Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  “Wait a sec!” I grab his shirt, yanking him back down. We are almost nose to nose. I get a whiff of the fresh laundry smell I noticed the other day. “Look, um, there’s a guy over there laboring under the false impression that I’m interested.”

  “Did you say something that might’ve led him to believe that?”

  “What? No! I mean, I asked him a couple of questions.” Grant starts to pull back. “W-wait, okay, here’s the thing.” I take a breath. “I came out tonight to…find someone.” Humiliated, I drop my hands from his shirt. “But, Grant, trust me, it isn’t him.”

  “I see. So you want me to tell him to get lost?”

  I shake my head. “Tried that. Not good enough. His arrogance is second only to his persistence. He is, after all, the Year of the Cock.” I bite my lip, mind racing.

  Grant blinks. “Uh, I’m sorry, you lost me at co—”

  “Rooster,” I interject. “You know, Chinese astrology? Ugh! This guy is relentless—like the social equivalent of a plantar wart.” I rub my temples, grappling for an escape plan.

  “Well, you could just pretend we’re together.”

  I snap my head up, softly thumping it against the underside of the bar. “Seriously?”

  Grant’s indignation glows in the dark. “Now who’d have thought I’d be a worse alternative than someone born in the Year of the Pecker.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, no, your plan is much better. Keep hiding till spring, little gopher.” He stands up.

  I stare at the frayed edges of his jeans. There’s the silvery sheen of duct tape on the side of one of his Chucks. He’s right. I can’t stay here till spring, plus it smells like old alcohol and even older mops.

  “It isn’t gopher. It’s groundhog,” I say as I reluctantly poke up from my hidey-hole.

  Grant eyes me warily over the rim of his glass.

  Insulting him and correcting his rodent know-how isn’t gaining me any points. Change of tactics. This calls for boldness. I twine my arms around his waist.

  He lowers his drink and croaks, “What…what are you doing?”

  “Mr. Walker, would you do me the esteemed honor of being my airbag?”

  He clears his throat; the prelude to a grin threatens his lips. “Airbag?”

  “Yeah, you know, a buffer? Only for a few minutes. Pretty please?” I plead.

  “Why, Miss Carlisle, is this how you charm all the guys? Flattering as this is”—he glances over my shoulder—“I’m not sure we’re really convincing as a couple. He’s almost here. Spiky hair, black motorcycle jacket, am I right?”

  I tense. Then press myself a bit closer, my body molding into the spaces between us. And it feels…oddly…right. I’m light-headed. Jupiter’s moons, if I’m having delayed brain-scrambling effects from the fall, Gram will never let me hear the end of it!

  Now he’s tensed.

  “Grant, if you keep standing there like a cardboard cutout, we’re never going to be believable. Come on, I can’t be that awful. I’m not asking you to eat Brussels sprouts or anything.”

  I catch a glimpse of his adorable front teeth. “I happen to love Brussels sprouts.”

  “Ha, and you thought I was the weird one.”

  He reaches out, letting the backs of his fingers follow the rise of my cheek. I’m having an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. “If we were really together, then I’d touch you back. Is this okay?” he asks.

  Okay? “Okay” is for describing mediocre test scores, or milk on the day of its expiration. This was neither.

  My entire body tingles. I blame it on the heavy bass traveling through the concrete floor. “Yes.” I force a swallow. “Is he still coming?”

  “Yeah, he’s watching us.”

  I pull an arm from Grant’s waist, looping it around his neck. My fingers graze the short hair at his neckline as I murmur in his ear, “Do you mind? I thought if it looked like I was whispering sweet nothings, then it’d look real.”

  He cups the back of my head and holds me like something priceless that was lost and now found. “It’s perfect.” Then we lapse into silence. And our language becomes one of heartbeats and irregular breaths. “You smell nice,” he whispers into my ear.

  I was thinking the same of him.

  “Th-thank you. It’s this French lavender vanilla soap. I’m…I’m mildly addicted.”

  I feel the weight of his inhalation against my chest, followed by a slow exhale. “Me too.”

  And now it’s impossible to ignore the way our hearts thump together. The mutual rhythm moves faster.

