Stuck With You (First Kiss Hypothesis)

by Christina Mandelski

  Just hangin’

  Another long pause. Too long. And I know she didn’t suddenly get distracted from her phone. She’s staring at it, wondering what “hangin’” means.

  Okay.

  Great. An “okay” with a period. She doesn’t believe me.

  Okay?

  Yes.

  All this punctuation makes me nervous, and then I remind myself that it’s Mom, not Sunny or Ainsley or anyone else under the age of twenty who understands that ending a text with a period is completely passive aggressive.

  Kk

  I add a smiling emoji and hope that’s going to be enough to convince her that nothing fishy is going on at the beach house.

  See you tomorrow.

  Another period.

  Kk see you then

  I put down the phone. What does happen tomorrow?

  Are we going to pretend that nothing has gone on here, like we’re still just Catie and Caleb? Or are we going to break it to them that things have changed?

  I look longingly at Caleb’s hockey jersey that I left on the floor, his name on the back facing up. He left the sport when he went to Florida for his family, and I wonder if he misses it. Honestly, that boy would do anything for his family.

  Of course, look at me. I go to the pictures gallery on my phone and see a few of Gramps that I took last Tuesday at our weekly ice cream date. He doesn’t get out as much anymore, but I get him into the car and we drive over to the DQ in town. Sometimes I have to help with the spoon when he eats his vanilla with the chocolate sauce that hardens up. He’s very predictable—always orders the same thing. I think I get my predictability from him.

  Caleb said that Gramps would kill me if he knew that I wasn’t going to even try to get into the Northwestern program, and he’s not wrong. All my life, Gramps has filled my head with stories of his travels when he was in the oil business. He’s ridden camels in Egypt and been to the Great Wall and sailed through the fjords in Norway. He had real, epic adventures, and I know, more than anything, that he wants the same for me. I want the same thing for me, too, but there’s always been this big part of me that needs to know what comes next. I like predictability. How could I ever be a decent working journalist if I think like that?

  Mom and Dad have told me since birth that the store is my security; that as long as I work hard, I’ll never have to worry about anything, and I’ll never have to work for someone else. It sounds good, but listening to Professor Jackson talk about this job he’s so passionate about, and seeing Caleb get all excited about it while trying to act like he wasn’t, makes me think, maybe it’s worth it, doing something you love versus something that’s secure.

  I wonder if I can convince him to apply to A&M Galveston. I know he’s committed to the school in Florida, and that’s a big deal to him, but I want him to find his passion. I want him to be happy.

  Maybe he’d do it if I tell him I’m applying to Northwestern. An if-you-do-it-I’ll-do-it situation. It could work, and it’s not like I’m lying—I’ll apply, I probably won’t get in in, and they definitely won’t give me enough money, but it won’t matter—Caleb would be in Texas, doing what he wants and closer to me, and whatever comes after that, we’ll deal with.

  He’s not back with Mo yet, so I go to the living room and open my laptop that’s on the dining table and pull up the Northwestern website. I’ve been here before—to the website, after the admissions counselor visited our school. Mrs. Ramsey, my journalism teacher, asked her to come specifically to talk to me. I didn’t know that until the meeting was over. Mrs. Ramsey sat me down afterward and talked to me about all the doors that could open for me.

  It was the first time I’d ever considered that there even was more than one door—more than the one that led into the showroom and offices of my parents’ company.

  The home page of the website shows a beautiful campus just outside of Chicago, where I have never been, right on the edge of Lake Michigan. It would be very different.

  That’s not the point, though. The point is to show Caleb that I’m applying, so that maybe he’ll be open to changing his mind, too.

  Even though I’m almost positive I won’t get in, my fingers shake when I click on the application, and my pulse quickens, like I’m doing something that’s forbidden. Seeing the form pop up in front of me gives me this rush of adrenaline, like nothing I’ve felt before, not even kissing Caleb. I read the application requirements for first-year students. They sound relatively painless.

