Stuck With You (First Kiss Hypothesis)

by Christina Mandelski

  I smile at the guy. It’s obvious he loves what he does. That’s got to be a good feeling. “No worries,” I say. “I actually looked up the links you sent. I didn’t know about any of it. It’s so interesting. I looked up the college, too. I didn’t even know programs like that existed.”

  “Ah…” He stares at me and shakes his head. “You probably shouldn’t have told me that. Now I’ll have to start talking you into applying.” He tilts his head questioningly. “But you’re going to that other school to major in— What was it again?”

  “Business.” I say. Again, the word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “Well,” he says. “That’s a good major. But if you change your mind, send in your application.”

  I squint over at him. “It’s not— I mean, I have a full scholarship.”

  “We’ve got scholarships!” he says. “And we’re a small school, not as competitive as the big ones. We could make room for you.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I play lacrosse, too.”

  He grimaces. “There’s lacrosse.” He adjusts the hat on his head. “Intramural. Just for fun, though. Probably not the same. Right. Again, my apologies.” He breathes in deep. “Like I said, I get enthusiastic.” He thrusts a thumb over his shoulder. “I better get home.”

  “You live around here?” I look at the houses in the neighborhood behind him, just a few down from ours.

  “Yep, some thirty years now. We rebuilt after Ike, too.”

  No wonder this project is important to him.

  “We love it here,” he says. “I’d just like to be part of protecting it. And when you realize how many people around the world are gonna be dealing with problems like this as the climate changes”—he takes off his hat and wipes his forehead—“well, like I said, it’s important work.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say as that light bulb in my head flickers again. I’d like to be part of protecting it, too.

  “You here much longer?” he asks.

  I nod. “Through the week.”

  He smiles. “Well then, why don’t you join us for dinner? Nothing fancy, just barbeque. Invite your folks, too. Sandy and I love to get to know our neighbors, and we can talk more about this school in Florida and all its downfalls.” He laughs out loud. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

  I scratch my head and smile.

  “Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he starts. “I’m sure dinner with a few old folks sounds about as exciting to you as watching paint dry.”

  “No, no, that’s not it,” I say, all of a sudden reminded of how difficult the next few days might be. “My parents won’t be here until Thursday, and I have a friend staying with me, too.”

  “Oh, then you and your friend probably need a good meal. How’s tonight? Bring him along. The more the merrier!”

  “Uh,” I stammer. “It’s a she.”

  Professor Jackson flings a thumb over his shoulder. “Perfect. We’re at 217 Dolphin Lane, the house that’s a rather jarring shade of blue.” He leans in a little. “My wife picked the color.”

  “Okay,” I say, wondering if this is a good idea, wondering what Catie will think about having dinner with a sixty-something-year-old college professor and his wife. There’s a good chance she’ll think it’s the lamest thing ever and refuse to come.

  Maybe that’s for the best, because to be honest, other than these last few minutes when I was talking to the professor, I can’t stop thinking about her and that moment under the house last night and those lips. No, my thoughts aren’t exactly G-rated. They’re not even PG-13. And that’s not going to be helpful to getting through the next forty-eight hours when it’s just her and me, alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Catie

  “I’m just saying, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Ainsley says with a devilish look in her eye. We’re under the house, and they’re packing up the car, ready to go home.

  I nudge her as she moves past me. I’m trying to quiet the rumbling in my stomach that has nothing to do with being hungry. “Nobody is doing anything.”

  She groans as she opens the driver’s side door and waggles her eyebrows. “Oh, come on. You’re only seventeen once. Go for it.”

  I groan. “You’re hopeless,” I say and put my arms around her. “Drive safe and behave, Ainsley. Thanks for coming out here with me. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” She smiles, and her eyes sparkle. “Promise me if something does happen, you’ll text me all the deets.”

  I roll my eyes and shove her in the car. “Go, Ainsley, just go.”

  Sunny runs down the stairs from the house. “Almost forgot my charger,” she says, throwing her backpack into the open trunk. She stops behind the car and stares at me. “Hey.”

