First Love

by G. L. Snodgrass

  “He’s very good,” I said. “But I think it’s the lead guitarist that makes the band. You bring a sexy energy full of mystery and pure talent. It is a killer combination.”

  My face flushed. Had I just told him that I thought he was sexy? I was sure I was as red as a fire engine. But it was true.

  He looked down at his plate and mumbled “Thanks.”

  “Like I said, we got a recording contract and this time I think we’ve got a chance. The guys are into the music not the lifestyle. You know?”

  “That is so great,” I said. “I’m happy for you. It sounds like you’ve found what you wanted.”

  “Yeah, well that’s the thing,” he said with a sigh. “There’s something missing.”

  “What?” I asked as I held my breath.

  He looked into my eyes for a long moment then said, “You.”

  Had I heard him right? What did he mean? “I don’t understand?”

  Michael paused for a moment to gather himself, taking a deep breath he said, “Ever since the day I left you with your mom and dad I’ve felt an emptiness, as if something was missing from my life.”

  All I could do was nod. If I tried to talk I’d fail miserably. Had he just said what I thought he said?

  “Listen Sasha,” he said as he reached across the table to take my hand. “We’re going to be in town for at least two months recording. I thought … Maybe we could spend some time together. You know. Pick up where we left off. Then if maybe you want to. You could come on the road with us.”

  Okay, my world had just turned inside out. Traveling around with Michael. Spending time with each other. Hotel rooms not campsites. With big fluffy beds and room service.

  “Um … I thought bands like yours didn’t take girls on the road. More like they find them along the way.”

  “It’s not like that. Two of the guys have girlfriends with them and Jimmy’s wife will join us for part of it. I’m telling you. This band is different.”

  “You mean like girlfriend and boyfriend. Us?” I asked unable to believe what I was hearing.

  A look of fear creased his eyes as he winced. He was afraid I was going to laugh in his face. The idiot. The lovable, wonderful, sexy as hell idiot.

  “It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about you. I fall asleep at night wondering where you are, what you’re doing … like I said. I’ll be in town for a couple of months. We could spend it getting to know each other. Maybe …”

  “Michael Travers, I spent four days in a pick-up with you. I know more about you than anyone else in the world. Probably even more than my own parents. What’s more you know more about me than anyone else. Ever. If you think I need two months to figure it out, you’re crazy.”

  His brow narrowed in confusion. “So, what does that mean exactly?”

  I took a moment to study him. His velvety green eyes, that silly crooked nose. All of him.

  “It means you idiot. That if you break my heart again I’m going to hit you upside the head with a brick. Yes. Yes to going on tour with you. Yes to the whole boyfriend and girlfriend thing. Yes to all of it. I don’t need two months to get to know you. I knew what I needed to know a long time ago. Yes.”

  Michael sat there stunned for a moment. Only a short moment, but it was long enough for me to scoot out of my side of the booth and into his. He pulled me into one of his patented hugs and we held each other.

  The world was right, the world was good. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace pass through me. To be quickly followed a rush of hormones and desire.

  I didn’t know for sure where we were going or where we’d end up. I just knew I was going to savor the winding road that got us there.

  The End

  Loving My Best Friend

  Chapter One

  Tara

  Being in love with your best friend is a unique, exquisite pain. That unrequited love that eats at your soul. In my case, it was even worse. He lived next door.

  I couldn’t get away from that stomach-churning fear that ate at my insides. I have to see him come home from baseball practice. Dirty uniform, happy smile. I have to see him Sunday afternoon, bent over, working out front on his car. We spent half of each day being together and he could never know. It would ruin everything. Our friendship, my sanity, everything.

  Even watching him mow the grass was painful.

  The worst though, the absolute most terrible thing was watching other girls hang all over him like he was the greatest thing since the invention of Instagram. It drove me up the wall. Listening to them giggle amongst themselves. Talking about Grant like he was a hunk of meat.

