It's Just a Little Crush

by Caroline Fardig

  I catch up with him on the patio. “What the hell was that?” I demand.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” he says softly, not meeting my eyes.

  “Why?” I ask, turning him to face me. “Because we’re just supposed to be friends? Or because you’re just toying with me?”

  He frowns at me, bewildered. “I would never toy with you. I just…”

  “Listen. I am beyond confused about us. More often than not you’re coming on to me, or you’re grabbing me and kissing me. Granted, I’ve pushed you away a few times, but it’s only because you follow all of your romantic advances with your ‘I’m so glad you’re my friend’ routine. It’s making me crazy, and it stops tonight. Tell me what you want.” I know this is killing him. I can see it in his eyes. But it’s killing me, too, being jerked around.

  He says, “I…I want…” then stops.

  Since he’s not moving the conversation along, I continue, “You know, I’m not asking for a commitment—I never have. All I’m asking is to know where I stand. That’s all. Is that so hard?”

  Blake finally explodes, “Yes! It is! I want to be with you. Badly.” I’m overwhelmed to hear him say this, but my glee is short-lived when he adds, “But, for your own good, we need to stay friends.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” I counter, angered that I seem to have no say in the matter.

  Blake says nothing.

  There’s no way I can stay here and make friendly conversation after his ridiculous revelation. “I’m outta here,” I bark, storming back through the house.

  Blake doesn’t follow me. I grab my purse in the entry hall and head toward the front door. As I put my hand on the doorknob, I hear the sound of glass breaking, then the loudest ‘BOOM’ I’ve ever heard. The door rattles against my hand, making me scream and jump involuntarily. Something has exploded outside, right in front of the house, and there’s now a flickering orange glow through the windows. Before I can get my bearings and make my way outside to see what happened, I hear Blake shouting, “Lizzie!” followed by his footsteps pounding through the house.

  He sweeps me up in his arms and asks, his words coming out in a rush, “Are you okay? I heard a blast. What was it? You’re not hurt, are you, Lizzie?” Hey, did you hear that? He called me Lizzie! That’s a huge step! But wait, I’m still mad at him.

  “It came from outside,” I say, pulling out of his embrace. “We better go see what happened.”

  Blake opens the door carefully and motions for me to follow. A huge, burning hunk of twisted metal is sitting in the driveway…where my car used to be. I gasp and drop to my knees, unable to wrap my mind around what’s happening. How much more angst can one person take in one week? Well, this seems to be it, because I’m so blown away that everything going on around me becomes fuzzy and out of focus.

  Blake runs back into the house, I assume to call for help. All that I can do at this point is lie on the porch and watch my car burn. I close my eyes, but I can still see the image before me because it’s seared into the backs of my eyelids. I can feel the tears pouring from my eyes and down onto the hard stone below me. I have about a week’s worth of tears stored up, so it’s going to be a while before my sobbing stops. I feel Blake pulling me onto his lap and stroking my hair, but I don’t look up. I can’t deal with one more emotional issue right now or I’ll explode just like my car.

  I hear the wail of sirens coming near. You know, I have really had my fill of sirens, emergency vehicles, and law enforcement personnel this week. A fire truck and two police cars begin rolling up the long driveway. Great. This means yet another interview with the cops. That’s what—my fourth one this week? In my entire twenty-six years, I have never even had so much as a parking ticket, and now I’m on LPD’s short list, and probably their shit list as well. If I were the police, I’d be tired of me.

  Brushing my hair back from my face, Blake says gently, “I’ll be by your side the whole time, if that’s what you want.”

  I nod. I need moral support, and regardless of my anger toward Blake right now, I know he will be nothing if not in my corner, no matter what. He helps me up off the porch floor and puts an arm around me to steady me. I wish I weren’t so upset with him right now, but I can’t help it. I’d finally decided to lay my heart out there and go for it with him, and I get denied “for my own good.” Who does he think he is? It hurts, and I know I’m being a child about it, but that’s what is working for me right now. Maybe when I have some time to process everything, I’ll be in a better place to let it go and get back to being friends with him. I don’t have the energy to even think about that at the moment.

