The List

by Melanie Jacobson

  I waited.

  “You slap him?” he offered hopefully.

  I faced him again. “Better,” I pronounced.

  “Yeah, well, as long as we stay in the sexist joke genre, I should be pretty safe,” he said.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Because I learned a bunch of them when I was a teenager to drive my sisters nuts. And since I forget the punch line halfway through most jokes I’ve heard since, I’m stuck with those from way back then as a punishment, I guess.”

  “At least you made the dishwasher a guy. My brother-in-law always tells it the other way to rile my sister.”

  “I’m guessing it works?”

  “I’ve seen her throw food at him before,” I answered. “But that’s only if he’s able to time it so she’s in the worst possible mood.”

  “Uh-huh. And is throwing stuff a normal response to anger in your family?”

  Rather than explain Leila’s brink-of-divorce drama of the last two years, I spread my hand underneath my plate and pretended to test its weight. “Sure,” I said. “But it’s not a big deal if you duck fast.”

  “How about if I don’t make you mad, and then we never have to find out who’s faster?”

  “Good plan.”

  “Hey, D,” he called to his roommate. “Dibs on the next batch of carne, yeah?”

  “Yeah, bro,” Derek called back, still focused on the meat.

  “He’s in the zone,” I whispered, entertained by his roommate’s total concentration on the grill.

  “Don’t mock. He’s a barbecue guru.”

  “Then I’m going to eat my way through this guacamole so I have room on my plate,” I said.

  “I could just get you another plate,” he offered.

  “What, and make me look like a pig?” I waved my hand over my laden plate. “If I eat fast, no one will ever know how much I started with.”

  He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Great strategy, except I’m a witness. How will you buy my silence?”

  I thought for a moment. “Can I bribe you with homemade fudge?”

  He looked offended. “Hey, I have standards. You’d have to throw in ice cream for me to even think about it.”

  “Done,” I said, liking how easily the conversation flowed between us.

  “Yeah, me too,” Derek interrupted. “Meat’s ready.”

  Matt grinned. “Looks like you’re getting two plates, anyway.” He climbed to his feet and grabbed another plate, returning it to me piled with a healthy portion of fragrant steak. I immediately set the guacamole aside.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” I asked, before taking my first bite.

  “I think I already put away a pound of that stuff before you got here,” he answered. “If I thought there was a snowball’s chance in Texas that you’d show up after I texted you, I would have waited for you.”

  “I said I’d be here,” I reminded him around a delicious mouthful.

  “Yeah, but you don’t do a lot of things that I expect.”

  I stopped chewing for a minute and studied him. “You have expectations, plural? For me? How long is this list?”

  He fidgeted. “I meant that . . . you, uh . . .” He stopped, trying to regroup. It was fun to discomfit him for once.

  Derek wandered over again with another spatula heaped in meat. “He means that you don’t do like the other chicks do and fall all over him, so he can’t figure you out,” he said. Then he dropped the meat on my plate and returned to the grill.

  “Thanks, Derek,” Matt called, and although it was hard to tell in the fading light, I’m pretty sure he was red.

  Derek didn’t turn around, just kept his gaze trained on the food and waved his spatula behind him. “Yeah, bro.”

  I grinned. “You were telling me about your expectations?”

  He cleared his throat. “You’re different, is all.”

  “Be still my heart.”

  That elicited a full-blown sigh, colored with exasperation. “I just mean that it’s interesting to see what you’re going to do next.”

  Which wasn’t really an answer, but I let him off the hook. “I’ll drop it for now because you’re feeding me.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about you bribing me for my silence, anyway?” he asked.

  “No. We settled that. I’m making you fudge and ice cream.”

  “Oh yeah. Then we should move on to how you’re going to pay me for your lessons.”

  “You mean an amazing grilled cheese sandwich and my undying gratitude isn’t enough?”

  “Definitely not. I get that all the time.”

  I rolled my eyes and his crooked grin reappeared.