  I don’t really have to guess what’s coming next. “Not you, too?”

  “Me too, what? All I said is people change. I’m not saying you have to marry the boy.”

  “Though that would make my mother so happy.”

  She laughs. “That’s the truth.”

  “Sunny,” I say. “Nothing is going to happen.”

  She pulls me in for a hug, and I squeeze her tight.

  “I’m just saying,” she says, “life’s short, and”—she pulls out of the hug and makes eye contact with me—“that boy is fine.”

  I can’t help but giggle with my friend, who really is the most sensible person I know, except for maybe Gramps.

  I shake my head. “No. It has been fun, and I think we actually might be friends now, which is a good thing, because we’re stuck together, sort of. So friends is good. Friends is fine.”

  “Okay, well…” She shakes her head. “Whatever you do, if you do do something, you better let ya girls know.” Sunny winks and opens the passenger-side door.

  Ainsley backs her car out of the spot with the window down. “Bye,” she says. “See you next week.”

  Sunny waves from the seat next to her, and I watch as they drive down the lane. I’m sorry to see them go, and yet… I gulp. I’m also not. It’s Tuesday morning, and my parents will be here on Thursday.

  I have a lot of thinking to do about very important things.

  I only wish I could focus on anything but him and that moment under the house last night. He touched my hair, and my face, and his finger touched my lip.

  That happened.

  When I get up to the deck, I take a minute to settle myself. I think of my mother, who is known for her type A personality. She has all these relaxation techniques to calm herself. So, I do one she taught me when I was little.

  I close my eyes, then I smell the roses. Blow out the candle.

  I do that three times.

  Breathe in, breathe out, tap into my inner badass, who knows better than to give in to hormonal urges, especially ones that could leave me with a broken heart. Again.

  “Are you smelling the roses?” Caleb walks out of the house, shirtless and only in his swim trunks.

  Oh. Right. Of course. No shirt. Again.

  “What?” I cross my arms. Why is it so hard to concentrate when his bare chest is in view? My inner badass reminds me that it’s because he’s got nice muscles. Many nice muscles. The six pack is on display. His tanned/burned skin glows. I don’t know how, and I’d love to know his secret, but he just glows.

  “You know, smell the roses…”

  I lean back against the deck rail, trying desperately to look like I am totally cool and in control. “Maybe.” Of course he knows that trick. My mother taught him, too, because he has basically been there my entire life.

  “I knew it.” He grins his beautiful grin and joins me at the rail. “Did they leave?”

  My eyes go to his swim trunks, and I avert them immediately. My palms are sweaty.

  No, this is not going to be easy, but I have to get myself together.

  “Yep,” I say. “What are you up to today?” I want to be as relaxed as he seems, but I’m not pulling it off. I have no idea how he manages to be so to
gether all the time.

  He lifts a shoulder, and Mo flops down between us. “Nothing much.”

  You want to make out? Right now? Right here?

  “I sort of made plans for tonight,” he says.

  Okay, so we won’t make out. “Oh?”

  With a girl? Did he meet a girl? Shoot me now. I knew it. Delusional. That’s me. He absentmindedly scratches his chest, just above his left boob. Or whatever it’s called. Man boob. Pec? Whatever it is, it’s perfect.

  “Yeah. I met this guy.”

  A guy? Oh. It would certainly make things easier if he was gay.

  “A guy?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He bobs his head. “The other day, down the beach. He’s a professor at A&M Galveston—he’s the one who told me about that website I showed you. He and his wife live in Dolphin Cove, and they invited us to dinner. Barbeque.”

  “Us?” I ask, a strange thrill running through me.

  “Uh. Yeah?” He shrugs. “I mean, if you want to spend an evening hanging out with a college professor?”

  “Oh.”

  “I get it if you don’t.”

  Well, does he want me to come or not?