  Sometimes, it seemed like they were only attracted to his good looks and his high social status. Not the real Grant. Not my Grant.

  They didn’t know the real Grant. Not the one I knew. The boy who was there for me when my dad died. Silently holding me while I cried into his shoulder for days. The boy who had slowly showed me life could be worth living again. That tragedies could be overcome.

  They didn’t see the silly Grant who would laugh at his own jokes. What was even more special was the way he laughed at mine, snorting mountain dew out his nose at my lame attempt at humor. Or the way he loved Monty Python so much it ruled his life. I swear if I never have to watch “Life of Brian” again, it will be too soon.

  All I know was that he was always there for me. In sixth grade, I broke my leg jumping off the swing. Grant spent the entire summer hanging out with me. Playing video games and keeping me company. I know he would have rather been outside playing baseball. But nope, I was more important.

  Those girls would never understand the real Grant.

  I couldn’t really blame them for drooling all over themselves when it came to Grant. He was just too much of a good thing. Tall, star baseball player. Smart, kind. Built like a brick wall. Everything a girl could want. And of course, that black hair and blue eye combo was devastating.

  But I had known him first.

  We sat next to each other on the school bus every day for years. When the other boys teased him about sitting next to a girl. Grant just laughed them off. Nothing ever bothered him. He was born with that innate confidence that let him not care what other people thought.

  The two of us were friends. To Grant, that was all that mattered. I was the one to catch his first successful curveball. I still remembered the slack-jawed expression of shock on his face when the ball dropped a good two feet into my glove.

  Grant was the one who taught me how to drive after my mom failed miserably. It was his calm encouragement that got me onto the freeway for the first time. He was only sixteen himself and had been driving all of sixty-three days. But he acted like he was a lifelong expert. Calm, knowledgeable, encouraging. With Grant, I always knew I wasn’t being judged.

  Grant was my best friend, and being in love with him was slowly killing me.

  Sighing, I checked myself in the hallway mirror before leaving for school. Everything looked okay. Cute green top. Levi jeans. Brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Tara, you look wonderful,” Mom said as she came down the stairs. I tried not to roll my eyes. Mom had to say that, it came with the rule book they issued mothers. But deep in my gut, I knew I wasn’t in Grant’s league. I’d never be in his league. The only girls to make that league were future Miss America candidates. The ones on their way to advanced degrees.

  No, I was pure best friend material at best.

  Straitening my shoulders, I told mom, “Thanks,” and stepped outside to find Grant standing next to his car waiting for me. A ’68 forest green Charger that I had helped him rebuild last summer.

  I glanced up at the sky. A typical northwest March morning. Gray, with a ninety percent chance of becoming grayer.

  Grant shot me a quick smile. “Tara, you’d be late for your own funeral,” he said as he opened his door and shot me that killer smile over the car’s roof.

  All I could do was shake my head. The man wouldn’t know how to give a c
ompliment if it slapped him upside the head. I’d worn this top because I knew it was his favorite color.

  Swallowing a quick retort, I got into the front seat next to him. That familiar scent of spicy musk and leather greeted me as I silently sent up a quick thank you that Grant was currently between girlfriends.

  That was our unofficial understanding. No girlfriend, then I was upfront like a normal person. Girlfriend, I was relegated to the back seat like a little kid.

  If the girlfriend had her way, I’d have been left at the curb. But Grant always insisted I tag along.

  Mom and I were currently in a long argument about me getting a car. She wanted me to save my money for college. Why spend money when the bus got me to school just fine. But Mom was a single mother. To her, life was scrimping and cutting costs at every chance.

  I understood, but that didn’t mean I agreed.

  Grant turned the key to start the car. That heavy throb of the V-8 sent a small sense of pride straight through me. I’d helped create that sound. Of course, that mostly meant me handing tools to Grant. But still. I’d helped.

  “So, you got any plans for Friday night?” He asked out of the blue.