  If I apply, maybe he’ll apply.

  The front door opens, and Caleb comes in, looking distracted—maybe even angry.

  “Hi,” I say from the dining table.

  He stops, lifts his eyes to me. “Hey.” He smiles but then looks away. “Need some water,” he says as he powers through to the kitchen.

  “Everything okay?” I call to him. My fingers are poised over the keyboard to begin the app.

  “Yeah,” he finally says. It’s funny how I haven’t spent time with him for so long, but I still know he’s lying. It’s like remembering the lyrics to a song even if you haven’t heard it for years.

  I head into the kitchen.

  “You don’t sound okay.” I move toward him, because I’m worried and also because I want him to hold me, maybe even kiss me. Maybe that makes me selfish, but it’s a very strong want.

  He opens the fridge and grabs a water bottle, closes it again, and manages another small, completely insincere smile.

  “I am.” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms.

  Something has happened, I know this, but I tell myself not to worry. If he’s not going to reach out for me, I’m more than happy to reach out for him. I do, gripping his biceps with my hands, hoping he’ll open his arms and pull me in. He doesn’t.

  “Okay.” I lift my arms and put them around his neck and feel his body relax against me. There’s the smile. He puts his arms around my waist and rests his hands on the small of my back.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, averting his gaze. “I just talked to my dad.”

  “What’s up?”

  “They’re on their way,” he says. I know there’s more, but I don’t want to push. If he wants to tell me, he can.

  “I talked to my mom, too,” I say. “She saw on her phone tracker that we went to Galveston, so she wanted to make sure that nothing was going on.” I grimace.

  “What did you tell her?” he asks me, his eyes glinting.

  “I told her we were just hanging.”

  He loosens his grip on me. “Is that what we’re going to tell them?” He sounds annoyed, and I resist the urge to back away.

  “No. I mean. I don’t know. We’ll see, right? I just didn’t want her to be suspicious.” I feel my anxiety creeping in, a vein pulsing in my neck. “Caleb, what’s wrong? What did your dad say?”

  “Nothing.” His answer is a staccato blip.

  Then why does it feel like he’s not even here with me? “You seem mad.”

  “Don’t.” He says with a look that feels like he’s pushing me away.

  “Don’t what?” I ask.

  He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. “When I say something, you can trust it.”

  I step back out of his arms, trying to find my voice over the lump that’s formed in my throat. “I’m not saying you always need to tell me exactly what you’re thinking. But you were fine when you left, and now you’re angry. If you don’t tell me why, then I start thinking things that worry me. Should I be worried?”

  He pushes a hand through his hair. “Come on. No. Why should you worry?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because you said I scare you? I’m not sure that’s the good thing you say it is.”

  He doesn’t say a word.

  “Believe it or not, I’m scared, too. I like you, Caleb, but I’m scared. Because I’m not going to stop asking you questions and trying to find out what’s going on in your head. That’s just who I am. And what if you get tired of that again?
What if you start hating me again?”

  “No,” he says, moving in close. “Catie.” He screws up his mouth, pulls his eyebrows together. “I’m not going to get tired of you. And I never hated you. I never will.”

  He pulls me closer, holding onto both my hands. “I am completely, totally sorry,” he says, his eyebrows pulled together. “I swear.”

  I puff out a breath. “Hmm.”

  He traces his fingers up my arm, setting fire to every nerve ending he touches. “And also, I am scared of you, and you’re gonna have to deal with that.” He kisses the top of my head. “You terrify me.”

  I chuckle then relax into him.

  His fingers trail up and down my arms again, and I shiver.

  “I’m sorry, Cate. I really am.”

  “Just promise me you’ll talk to me? Don’t get mad that I care about you?”

  “I promise.”

  By now our bodies are pressed together, and even though I still wonder what his father said on that phone call, when he kisses me with more force than he has before, my mind goes dark.