  “But I’d like it if you did,” he rushes to say. “He’s nice. Could be fun. And, you know, free food…” He lifts an eyebrow when I don’t answer. “Okay, you look like you’d rather die than go.”

  “What?” What? How did I look just then? “No. I’ll go!” I’ve definitely lost my cool if I ever had any to begin with. “I mean, sounds fine. Sounds good.”

  He grimaces. “You sure?”

  I give him a smile. “I probably should, just in case he’s a serial killer and the whole professor-and-wife thing is all a ruse.”

  His eyebrow quirks upward, and my heart twists mightily in my chest. God, he was attractive before he went to Florida, but now it’s out of control. Or maybe I’ve just missed him. What’s that saying, “absence makes the heart grow fonder”? “Absence makes the completely-annoyed-by-you family friend hotter”? Is that a thing?

  “A ruse, you think?” He laughs. “In that case, you should definitely come.”

  “Okay, and…”

  His blue eyes flicker, scan my face, land on my lips. I have a brief flashback to last night. He almost kissed me.

  That was real. There’s a chance he’ll pretend it wasn’t, but it was. I know it. I wonder how we’ll make it through the next two days without it happening again. What are the odds?

  “Yeah?”

  I shake myself out of my head. “Will you take me to the store? I’ll make some cookies to bring.”

  “Really? You think you need to?”

  This is one thing I’m sure of. I push off the rail, shake my head and tsk. “I can’t believe you just said that. Your mama would be mortified. It’s called hospitality, Gray.”

  He smiles, and the dimples come out. Those things get me like a deer in the headlights. Somehow, I manage to avert my eyes.

  “Oh yeah?” he says.

  “Of course.” I stop beside him, trying to act natural. “Don’t you know you never show up at a serial killer’s empty-handed?”

  After we run to the Big Store for cookie supplies, we decide to head down to the beach. He brings down a couple of folding chairs and the umbrella. It’s hot as hell, not unusual for July on Bolivar Peninsula. The sun is searing, but honestly, I love it like this. There’s a stillness in the air that is almost magical. It’s like time stops and only restarts for a dip in the water, which feels like a little bit of heaven when you go in. We go back and forth, shore to water—I sit and read my book, and he lays out and naps and wakes up and goes back in the water. Our conversation is easy, as long as I don’t let myself think about last night, the near kiss.

  Stop. Stop thinking about it, Cate! Clearly he’s going to pretend it didn’t happen. It was a mistake.

  I actually think we might be able to do this, make it through these next two nights, he and I. Just friends, blah, blah, blah. Totally doable. He walks out of the breakers and flicks water at me. I cuss at him and kick some sand half-heartedly. He flops back down on his chair, sandy and sparkling with water and salt. Utterly beautiful.

  “You getting enough shade under here?” he asks, checking out where the umbrella’s shadow stops at my ankles.

  “Yup,” I say and watch as his eyes roam up and down my legs. They’re short, yes, but also one of my best features. I think the lines of my face are sharp, my chin is too pronounced and square, and my eyes could be bigger and more fetching. Is that even a thing? I don’t know, but I do know my legs get attention. When I glance sideways, I’m disappointed, because he’s not looking at my legs anymore. His eyes are closed, and his face is so perfect it’s almost unfair. His mouth quirks up on one corner.

  “Whatcha looking at, Dixon?”

  Oh shit. “Nothing,” I say and feel a fiery blush cover me from head to toe. “It’s just you got burned yesterday.”

  That’s all. The only reason I was looking at you. I stare out at the water, absolutely busted and embarrassed.

  “So did you.”

  I look down at my arms. “I know. Mom’s gonna kill me.”

  He chuckles like he saw right through that sunburn thing. So now he thinks I’m watching him? Pining for him?

  “Caleb,” I start. In the interest of friendship, I decide to put this whole idea of kissing him to bed. No, not to bed. To pasture. That’s better. “Can I say something?”

  He lets out another low, easy laugh. “Never needed my permission before.”

