly the filmmakers didn’t do any research in Oklahoma before they started,” he finally says.

  “Cut them some slack! The movie was made in 1939. Those were state-of-the-art special effects back then!” I hurl a few pieces of popcorn over the pillow barricade.

  “You need to see a real tornado. Then you’ll understand what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t want to see a real tornado. They freak me out.”

  His head pops over the pillows, and I let out a yelp, sending popcorn into the air. “DH, you scared the shit out of me!”

  “Are you afraid of dying?” he asks, ignoring the fact that he almost gave me a heart attack. How ironic.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Just answer the question. Are you afraid of dying?”

  I pick up the popcorn that I spilled while my heart settles. “No, not really.”

  “And why not?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I guess because I’ve seen it?”

  “Exactly. You understand the science behind it. It’s the same thing with tornadoes. Let me teach you so you won’t be afraid.” The light from the TV dances across the room, illuminating the hopeful expression on his face. It’s the grown-up equivalent of puppy dog eyes, and I can feel myself caving.

  “How are tornadoes formed, anyway? I never understood that.”

  “Well, when a mommy tornado and a daddy tornado love each other very much…”

  “Oh my God, you never stop, do you?” I throw a handful of popcorn in his face. “Get back on your side!”

  “Go chasing with me tomorrow, and I’ll tell you how tornadoes are formed.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Got any plans?” he challenges.

  “No,” I admit.

  “Good. Now you do. Now shut up, I’m trying to watch a movie.”

  The first thing I see when I crack my eyelids open is sunlight pouring through the window. Working the night shift three days a week means I need to sleep during the day, so blackout shades are a must. Except they don’t work if I forget to close them.

  I extend my arms and point my toes, savoring the first stretch of the day, then swing my feet off the bed to go pee. I’m halfway to the bathroom when I remember that DH and I were watching a movie last night. I spin back a
round and see that his side of the bed is empty. Equal amounts of relief and disappointment wash over me.

  On one hand, I realize I’m walking a fine line of appropriateness—even though nothing happened. On the other, I’d love to see what he looks like first thing in the morning. Does he sleep in a shirt? Just shorts? Nothing at all? Does he wake up with a gruff voice and disheveled hair, or is he an early riser, ready to take on the day? I consider the options while I pee, then shuffle to the kitchen where I notice two things—the sink is clean and there’s a note on the counter.

  Paige,

  I bought your favorite movie of all time, and you show your appreciation by falling asleep halfway through. You should be ashamed. The dishwasher’s loaded, but I didn’t turn it on in case it sounds like mine (a tin can full of rocks going downhill). The weather turns to shit after lunch, so I’ll pick you up and show you what real men do for fun. Don’t be a chicken.

  —DH

  I open the dishwasher and see our dinner dishes and popcorn bowls stacked neatly and ready to go. He even put the soap in. Impressed, I close the door and push start, then pour a glass of cherry limeade and return to my room to call Chad.

  “Good morning.” His familiar tenor voice brings a smile to my face. We met the night I crashed a Lord of the Rings book club meeting on the ULM campus. Bethany had given me directions to meet her at a frat party, and my first mistake was thinking I could remember them. My second was not realizing Beth was already tipsy. She got her lefts and rights mixed up, which, combined with my ability to get lost inside a paper bag, meant my taxi dropped me off on the wrong side of campus.

  I walked into a dorm and knocked on the first door that didn’t have thumping music coming from inside, hoping someone could point me in the right direction. A guy in khakis and a blue plaid shirt answered the door, and the scent of chocolate chip cookies wafted into the hallway. Tortoise shell glasses framed his blue eyes, and his sandy brown hair was parted like he was going to Sunday church. It was like Martha Stewart’s kid brother had gone to college.

  I explained my problem. He introduced himself as Chad Grifka and he said he’d be happy to drive me to the party himself as soon as his book club was over. He invited me in, handed me some cookies, and made me promise not to tell on him for having a toaster oven in his room. How adorable is that?

  Chad’s friends were in the middle of a heated discussion about Gandalf’s decision on who should accompany Frodo on his mission. I’d just finished reading LOTR for the third time, so I chimed in with my opinion (siding with Gandalf on trusting friendship over wisdom). Chad looked at me like I was a unicorn sitting in his room. The meeting ended about fifteen minutes later, and, as promised, he drove me to the frat party.

  We talked about our favorite books along the way, and he asked for my phone number before I got out of his car. I’d had a string of loser boyfriends who were more interested in trying to score with the chick with ginormous boobs, and here was this slightly nerdy guy who made cookies and ran a book club. Figuring I didn’t have much to lose, I gave it to him. He said he’d call the next day. The surprising part? He did.

  Even more surprising? We hit it off. He’s not the kind of guy I dreamed about as a teenager, but he’s wonderful. Sensible. Reliable. The person you’d want to use as a lifeline on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire. He’s crazy smart, which is why I know he doesn’t need to worry about his exam today.

  “You ready to kick ass on finals?” I ask.

  “I think so. Me and the guys stayed up late last night cramming. I’m afraid if I tip my head, everything’s going to fall out.”

  “Nothing’s going to fall out. You know this stuff in your sleep.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, what do you have planned today?”

  I pause and take a sip of cherry limeade, wondering how much I should tell Chad. Ten bucks says he won’t understand it, and I don’t want to cause an argument before he sits down for a three-hour test. “Um, I’m getting a meteorology lesson today.”