  The moment goes on for seconds that feel like hours. Until someone bumps Grant, bursting our bubble. The music and chatter and people all come flooding back.

  His hand glides down my back as he chuckles. “I think it worked. Pecker looks pissed.”

  I push away, swept with an achy sort of exhaustion, and swill the remainder of my drink.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’ve officially vanquished my stalker. I can’t thank you enough. Guess I owe you.”

  “So, that entitles me to a dance before I go?” Grant’s voice lowers. “In keeping with our façade, of course.”

  “Yes…of course.”

  His hand finds mine as he leads me toward the dance floor. He keeps glancing back like I’m going to bolt. Maybe I should, because something has definitely shifted. Like…this is suddenly more serious than a dance. His thumb brushes the back of my hand and I look down.

  “Calluses,” Grant explains, “from the guitar.”

  “I didn’t realize you played.” Which is kind of a silly thing to say, because I could fill a freakin’ teaspoon with the things I know about him.

  “Yeah, I—”

  “Son of a bitch!” A short Latino guy launches at Grant, who stumbles back, clutching him. After a couple of hearty backslaps they separate. “What the hell kind of stunt was that? Ryan told me you took a nosedive off the old tower. And since when were you a thrill seeker outside that phase of…well, hellloooo,” he says, turning toward me. “¡Coooooño! Grant”—he nudges his elbow—“who’s the morsel?”

  “Jesus, Manny, she’s not a bucket of chicken. This is Wil Carlisle. Wil, this is our ill-mannered drummer, Manuel Rodriguez.”

  “Call me Manny. Pardon my ill manners, Wil.” Manny rests a hand to his broad chest and dips his head in apology. “But I was raised in a barn, and you do look good enough to eat.” He grins. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads: STICKS GET CHICKS. WANNA SEE MINE?

  Grant flicks his ear.

  “Ow! Hey! It’s not like I said she was finger-lickin’ good, even if it’s— Ow!”

  Grant flicks him a second time. “I will lock you back in the cellar.”

  Manny massages his ear. “Come on, vato, she knows I meant it as a compliment.”

  “In the sweetest, most disturbing Hannibal Lecter way,” I say, smirking.

  “See? She gets me.” Manny punches Grant’s arm and narrows his eyes. “Backstage in twenty, or I’m locking your ass in the cellar. Farewell, succulent Wil!”

  I laugh. “Nice try, but flattery still won’t get you the Colonel’s secret recipe. Bye, Manny.”

  He smiles before staring deliberately at Grant. “Hermano, es única. No pierdas esta oportunidad.” With that, Manny plunges into a cluster of girls with glow sticks. He snags a pair of orange ones, beating the air like a virtual drum.

  “He’s one of a kind,” I say. “You didn’t mention you were playing tonight. What’s the name of…” I try to decipher Grant’s expression as he watches Manny. “Hey, if you need to go now, it’s no problem.”

  “No, I have time. Besides, you owe me, remember?” Grabbing my hand, he draws me to the floor and into the crush of the crowd.

  The music transitions into something with a subtle Latin vibe, causing the dancers to thin out around us.

  “Fantasma?” I ask.

  “A girl who knows her mus
ic.”

  “I’m an aficionado, remember?” I tease, turning away.

  “So that’s it?”

  I turn back, flummoxed. “You know how to dance…to this?”

  Grant steps closer, his eyes intense as he draws my hand up to his shoulder and clasps my other hand. “Yeah.” He grins. “And wow. Impressive you can still look so cute with your mouth hanging open like that.”

  I clamp my lips together, shaking my head. “No, it’s just there aren’t many guys who…” But I lose my train of thought as we find the rhythm and begin to move. It’s a basic salsa, but if I don’t concentrate on my steps, I’ll tenderize his feet with these heels for sure.

  Grant is a strong partner, and where he leads I follow, but he has a gift for making it feel like the other way around. Like I’m the one leading.

  “You’re fantastic!” I say.

  Grinning, he twirls me. “Nah, you just make me look good.”

  That’s a lie. Still, his feet are unscathed, and for that, I’m grateful.

  Our bodies become mirror images of one another’s movements. My head is spinning. My heart is racing. And none of it is from dancing.