  “Then what can I offer you?” I asked.

  “You have to take me on a real date,” he said. “One where I can do my hair and wear my new heels.”

  I snorted before I could help myself and then tried to cover it with a cough, but I could tell by the twinkle in his eye that it didn’t fool Matt. “Uh . . . you’re kidding, right?”

  “Only about the heels. They hurt my arches.”

  “I have a weird schedule,” I warned him, unsure of how I felt about this “real date” business. “I end up working most weekends, so it could mean staying out late on a weeknight.”

  “Good. Live dangerously.”

  “Okay, so . . . a real date. Making sandwiches and eating them at my kitchen table doesn’t count?” I stalled, trying to get a sense of exactly what Matt was suggesting.

  “Nope. That’s hanging out. Derek and I hang out. But Derek doesn’t take me anywhere nice, so now I’m depending on you.”

  “Does renting a movie and graduating to the living room count as somewhere nice?”

  He crossed his arms. “Is that all I’m worth as your surf sensei? Maybe I better reconsider this whole lesson thing.”

  “Relax. I was just asking. Of course I meant that we’re going to do something super exciting. As in, beyond fantastic.” I just had no idea what. Small glitch. “Here,” I said, thrusting one of my plates at him. “I got you some carne asada as a thank-you gift for your help so far.”

  He laughed. “You only ate half of it. I thought you were hungry.”

  “Yeah, well, my eyes were bigger than my stomach.” I didn’t mention that my appetite had shrunk when the “real date” contingency kicked in.

  A sudden crest of giggles preceded a small wave of girls as they rounded the corner to the backyard. Matt looked wary, while Derek straightened his spine and puffed his chest out.

  “Ooh, looks like my cue to get more guacamole,” I said.

  “Don’t do it,” he said. “I saved you from Aaron.”

  “Yes, but you weren’t in any danger. One of these girls might hurt me if I don’t give up my spot.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but the first, “Hi, Matt!” trilled forth from a petite cutie on the vanguard of the wave. I hopped up with a grin and headed for the snack table. No way did I have room for any more food, but it removed me from the line of fire and gave me a great view of the action.

  The tiny blonde had settled right into the space I vacated.

  “Hey . . .” Matt trailed off, struggling to come up with a name.

  “Kelsey.” She giggled.

  “Right, sorry. Hey, Kelsey.”

  She giggled again, I guess finding it funny that Matt forgot her name.

  “Great party,” she said, and the band of gigglers with her nodded and murmured their agreement.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Did you guys get enough to eat?”

  “Oh, I don’t have much of an appetite,” Kelsey said. “It’s a curse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Matt replied. “Derek does a great job with the grilling.”

  Kelsey bounced a little in her seat. “You guys have such a great place here,” she said, all shiny enthusiasm. She kind of reminded me of this plastic whistle I used to have when I was a kid. It was bird shaped, and when I filled it with water and ble
w it, it emitted the same strangely unbalanced warble that kept bursting out of Kelsey.

  “Thanks,” Matt said. Despite having nothing to work with conversationally, Kelsey charged ahead.

  “I mean, it’s a little on the shabby side, but it won’t take much to make it shabby chic. If I lived here—”

  Oh, no she didn’t! Did she? Did she really admit out loud that she foresaw herself comfortably ensconced in Chez Matt some day? Way to send him slinking in the opposite direction, Kelsey. I settled against the table to enjoy the show. It was getting good.

  “If I lived here, I’d slap some blue paint on the walls, trim everything with a nice, bright white, rustle up some nice slip covers for the sofa, and find some cute little pillows to toss everywhere.”

  Matt didn’t strike me as a cute little pillows kind of guy.

  “And I’m a great seamstress,” she continued. “I can make slipcovers for way cheaper than you can buy them. I learned how to sew when I was little. My mom thought it would be a good skill for me to have when I’m a mother. You know, so I can save money by making my kids’ clothes.”