  My heart jumped into overdrive. Was he talking to me? Of course, he was. I was the only other person in the car. Unless he was rehearsing asking some other girl out. And me, being me, I of course immediately jumped to that conclusion. But then I realized, Grant didn’t need to rehearse. He just had to cock an eyebrow and most girls fell over themselves as they rushed to him.

  Grant shot me a quick glance as if wondering if I had heard him or not.

  “Who me?” I asked as my heart continued to pound in my chest. Was Grant Metcalf going to ask me out? No, that was impossible in my world.

  Grant frowned. “Yes, you. Got any plans?”

  My mouth had gone so dry I couldn’t feel my tongue. All I could do was shake my head while I held my breath.

  Grant smiled slightly. “Good. The coach gave me the keys. I need to start getting ready for the season. Feel like giving me a hand?”

  My heart fell to my shoes. Great, just how I wanted to spend Friday night. In sweats, shin guards, crouching behind home plate. The boy could be so cruel without even being aware of it.

  I nodded that I would help. What else could I do? This was Grant Metcalf.

  He lit up like a Christmas tree at the thought of getting back on the mound. It was almost baseball season. His reason for living. Just once in my life, I wished he’d look at me like that. As if I was the most important thing in his world. As if I was his reason for living.

  “Did you finish the homework for Anderson’s class?” he asked, already two miles past the plans for Friday night, while my mind couldn’t even begin to let it go.

  “Yes,” I mumbled.

  “Want me to look it over?” he asked, knowing my problems with trigonometry.

  “No,” I answered as I tried to understand how life could be so cruel. For just the briefest of seconds I had glimpsed nirvana, but instead, my dreams had been shot down. All while Grant was off thinking about my homework.

  Grant nodded as he pulled into the school parking lot then threw me another curve ball.

  “So, what do you think of Cindy Lewellen?”

  My stomach clenched up into a tight fist at the mere mention of my nemesis.

  “Why?” I asked, “I’m hoping you aren’t looking for a brain surgeon. But if you need an obnoxious, backstabbing barbie doll, then she might fit the bill.”

  Grant shot me a strange look then said, “That’s right, I forgot you two had a history.”

  My eyebrows arched to the top of my hairline. History? The boy thought we had a history. He wasn’t even close. What we had was a mutual hate that tracked back to second grade. I had made the mistake of calling her Cindy Lu after the Dr. Seuss character. She even had the blond pigtails. It wasn’t that much of a cut. At least not in my mind.

  Two hours later, when somehow a bottle of Elmer’s glue got ‘accidentally’ spilled on my head. I realized just how serious the insult had been taken.

  After that, she would always be Cincy Lucifer, demon spawn of the Devil himself. I still got a sick feeling in my stomach whenever I smelled Elmer’s glue. Needless to say, we never became friends. Instead, it had been years of subtle insults and outright sabotage between the two of us.

  “Why?” I asked as we got out of the car. Grant knew how much I despised the girl. Why was he even talking about her?

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. She keeps appearing where ever I go. It’s weird. I thought I might ask her out this Saturday.”

  My heart jumped into panic mode until he laughed and shot me a look that let me know he was teasing. Pushing my buttons. He had no intention of asking Cindy out. He just loved making me mad for some reason.

  All I could do was shake my head. “You know, there are better reasons to ask a girl out than the size of her chest.”

  Grant smiled slightly and slowly shook his head. “No. Actually, I don’t think there are.”

  “God, you are such a sexist pig,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

  He laughed. But he didn’t deny it either.

  I grimaced as I turned down the hall without saying goodbye. I was not going to reward the jerk for teasing me. Especially on such a sensitive subject. Besides, I was worried about the trig homework.

  As we pulled into the parking lot next to the field on Friday night, I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it was dark and we were all alone. No one would see me dressed like this. Sweatpants. And not those cute, yoga pants. No, old, scraggly gray sweats, two sizes too big. And one of Grant’s old T-shirts. A black AC/DC shirt that had somehow made it to my room. I swear I didn’t steal it. I just borrowed it for the last four years.