  Suddenly I have to know.

  “Grant?” His hand grazes my hip, gently directing my movement. My back bumps against his chest. His other hand drops to my waist. I shiver. Focus. “Do you know much about astrology?”

  “Zero. Other than it seems to snow every year on my birthday, but then”—his soft laugh rumbles at my ear—“I guess that’s meteorology.”

  I’m having trouble stringing my sentences together. His proximity muddles my thinking. “Um, well, remember how I said I was looking for someone?”

  “Uh-huh.” He spins me so we are facing each other. One of my hands falls to his chest; his breathing is irregular like mine. “Did you find him?” Grant’s eyes are dark, unreadable.

  “I—I’m not sure. Astrology is a complicated study.” Our swaying slows with the waning song.

  “Ah, well, I don’t put much faith in the stars.” He casts me into a final spin, tugging me back. I land solidly against his chest.

  “Funny,” I say, rather breathless. “I put all my faith in the stars.”

  His left hand splays over my back. The other hand is gripped firmly to mine. I can feel his guitar calluses. His gaze lowers to my mouth; his breath sears my skin. “I put mine in people.”

  The cinder below my navel explodes in riotous flames. Every square inch of my skin tingles with our connection. The ebbing bass lures me closer. Closer. My head tilts.

  I’m not broken! It isn’t too late.

  He could be the one! He could be…and then the realization hits me, as certain as the earth’s next revolution. Grant is charming, intelligent, passionate, sensitive, and creative, and it often snows on his birthday. Taken as a whole, these facts could only mean one thing. Oh God!

  He is…he must be…

  Pisces.

  I gasp.

  Instantly the fire dies. Winter ravages my blood; my veins fill with ice.

  My mother’s sweet voice echoes in my ears, “Beware of Pisces…Beware of Pisces…Beware of Pisces…” Her ghostly voice repeats until I’m dizzied by her words.

  My legs weaken and buckle.

  “Wil!” Grant catches me, holding me upright. “Wil, what—?”

  “I can’t…I can’t breathe.” Suddenly the amethyst stone throbs at my neck and feels like a million pounds pulling me to the concrete floor. As if the weight of my promise to my mother has become a tangible thing.

  And I’m suffocating. Choking. Everything presses in at once. To fall for a Pisces would be unforgivable. Because it would go against…

  “Come on, I’m getting you out of here.” Grant loops an arm around my waist, supporting me. “Move!” he roars as we push through the onlookers.

  The crowd shifts around us. Faces stretch in nightmarish images. The green lights make everyone look ghastly and sick.

  I’m panting, hiccuping, and still I can’t gain my breath.

  “Wil!” Irina appears, placing a hand on my clammy face. Her expression twists in fury. “What have you done? I will gut you like a goddamn fish if you’ve done anything—”

  “I didn’t hurt her,” Grant snaps. “She needs air. She just needs some air.”

  But as I stumble, gasping in his arms, I realize what I need is way more complicated than oxygen. I need to overcome the pitfalls of my fate…realign the stars. And in order to do so, Grant Walker must become as invisible to me as the very air I cannot breathe.

  I draw in a breath; the paper bag crinkles loudly, deflating and sucking flat against itself. Crap. And there he is again. So not invisible. Grant’s staring at me with those anxious eyes while twisting the leather cuff at his wrist until I worry the hand attached will pop off.

  “Guys, this is totally unnecessary.” My muffled words inflate the bag like yeast in dough. I sink back in the folding chair. The thumping from the club feels light-years away from the second-story fire escape.

  This is awful. Humiliating. If I thought I could fit more than my left foot in the paper sack, I’d crawl in. There’s nothing worse than pitying looks.

  Irina frowns, turning the diamond stud above her lip. It’s as if she takes being “wound up” literally. “It is necessary. You were hyperventilating. Wil”—she crouches, placing her hands carefully on my knees—“what happened in there?”

  Oh, but she knows me too well. Knows it would take something catastrophic to send me reeling off my axis like this.