  I meet his kiss with as much want, maybe more. I can’t tell. I reach under his shirt and push it up. He does the same to mine. It’s like we’re on autopilot, taking off our tops and making our way to the sofa, where we kiss and find ourselves horizontal together. In case he has any doubt what I want to happen, I begin to work my shorts off. We don’t stop kissing, and I can’t believe that the heat I feel inside isn’t searing his skin.

  Then he stops, pulls back, looking down into my eyes. “We need to stop. Now.”

  My shorts are off. “No,” I say. “Please don’t. I don’t care what happens next. I mean, I do. Just don’t stop.”

  But stop he does.

  Oh my God, I want to die.

  He rolls off of me, drops his head on my shoulder, and growls so loudly that Mo comes running, barking like mad.

  “Caleb!” I say loudly. “You do realize that our parents will be here tomorrow?”

  He moves to the floor, next to where I’m still horizontal and frustrated.

  “So, what?” he says. “If I want it, I gotta get it now?”

  I reach out and grab one of the throw pillows, then swat the side of his head with it. “Yes, actually. I mean, how is it that easy for you to stop?”

  He turns to me. “If you think that was easy…” He shakes his head and looks down at his midsection. “It was not, my friend.” He pulls the blanket off of the cushion behind me and covers his shorts. “It’s harder for a guy to stop than a girl.”

  I sit up on my elbow and glare at him. “What, did you read that in the Man Handbook?”

  He laughs. “All right, you don’t have to get all feminist on me.” He reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through mine. “How’d you find out about the Man Handbook?”

  I smile. And I try not to worry. He wants this—he wants us.

  I can trust him, can’t I?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Caleb

  We put our clothes back on.

  I mean, we’ve got to stop this. We’ve been together for three days and have spent way too much time in our underwear together, and man, I can’t take it. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want her. But I can’t have her. Something’s always stopping me—and it’s not just her parents, and it’s not that I’m doubting my feelings.

  It’s that regret thing. I don’t want her to regret it. I’m not saying she doesn’t know her mind (and suggesting it would most likely get me punched in the gut), but I don’t want to ruin this. I’m so confused, but I wasn’t lying. I want this, and her. But more than wanting her, I want her to be happy. That’s the truth.

  As for me, happiness is relative. I’m happy right now, today. That might be all I get. It’s my own fault, because even though I have denied it to everyone, there’s a big part of me that knows exactly what I want to do: I want to go to school here, in Galveston. And that’s not happening. After my phone call with Dad, I know for sure—going to college here, majoring in Ocean Engineering, is not going to happen.

  Dad went to see a property near Orlando. Him, Mom, and the Dixons all agree, it’s a good investment and a good time to expand. Oh, and the best part is that it’s only minutes away from CFU’s campus, where I’ll be living. So they’ll be in town a lot, and I’ll be able to help out in the store during the off-season. It’s win-win, Dad called it. He sounded so proud when he told me the news.

  Then he mentioned the more-frequent storms, and how any business like flooring booms where there’s hurricane damage.

  The irony of that almost killed me after what I’ve learned about this Ocean Engineering program and how I could potentially help limit damage in areas that get slammed by hurricanes. That could be my job.

  Dad’s right, of course—about the hurricanes and our business. There’s money in natural disasters. Our family knows that firsthand. And my dad, he’s a good guy. He made a big deal about the fact that no one was gonna expect me to be at the store all the time. Lacrosse and school come first.

  He wants good things for me. He isn’t trying to tie me down.

  So why do I feel like a prisoner, chained to this one future?

  Catie pulls her shirt back over her head and catches me staring at her.

  “You sure about this?” she asks, with the batting eyelashes. “Give me another chance to convince you?”

  I hum and breathe deeply. “Noooo,” I turn away. “How about I make you dinner?”

  “I’m only hungry for you,” she calls as I walk to the kitchen.

  God, this girl. “Well, too bad. We’re having hot dogs.”