  I watch as the firefighters jump off the fire truck, working quickly to unwind their hoses. The blast of water swiftly puts out the dwindling fire, and now my car is a steaming, blackened pile of metal. It’s so sad. It was such a nice little car—the first one I had bought for myself. When I got my job at the Chronicle three years ago, I went out and treated myself to a new car. I was so proud of it, because it was the first major purchase I’d ever made. And now, it’s a gigantic paperweight.

  Two police officers make their way toward what’s left of my car and begin conferring with the firefighters. I recognize one of them from Monday night at the fair. Oh, boy. I don’t know if I can do this again.

  The officer I recognize leaves the group to join us and introduces himself, “Hey, guys. I’m Officer Jack Harrison, LPD. I see you’ve had a little excitement here this evening.” He gestures in the general direction of my car. “My partner, Officer Emilio Sanchez, is going to work the scene while I get your statement. Which one of you is the owner of the vehicle?”

  Here we go. I am so too tired for twenty questions. “I am.”

  “Are you doing okay? You don’t look so good. Would you like to do this inside?” Officer Harrison asks kindly.

  I notice, even through my stupor, that Officer Jack Harrison is one fine-looking man. He makes the perfect man in uniform—tall, dark, and handsome. Maybe since things don’t seem to be working out with Blake… Yeah, I know, I’m ridiculous. And I’ve been under duress. Don’t judge.

  Blake leads us inside and motions for us to have a seat in the living room. He sits right by my side (just like he promised) with his arm around my shoulder (which I could do without right now). Officer Hottie asks me my name and all of my personal information, then gets down to the hard questions that are only going to make my head hurt (more).

  “Did you see the vehicle explode?” he asks.

  “No,” I answer. “I was just leaving, and I had my hand on the door when I heard the explosion. It really rattled the place.”

  “Sounds like you were pretty lucky tonight. If you’d left a few seconds sooner, you could have been inside that vehicle.”

  At Officer Harrison’s revelation, Blake pulls me toward him and kisses me on the head. Wow, that’s scary. I didn’t even think about that before—seems that Blake didn’t either.

  Officer Harrison continues, “Did you see anyone leaving the scene?”

  “No, I didn’t see anything. We waited a moment before opening the door.”

  “Vehicles don’t normally spontaneously combust. Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt either of you?”

  And there it is—the question that could get Blake and me both in a lot of hot water. How should I answer this one? I could say, “Oh, yes, Officer. I’m sure if Jed Stewart knew that Blake threw a rock through a window in his home, videotaped him without his consent, and broke into his office, he’d be pretty angry.” That could get Blake arrested, and Jed getting questioned about it could make Blake his next murder victim. Or maybe I could go with, “Well, officer, we’ve also been spying on Paul the Picker, who is unstable to say the least, and if he found out about that, he’d probably be angry, too.”

  After a long pause I finally decide on, “You know, I think Blake has been having trouble with a co-worker following him around.”

 
I can feel Blake’s gaze on me. He says hesitantly, “I wouldn’t exactly call it trouble.”

  I turn to face him. “She keyed your car.”

  “Maybe. Or, maybe it was your ex.”

  “You’re wrong on that one, buddy.”

  “How do you know? We’ve had run-ins with him twice this week.”

  Officer Harrison interrupts our argument. “Excuse me, you two. I’m going to need some names.” Officer Hottie seems a little irritated now.

  I sigh, glaring at Blake. “Bethany McCool and Lee Robertson.”

  As I utter these names, it dawns on me how ridiculous it sounds. It’s far more likely that this has to do with Hannah’s murder rather than crushing co-workers or pissed-off exes. Maybe if I’m vague enough, the police will get the hint without me coming out with Jed and Paul’s names.