  “What?” I can picture him sitting up in bed and putting his glasses on, as if that will help him understand what I’m saying. “I thought you were a nurse.”

  I laugh and roll my eyes. For as smart as he is, Chad can be so literal sometimes. “I am a nurse, doofus. My roommate’s friend is a storm chaser, and I was asking about how tornadoes are formed. He’s going to give me a lesson today since we’re expecting storms this afternoon.”

  “You’re chasing tornadoes? Paige, isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Driving to work is dangerous. I promise I’ll be fine. DH hasn’t gotten killed by a tornado yet,” I joke, conveniently leaving out the part where his forehead was stitched up a few weeks ago.

  “Does this DH have any clue what he’s doing? Statistically speaking, you have a—”

  Oh, God. Here we go. “Chad, I’ll be fine,” I interrupt. “I’ll even call you tonight to check in. And if you do well on your test, I’ll Snapchat you a picture of my cleavage.” Yes, I’m using my boobs as a diversion. Chad may be slightly nerdy, but he’s still a guy.

  He sighs, and I know he’s rubbing his forehead just above his tortoise shell frames. “I still don’t like the idea of my fiancée chasing tornadoes, but I can’t stop you. Just be careful, okay?”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.” I disconnect the call and toss my phone on my bed. There’s nothing romantic about my afternoon with DH, but I still feel better knowing I’m not lying to Chad about it. And yes, I omitted the part where DH was over last night to watch a movie, but what was I supposed to do? There was no way to bring it up without looking guilty, and there’s nothing to talk about anyway. I down the rest of my cherry limeade as my phone chirps with an incoming text.

  DH: Don’t eat lunch.

  Me: You’re so bossy.

  DH: You’ll thank me later.

  I don’t bother responding and instead walk to my closet to grab some clean clothes before my shower. If I’m going to die in a tornado today, at least I’ll be wearing fresh underwear.

  DH rings the bell a couple of hours later, and my stomach does a flip on the way to the door. What the hell was I thinking when I agreed to chase tornadoes with him? This is what I get for making decisions when I’m under the influence of popcorn. I open the door and let out a squeal—not because of DH, but because of what he’s holding.

  “Yes!” I snatch the purple box from his arms and rush to the counter for a knife. I signed up for a monthly book box last year because the idea of getting two signed books every month gives me a literary orgasm. My money going to charity is just a bonus.

  “Well hello to you, too.” DH leans on the counter as I cut the tape and open the box. I offer a distracted “hey” while I stack my new bookmarks, magnets, and swag on the counter. “The forecasters are saying—”

  “Shh!” I hold up my hand. “This is the best part,” I whisper.

  “What’s the best part?” he whispers back.

  “This.” I take a deep breath, lift the purple tissue paper and see the newest additions to my bookshelf: King by T.M. Frazier and So Much More by Kim Holden.

  “Fuck yes!” I pump a victorious fist into the air and do a happy dance in the middle of the kitchen.

  “You are so weird.” I stop mid-flail and see DH staring at me like I need my head examined. I give him the middle finger and grab my purse so we can leave.

  “Reading books does not make me weird,” I retort on the way to his truck. “At least my book boyfriends won’t give me an STD. Can’t say the same for your floozies.”

  “Book boyfriends?” he scoffs.

  “Oh, shut up. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” He walks me to the passenger side and opens the door. I glance at the seat and look up at him. “Do I need to Lysol that before I sit on it?” I ask sweetly.

  He rolls his eyes and points toward the cab. “Get in the truck, Paige.” I sit down and buckle up, careful not to disturb the co
mputer and camera sitting between our seats, while DH walks around to his side. “You ready?” he asks, shutting the door.

  “I can’t believe you forced me into this.”

  He cranks the engine and turns the radio to a normal volume, then steers down the dirt path. “I never forced you to do anything. That’s not my style.”

  “Maybe not, but there was some peer pressure. Besides, it’s not like I could say no after you brought me dinner and a movie.”

  “Which made you fall asleep.” He gives me a side-eye and pulls onto the main road.

  “Sorry,” I say in a sheepish voice. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

  “Tell me about it. You were snoring up a storm.” He chuckles, giving me a front-row seat to his dimple.

  “Was not!” I reach over his gear and whack him on the shoulder. “I don’t snore!” He only laughs harder, so I whack him again.

  “It was so loud I almost couldn’t hear Glinda tell Dorothy that she always had the power to go home.”

  My hand, poised for another hit, stops in mid-air. “Wait, you watched the whole movie? Even though I was asleep?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve never seen it before. I wanted to know how it ended.”

  “And then you cleaned my kitchen.”

  “That was self-preservation. Aunt Helen would have skinned me alive if she found out I left dirty dishes in the sink.”

  I stare at DH in disbelief as the truck pulls up to a red light. The guy sitting in the driver’s seat is nothing like the walking sexual harassment complaint who crashed my table at Cattlemen’s. This version of DH is actual boyfriend material, and for briefest of moments, I wish I had a chance with him.

  He eyes me suspiciously while he rubs his beard. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I don’t get you,” I confess.

  “What’s not to get? I’m the same guy I’ve always been.” The light turns green, and he focuses on the road again. I watch him for another few seconds before doing the same. The sky ahead looks like it’s been split in two, giving me a glimpse of what the afternoon will bring. On the left, everything is bright—a handful of puffy, white clouds accent an otherwise blue sky.