  Matt nodded, looking uncomfortable with the miniature beauty queen sizing up his furniture for renovation. The kid talk injected his expression with a touch of panic, to boot. I decided he needed to twist a little longer so he could really appreciate my rescue.

  “Homemaking is a lost art,” Kelsey said, earnestness furrowing her smooth brow. “I mean, we live in such a disposable society, you know?” Matt nodded again, although he seemed unsure of where she was headed.

  “Tell Matt about your business idea,” a member of her entourage chimed in.

  “Oh, he doesn’t want to hear about that,” she said, fishing.

  Matt smiled and neither confirmed nor denied, but her friends egged her on.

  “It’s such a good idea!”

  “Yeah, you should tell him!”

  “Don’t be so modest!”

  The chorus of encouragement overrode Matt’s lack of cues and Kelsey said, “Well, I haven’t worked out all the details yet, but I’m thinking . . . surfboard covers!”

  Matt looked interested at that. “Really? What kind? Mine are always wearing out.”

  “I’m thinking something designer,” Kelsey said. “All the ones out right now are so practical, you know? Just boring colors and materials. I thought I could sew up some nice fabric ones with all kinds of bright colors and prints, give them a little pizzazz and all.”

  Matt’s expression shifted to doubtful. Surf culture is not really about pizzazz, but Kelsey didn’t notice. She barreled along, outlining her ideas for bright floral prints that guys would actually like, and when she prattled into piping and trim territory, Matt began sending me pleas for help with his eyes.

  Those yummy eyes . . .

  I sighed. “Derek?” I murmured, low enough not to interrupt Kelsey’s plans for masculine lace because, as she assured Matt with a tinkling laugh, there really was such a thing.

  “Yeah?” he grunted, a little annoyed that none of the feminine wiles were being cast his way.

  “I really liked your carne asada.”

  He turned to look at me. “Thanks,” he said, looking somewhat vindicated.

  “So forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

  “Huh?”

  But I was already headed for Matt and rescue duty.

  Chapter 8

  “Matt, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” I mewed pitifully and then slumped onto the arm of the sofa next to him. I pressed my hand against my forehead and squeezed my eyes closed, then barely audibly I whispered, “I don’t feel good.”

  Kelsey looked nonplussed by my arrival and her minions stirred, confused by my interruption. Deciding they still weren’t getting it, I pressed my hands to my stomach and hunched over with a whimper. “I feel sick,” I croaked.

  The girl directly in front of me scampered back, presumably to avoid any unpleasantness that my guts might have in store for her. Matt leaped to his feet and bent over me. “Is this for real?” he whispered in my ear.

  I moaned softly and shook my head no. To our rapt audience, it appeared that my misery was increasing.

  “Let’s get you inside,” he said at normal volume. He helped me up and then kept an arm around my shoulders, gently urging me toward the door leading inside. As we passed Kelsey, I caught her shooting a squinty-eyed dagger glare my way. I emitted another theatrical groan, causing her mouth to narrow in irritation.

  Matt squeezed my shoulder and murmured, “Watch it. You’re going to sprain your drama if you’re not careful.”

  I nodded, hunched over a little farther, and shuffled alongside him into the house. As soon as the door shut behind me, I straightened up and grinned. “You’re welcome,” I said.

  “No kidding,” he said. “That’s good for at least two more surf lessons.”

  “Whew. I guess I’m off the hook for a date, then,” I joked.

  “You are if you want to be,” he answered.

  I held his gaze for several seconds and then confessed, “I don’t.”

  “Good.”

  “So, what do I do with you now?” I asked. “Do I throw you back to the . . . uh . . .” I faltered, not willing to characterize the group of girls outside as sharks out loud.

  Matt smiled like he knew what I wasn’t saying. “I don’t deserve that. I rescued you, remember?”

  “Oh, right. From my imaginary illness.”

  “What pretend sickness did you catch, anyway?”

  I rubbed my stomach. “I’m going with spontaneous food poisoning from the carne asada.”

  He winced. “Derek will be crushed. It’s his specialty.”