  I lower the bag. “I just…it was the heat and the dancing. I got light-headed but…I’m better now.” My mouth arranges into a feeble attempt at a smile. Irina’s eyes are prodding, but the rest of her remains mute as she stands. Reluctantly I peer at Grant. “Please, you should go. Your band is probably waiting. I’m fine.” I perform a slow inhale and exhale. “Respiration normal.”

  “No, I don’t feel right leaving. They’ll wait.” He pushes a hand through his dark hair. “Want some more water?”

  I eye the two unopened bottles at my feet. “No thanks.”

  The vertical blinds at the window part to reveal Seth’s head. Seth? I shut my eyes. And now my potential soul mate is here? This keeps getting better.

  Seth slinks out the window, crowding onto the fire escape. “Wil, what happened? Are you all right?”

  So help me, if one more person asks either of those questions, I will go ballistic on all of them.

  Seth glances at Grant, who’s now leaning up against the building’s exterior. “Ryan said he saw you half carrying a girl upstairs.”

  “I overheated.” I crumple the bag into a ball of frustration. “Seriously, this is a whole lot of fuss over nothing.”

  “You almost passed out,” Irina asserts.

  “I did not.” It was a temporary meltdown, a Pisces-induced panic attack, but I’d sooner lose consciousness than confess that bit aloud. I cock my head at Seth. “I, um, thought you had to leave or something.”

  “I didn’t. Well…obviously.” He kneels so he’s level with me. “No, I was actually hoping to catch you before you left because I wanted ask you something.”

  I let out a nervous laugh. “As long as it isn’t if I’m okay.”

  Seth flashes a lopsided grin before stealing a glance over his shoulder. “You doing anything Friday?”

  “Unbelievable.” Grant shakes his head disgustedly and pushes from the building. “You’re right, Wil, I should go. It’s getting crowded up here anyway.”

  Yes, it is crowded. Because any available space has been taken up by all the awkward now surrounding our foursome.

  Irina shoots Grant a mutinous look before moving toward the window. “Well, no time like the present.” She pauses to covertly wink in my direction. Guess she’s over worrying about me, which is good. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready, Wil. Take your time.”

  Grant kicks his foot back and forth over the metal grates as he waits for Irina to cle
ar out.

  “Uh…” Okay, this situation is more uncomfortable than wearing a thong. Backward. “H-hold that thought,” I say to Seth before standing.

  Seth nods and answers his ringing cell.

  “Grant?” He’s already crawled back in. And I’m seized by a weird kind of panic at the thought of not saying goodbye to him. “Grant?”

  His head pokes out, startling me with its abrupt nearness. “What?” The furrows in his forehead have returned.

  I want to smooth them out with my fingers. I don’t know why. Doesn’t matter. He’s completely off-limits. But…can’t we at least be friends?

  Yes. Why not? In fact, I’ve already made up my mind—I want Grant Walker to be my friend. Friendship…I can handle. The label alone means things will stay clean and simple.

  “Listen, thanks for everything tonight. Getting me in, saving me from the Rooster”—I feel a surge of heat in my cheeks—“and the dance. I’ll miss you.”

  Grant’s eyes snap to mine.

  “I mean, your band. I’ll miss your band…tonight.” Sheesh, Wil. Why don’t you peel the duct tape from his shoe and slap it over your mouth right now. I’ll miss you? I’m afraid to look at Grant. Instead, I fiddle with my glasses like they’re to blame for my weirdity. I take a stabilizing breath and finally meet his eyes. “So, is there any chance of a rain check?” Please say yes. Or no. Now I’m not sure how I want him to answer.

  His expression softens. “I’ll do you one better.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out something that glints in the streetlight. “Here.” He drops the almost-weightless object in my hand.

  “A key?” It’s silver and half the length of my pinky finger. “You’re giving me a key. I don’t understand.”

  “It won’t open any doors.” Well, that clears up nothing. “Just show it to the bouncers,” Grant elaborates. “That’ll get you in whenever you want—no cover, no hassle. My uncle owns the club, and we get a few of these to give out at our discretion.”

  “I…wow.” The key, warm from his pocket, feels scorching in my palm. “I…”

  “Hey, G,” Seth chimes in behind me. “Ryan’s blowing up my cell. You’re on in five. I think you better jet.”