  I continue, “Do you think this could have anything to do with the fact that we were the ones who found Hannah Stewart dead?”

  “That was an accident,” Officer Harrison points out skeptically.

  Officer Sanchez comes through the doorway. “Harrison, you’d better have a look at this.”

  We all file outside. The firefighters and Officer Sanchez had been examining what’s left of my car while we were inside. Now they’re all conferring with Officer Harrison, pointing toward the car and also at a spot on the driveway. Officer Harrison nods at them, coming back over to Blake and me.

  He says, “It appears that someone used a homemade bomb on your vehicle.”

  “Someone bombed my car?” That sounds so surreal. I mean, I guess I thought that’s what had to have happened, but someone actually saying the word “bomb” really hits home.

  “Now, don’t get excited. They seem to have used a simple explosive made out of a glass bottle filled with gasoline. A Molotov cocktail.”

  Wow. Someone Molotov cocktailed my car. That sounds so cool and CSI-ish! Except of course, that it happened to me, which makes it totally uncool.

  Officer Harrison says, “Well, I think we’re finished here, unless you have anything more you want to add to your statement.”

  “No, I think that’s it,” I reply wearily. I really need some sleep.

  “Just in case this isn’t a random act, we want to have someone keep an eye on you both tonight. Ms. Hart, will you be staying here or going home?”

  Blake and I both speak at the same time, “She’s staying here.” “I’m going home.”

  I repeat firmly, “I’m going home. Can you give me a lift, Officer?”

  “Sure thing. And thanks for your help, Mr. Morgan.”

  I turn to follow my hunky policeman to his cruiser when Blake grabs my arm. “Please don’t go home by yourself. Stay here with me,” he pleads.

  “Blake, the police are going to keep an eye on me. And, I really need some sleep tonight.” I yawn.

  “Please be careful.”

  “I will. Calm down.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Please don’t,” I reply. Blake gives me a hurt look, so I add, “I’m going to sleep all day.”

  He brightens. “Can I at least take you to the party tomorrow?”

  “No, you already have a date.” Blake seems pained by my comment, but he totally deserved that one. “I need to go. Officer Hot—I mean Harrison is waiting.” I turn and make my way to the police cruiser, thankful that my awkward evening with Blake is finally over.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Officer Harrison is waiting, holding the passenger door open for me as I approach his police cruiser. He kindly helps me inside and then gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. I’ve never been inside a police car before (thankfully). He has all kinds of gadgets on the dash—even a laptop. I would assume that cops are not allowed to use the laptop while driving. That would be way worse than texting.

  Officer Hottie asks, “So, Ms. Hart, are you any relation to Becca Hart?”

  Surprised, I answer, “Yes! She’s my cousin. Why?”

  He smiles wide, showing off his perfect teeth and just the slightest hint of a dimple on each cheek. “Oh, no reason. We knew each other in high school.”

  “Oh. I went to Liberty High, too, but I don’t think I knew you.”

  “I was a couple of grades ahead of her. You’re younger, right?”

  “Yes. We wouldn’t have been there at the same time.”

  “Right.” He hesitates for a moment. “I heard she moved back to town a couple of years ago to take over the family business.”

  “Yes. Her mom, my Aunt Susan, is ill and can’t run the place anymore. Becca came back to help. She’s doing a great job.”

  “Sure, sure. Didn’t she go off to college to be an ME?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

  “She had graduated and was ready to start her residency, but then she got the call to come home. I wish she could go back and finish. She’s brilliant.”

  “Brilliant, yes, and beautiful,” he says with a far-off expression.

  Interesting. It seems that Officer Hottie here has been carrying a torch for Becca! Ooh! I’ll have to tell her. They would be a stunning couple—I bet they would make absurdly adorable babies.