  “I told him I was sorry in advance.”

  He smiled in admiration. “Man, you really think on your feet.”

  “No, I don’t. Thinking and my feet don’t work together at all. That’s why you have to help with the surf thing.”

  “Right. Lucky me.”

  And before I could wonder if he was being serious or sarcastic, he scuffed his flip-flop lightly against mine and said, “Thanks, Ashley’s feet.”

  The door squeaked open again and Kelsey’s head appeared around the side, approximately level with the door knob. Well, maybe not that low, but she was short. Just saying.

  She eyed me, obviously suspicious, and asked, “Are you feeling any better?”

  Matt threw his arm around my shoulder again and I leaned against him like he was the only thing holding me up.

  “I feel okay,” I mumbled. Matt squeezed my shoulder. “I mean, except for being really, really sick,” and then I groaned again. This time I got a pat.

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” And I knew Kelsey only meant that it was too bad because my “spell” was keeping me glued to Matt’s side.

  “Yeah, I think I’m going to make sure Ashley gets home okay.”

  Her face fell. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah. I feel responsible for her getting sick at my house. Stay and enjoy the party, though,” Matt offered.

  “Sure,” Kelsey said, but it was kind of pouty.

  Since I didn’t know how far Matt planned to take this, I kept my mouth shut and followed his lead. He slid his hand from my shoulder, down my arm, and slipped it around my hand. With a soft tug, he led me back toward the front of the house, skillfully navigating the clusters of people hanging out in islands of conversation all the way to the front door. Even traveling the relatively short distance took quite a while as friends stopped Matt to greet him or offer him the casual surfer “What’s goin’ on?” It gave me time to observe his house. It was a typical bachelor pad with worn furniture and scuffed wooden floors. Very few personal touches showed besides the snapshots stuck to the fridge and some surf posters on the wall. The only exception was a large framed photograph in the living room of him and another guy posing with huge smiles in front of a store under a sign reading the board shack.

  Holding my hand seemed to ward off other girls, a
nd he didn’t let go, so when we made it through the front yard and onto the street, I was growing used to his warm grip. I wondered as we drew even with my Jeep if he would let it go and kind of hoped not.

  Instead, he held his other hand out for my keys and said, “I better drive since you’re sick.”

  “What? Are you ditching out on your own party?”

  He shrugged. “Our barbecues are an excuse for people to hang out. They wouldn’t notice if Derek and I left unless we took the food with us.”

  “All right, I’m in. Where are we going?”

  He smiled and said nothing.

  “You’re not going to tell me,” I guessed.

  “Nope. But don’t take it personally. It’s just because I don’t know where we’re going yet, either.”

  “That’s one of my favorite places.”

  “Yeah, mine too, on a Sunday.” He looked up at the night sky. “What do you think? Is a coast drive still worth it even without the daylight?”

  I dug my keys out of my pocket and plopped them in his hand. “Definitely.”

  Chapter 9

  Twenty minutes later, we were cruising down Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH. We’d already headed through the coastal towns of Newport Beach and Corona del Mar without stopping. An approaching sign showed that Laguna Beach was up next.

  “How about there?” Matt asked.

  “Sure,” I shrugged. It seemed like nearly every person under the age of twenty-five who had ever lived there had a spin-off show on MTV. Laguna Beach, The Hills, and probably a half dozen more I’d never heard of. Might as well check out the ruckus.

  Matt followed the highway until it slowed down to wind through a bustling downtown area. He parked on the first side street he could find and hopped out to open my door. By the time he came around to my side of the Jeep, I had already grabbed a hoodie from the back and jumped down. He looked at me in surprise. “I would have gotten the door for you,” he said as I shut it.

  I shrugged. “I know, and I appreciate it, but it’s more efficient to let myself out. I don’t mind if you hold it open when we get back in, though.”

  “All right, but don’t tell my mom. She’d kill me.” He nodded in the direction of the main sidewalk. “You ready?”