  “Yes. I know,” I huff. “Ha ha. But— I just want to say that I am sorry, again, for leaving like we did last night. We shouldn’t have, and I hope you’re not still mad about it, because I really do want us to be”—I clear my throat here, just to be sure he’s listening—“friends.”

  Even though you almost kissed me last night.

  “How is Gramps?” he asks, completely ignoring my entire point.

  I’m annoyed by this, but then a wave of sadness washes over me as I consider my answer. “You know.” I shrug and feel my throat get tight. “He’s okay,” I say, and it’s not a lie. “He has to use the wheelchair more now. Still sharp and sassy as hell, though.”

  I sit up a little in the chair, feeling the tops of my feet burning where they’re not in the shade, not sure what to say next. Caleb sits forward on his chair and turns to me. Our eyes meet, and I feel it again, that distracting pull of his lips, like he’s a magnet and I’m a lowly piece of scrap metal, helpless to fight the power. He runs his hand through his hair.

  “You letting your hair grow out?” I ask, you know, to get my mind off of his lips.

  He flashes that smile. Always with that smile. “It’s left over from the lacrosse season. We all let it grow. It’s good luck.”

  I shift in my chair. “Must have worked. Dad told me your team did well this year.”

  “Yeah, we had a good season.”

  A too-long silence settles between us.

  “Listen,” he says. “I’m sorry, too. You freaked me out last night.”

  “I know. It was stupid. I didn’t mean to worry you…”

  “No. Don’t,” he says. He stops and inhales. He leans toward me, even closer. It’s just him and me, in our little spot of shade. “I know you didn’t mean to. I know how you think.”

  What does that mean?

  He’s so close, I feel the warmth coming off of his sunburnt skin. I’m sinking into that old familiar feeling that started right around middle school—of wanting him—wanting to be around him, to laugh with him, even to fight with him. It didn’t matter, as long as I was near him. The difference is that when I started feeling that way about him, the wanting was very innocent.

  What I’m feeling right now is definitely not.

  “How do you know how I think?” I ask.

  His hands move, and for a brief second, I think he’s going to reach for me. Instead, he sits back on his chair, putting his arms behind his head,
increasing the distance between us.

  That’s good. His hands should be far away from me. Because we’re friends. Frenemies. Friends 2.0? Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Except it does.

  “I just do,” he finally answers. He lifts his chin, smiling. “Some might say I know you better than anyone else.”

  “Oh no. Really?” I shift body toward him and narrow my eyes in challenge. “What, exactly, do you know better than anyone else?”

  He laughs lightly to himself, still staring at the water.

  “I’m waiting,” I say.

  “Hang on. Gimme a second.” He takes the second and then some. The silence makes me fidgety and nervous.

  “Time’s up,” I say, feeling increasingly anxious, not trusting that I’m going to like his answer.

  “Here’s one,” he says. “You’re nosy. Always with the questions. Patience—you have none. Also, I know that you always want everything to be perfect.”

  I lift one shoulder and nod. “That’s true.”

  He sighs. “And that you want everyone to be happy, even if you have to force them to be.”

  I straighten my back. “Well,” I say, “sometimes people need to be told things.”

  “Which brings me to the next thing I know: you’re bossy.”

  I puff out a breath. “Everyone knows that.”

  He’s quiet again.

  “Is that all?” I laugh, hoping that it is. That seems like plenty.

  He shrugs, presses his lips together and turns to me. “I think I know that you want to get out of Texas.”

  My stomach tightens. “No. That’s not true,” I say. But, of course, it mostly is.

  He leans over the side of his beach chair again, getting in my face, almost daring me to flinch. I stay right where I am as he picks up a finger and wags it in my direction.

  “Come on,” he says slyly. “When we were kids, all you talked about was traveling. You wanted to see the world.” He holds up both hands in the air. “You wanted to be some big reporter.”

  I smirk and roll my eyes, while inside I am alive with electricity. I cannot believe he remembers that. “So? Big deal. I’m still planning on seeing the world.”