  “Here we are, Ms. Hart,” Officer Harrison says as he pulls up in front of my house. He hands me his card. “If you think of anything else you want to add to your statement, call me. I’ll have an officer making regular rounds in your neighborhood for the next few days, just to keep an eye out for you. If you think you notice something out of the ordinary, please don’t hesitate to call. Our job is to keep you safe. Now, do you have a way to get around until you find another vehicle?”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine. Thanks so much, Officer.”

  I know I talked all tough with Blake, but the truth is, I’m petrified of going into my house alone. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to ask for his help, so I have to do this. I quietly open my front door and peer into my living room. Nothing is out of place in here. I quickly flip on as many lights as I can get to and continue searching the house. I don’t know what I’m looking for, really. I mean, say someone were in here and were to jump out at me, what exactly would I do? Hit them with my cat? It dawns on me that the only actual instruments of torture I own are my fancy chef’s knife (no way am I using that expensive thing on anything but produce and boneless meat) and whatever rusty tools are in my basement (somewhere I will not be visiting at night when I’m scared already). I sigh, resigned to the fact that I’ll have only my fists of fury as my defense against intruders, and head for my bed. I’m still wearing Becca’s shirt, and she’d kill me if I slept in it, so I quickly change into my jammies. The silence of my house is broken when my phone rings, making me jump halfway across my bedroom. Steadying myself, I walk over to my bedside table and pick it up.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I ask, instead of saying “Hello.” I know who it is—he doesn’t even have to say anything.

  Blake’s voice comes across the line, “I just wanted to know that you got home safely.”

  “I was driven home by the police.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to come and stay at your place tonight?” he asks, a hint of hopefulness in his voice.

  Yes, I do want him to come over. And, yes, I do want him to stay over. All night. And, yes, I want him to—never mind. He’s not going to get the satisfaction of coming to my rescue. Not tonight. He blew it, and the sooner he realizes it, the better.

  “What part of ‘I need sleep’ do you not get?”

  “All of it. There’s no way I can sleep tonight after what happened. How can you?”

  “Well, I’m certainly going to try. Right now. Goodbye,” I say firmly and hang up before Blake can get in another word. I crawl into bed and fall immediately into a deep, well-deserved sleep.

  ***

  I wake up groggily and look at the clock. 2:14 PM, it says. Holy crap! I slept half the day away, but man, do I feel better. Bob starts meowing at me the moment my feet hit the floor. He must have missed me, or
more likely, ate all of his food and wants some more. I stagger into the kitchen and find him sitting by his empty bowl. As I’m filling his bowl, all of the events of last night come rushing back into my head. I still can’t believe someone blew up my car. I mean, I’m incredibly thankful that I wasn’t any closer to the blast, otherwise I’d have spent the night at the hospital, or worse, spent the night being scraped out of the wreckage and into one of those black bags. I shudder at the thought.

  Adding to my stress is the prospect of finding a new car to drive, which is the last thing I want to deal with. However, I need to do it ASAP so I don’t have to be chauffeured everywhere, which reminds me, I need a ride to our work “party” tonight. Can’t wait for that—a bunch of sad, frazzled people with access to a bar. Plus, at this point, most any conversation with Blake is going to equal one thing: awkward!

  I pick up the phone and call Julia. I might as well tell her what happened sooner than later, plus I need her to drive me to the party tonight. She answers, and I ask, “Guess what?”

  She replies angrily, “You managed to get your car blown up. I heard.”

  “How?” I ask, shocked that even in this town news has traveled so fast.

  “Blake called me. He’s worried about you, you know.”

  “Well, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” Blake’s knight-in-shining-armor routine is beginning to wear thin on me.

  “Obviously not, since you went and got your car blown up!” she cries.

  “How do you know it wasn’t an attack on Blake? It happened at his house, after all.”

  “Even so, you need to watch it, girlie!”

  “Yes, Mother. Now will you give me a ride to the party tonight?”

  “Okay. Pick you up at six-thirty. And, please, try to stay out of trouble until then.”

  “Where am I going to go? I’m grounded, remember?” I grumble.