  “Come on,” he said with a huge smile as he jumped out of the car with his glove and headed for the equipment shed. His face as happy as a little boy on Christmas morning. I tagged along behind him while he opened the shed and threw the circuit breakers for the lights.

  The sudden clank sound of each switch being shoved into position echoed over the field. Then the lights sprang into action, bathing the green field in a sharp glow. Grant turned and smiled at me. Heaven. His heaven.

  I smiled back at him. I loved seeing him happy. It did something to my insides. I might never achieve my dreams. But seeing him happy was the next best thing.

  He grabbed a duffle bag filled with baseballs and a couple of bats. I ignored the catcher’s gear. I had my own set along with my own catcher's mitt. Their stuff was way too big. But really all I needed was the shin guards. Without a batter spitting off foul balls. All I needed to worry about was sliders in the dirt bouncing up and hitting me in the shin. I’d learned years ago that bruises were not cute.

  Grant stretched. Twisting and bending to loosen his muscles, then he tossed me a ball. We played catch back and forth as I tried to not stare at the way his muscles moved or how wide his shoulders were.

  Finally, he was warmed up enough for us to get started. Taking a deep breath I moved behind the plate and squatted, giving him a target. God, what an attractive picture I must present, I thought.

  The ball hit the back of my glove with a resounding slap. Grant smiled. He was home.

  After fifteen minutes we took a quick break.

  “Your shoulder is opening up,” I told him as I walked towards the mound.

  “I know,” he said with a grimace. “But I’ve got a couple of weeks to get it fixed.

  That was the thing about Grant, he just assumed I would be willing to help him. But then, why wouldn’t I. I’d been catching him since before little league.

  “Want to hit some?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. That was the other thing about Grant. He knew how much I loved hitting a baseball. That solid thunk the bat made. The feeling of perfect power when I hit the sweet spot.

  “Sure, but you’re gathering them up.”

  He laughed and nodded acceptance
of my condition.

  Stepping into the batter's box I waited for his pitch. I’d been catching all night, I had the timing down for his fastball. So, of course, the jerk bent a curveball that I missed by six inches.

  “Hey, I yelled. That’s not fair. Remember, you’ve got to keep the help happy or the help is going to find something better to do on Friday nights.”

  He laughed and said, “Okay, okay. I’ll groove one down the middle.”

  He was a man of his word and I laced the ball to the gap in left. Man, that felt good. I had forgotten how much I had missed this. Grant and me on the baseball field having fun, just like we had done for the last dozen years.

  A happiness settled over me and for just a moment I forgot about how I felt about him and how much it hurt. Instead, I was in the moment. Just the two of us having fun.

  After he’d thrown the last pitch, I relented and helped him retrieve all the balls I had scattered in the outfield.

  “You hungry?” he asked as he deposited the equipment back in the shed and secured the lights.

  “I didn’t bring any money. These pants don’t come with pockets,”

  He laughed, “Why don’t you use a purse?”

  Now it was my time to laugh. “It didn’t go with my outfit. Besides, girls who depend on a purse do not squat behind home plate and catch ninety miles an hour fastballs.”

  He laughed again and said, “Don’t worry about it. It is on me. It is the least I can do for you helping me out tonight.”

  My heart stopped. What was this? Grant and I always split the bill. It was one of those unspoken rules that helped us stay in the friend zone. My brow narrowed as I tried to understand what was going on.

  Grant chuckled and shook his head, “Don’t over think it, Tara. I’m starved and want to get something to eat. Do you want to or not?”

  Well, that pretty much clarified things. We were still in the friend zone.

  Sighing internally I nodded and told him thanks. But deep inside I so wished it was a real date.

  Chapter Two

  Tara

  It was the first game of the season and on our home field. I had my regular spot on the bench next to Coach Livingston, keeping the scorebook. And yes, I probably could have kept the book from in the stands and not the dugout. But I’ve never been known as being normal.