  While they grill, we play some cards on the deck and watch the colors of the sky as the sun sets. The same sun and sky as the first day we were here together, but somehow completely different, because of her.

  After dinner, I suggest a walk. We clear the table, and by the time we get down to the beach with Mo, the sun is gone for the day.

  She holds my hand as we make our way onto the sand, and we walk together in silence, which isn’t like us—especially her.

  “What’re you thinkin’?” I ask after she’s been quiet for too long.

  She stops walking and laughs, but it breaks in half, like she’s crying. “That this has been like a dream. And I don’t want it to end.”

  I put my arm around her.

  Now she’s crying. I’m glad it’s dark, because I feel tears creeping up in my eyes, too.

  “It’s gonna be okay, Catie. It is.” But you can feel it between us, that the minutes are ticking by, and soon, all this will be over. We won’t be over, but this time, our time, together.

  Back up on the deck, we lay down on the wide lounge chair together. She’s small enough so that we both fit. I’ve got my arms around her, and her legs tangle up with mine. I can hardly believe it. It’s so weird to be like this with her, and also, not weird at all.

  “Caleb?” she says.

  I breathe. I know it’s time to figure out what happens next. We can’t pretend tomorrow isn’t going to come, or next week, or college. It’s all going to happen.

  “Catie?”

  She sits up crisscross beside me. “I want you to apply to that program.”

  “Catie…” I shake my head.

  “No. I do,” she says. “Don’t even try to deny that you want to.”

  “It’s not that simple.” I think of my father’s voice on the phone today, so excited about opening another office, telling me how proud he is of me—the scholarship, my future in lacrosse. The Olympics. Everything he said sounded like it ended in an exclamation point. It’s hard to argue with all that enthusiasm.

  The truth is, my father doesn’t know what I want, and that’s not his fault. I don’t know, either. Or I didn’t—and now it’s too late.

  “It is that simple,” she says. “I saw your face when the professor was going on and on about that program. You were practically glowing. He said he could get you in—he said the
re’s probably money for you. Then if you did, we’d both be in the same state. That would be good, too, right? So I think you should do it.” She pulls back, her eyes boring into mine.

  She’s got a point—all of it—a good point. But I can’t do any of it, and suddenly, I’m pissed off. Not at her, but at my life.

  I stiffen up and untangle myself from her limbs, throwing my legs over the side of the chair, sitting on the edge with my back to her.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I mutter.

  “What are you talking about?” she says. “I thought you weren’t gonna get mad at me for being honest with you?”

  “I’m not mad at you, Catie, but I can’t change my whole life because you want me to be in the same state as you.”

  “Now I know you didn’t just say that, Caleb Gray,” she says, laying a warm hand on my shoulder. “Of course that’s not the only reason I want you here. I want you to do what makes you happy. I think this would make you happy.”

  I stand up quickly and cross my arms.

  “What is wrong with you?” she says. “Would you please sit down?”

  “No. I think better when I stand,” I say.

  She purses her lips like that’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard, like she knows every damn thing that I’m thinking and has something to say about it.

  Of course, she does. She always does.

  “If it’s so easy,” I grumble, “why won’t you do this Northwestern thing?”

  “Okay, fine,” she says, surprisingly calmly. “You’re right. I’ll do it. I’ll apply. If you do it, I’ll do it.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I will apply. I have to try, right? Now what about you?”

  She doesn’t understand. My parents are counting on me. My coach is counting on me. “It’s too late.”

  “Caleb, come on, it’s not too late.” She keeps talking as my heart pounds in my ears. “Your parents will get over it—they’ll be so proud of you—they’ve always been proud of you. You can do no wrong in their eyes. Come to think of it, my parents think you can do no wrong, either. You tell them out of the blue that you’re coming to Galveston to figure out how to save the beach house, and I guarantee my mother will throw you the biggest party this peninsula has ever seen!”