by Kasie West
“Fine.” I unwrapped the gauze and squeezed some ointment onto it. “Just do it fast. Once you pull that glass out, it’s going to gush.”
He smirked at me from his crouched position. “This might hurt.”
“Why do you look like you’re going to enjoy that?”
He let out a single laugh, yanked out the glass, and dropped it in the trash by the toilet.
I swallowed down my scream of pain and Andrew quickly applied pressure with the towel, both his hands wrapped tightly around my foot.
“Mr. Stanton is not going to be happy about his ruined towel,” I said.
“I’ll buy him another one.”
Everything was as easy as that for Andrew, I sensed. I leaned my head back against the mirror again, the light-headed sensation returning.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He removed the towel and pressed the gauze to my foot. Then he wrapped my entire foot three times with the tape and tore it with his teeth. He stood, brushing against my knees. He didn’t move, just remained standing there with his hands on either side of my thighs, and met my eyes.
I stared back, no words coming to me no matter how hard I searched for them. I willed my hands to move, to push him away from me, but they wouldn’t. They stayed there, braced on the counter, inches from his.
“Not even a thank-you?” he asked.
“Right … yes … thanks,” I said, not sure why I had such a hard time saying that to him, even when he deserved it.
“You’re welcome,” he said, still not moving. He was studying my face and I wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for there. His expression was unreadable. I tried to make mine equally so.
“You should go,” I was finally able to say. “Your dad informed me he doesn’t want me anywhere near his things.”
Andrew frowned. “What?”
“I think he mainly meant you.”
“He didn’t say that,” Andrew said.
“No, he did.”
“I think, Soph, that you hear only what you want to hear.”
“I think, Drew, that you see only what you want to see. Especially when it comes to your father.”
He clenched and unclenched his jaw, then handed me the bloody towel and left the bathroom.
Say that again,” Micah said, popping open her trunk. “You need my organizational skills to save you?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure you keeping a pair of my shoes in your trunk can be considered organized. Maybe just obsessive. How long have you had them in here anyway? What shoes are they?”
There was no way I could navigate cleaning up the reception area barefoot or in heels, not with all the glass still littering the pavement. But Micah was coming through for me once again.
She reached around her just-in-case to a shoebox toward the back. “No, they aren’t your shoes. They’re shoes I bought for myself but they ended up being too big on me, so I figured I’d save them for you for a moment like this.”
“Because moments like this happen often?”
“It’s happening, isn’t it? How about just praising me for my foresight.”
I hugged her. “Thank you, Micah, for being my overly prepared best friend in the whole world.”
She smiled and handed me the box. “You’re welcome.” She picked up a folded T-shirt. “And put this on too.”
My clothes were still wet and it would be nice to feel dry. We were going to be here at least another hour, if not longer, with the disaster that awaited us. I took the T-shirt and opened the shoebox. “Cowboy boots? So this is why you didn’t just gift them to me in the first place. You knew I’d never wear these.”
She smiled. “Beggars can’t be choosers. Now swallow that pride of yours and go change so that we can actually go home at some point tonight.”
She always knew the exact words to say. Pride. That word got to me every time. I limped my way to the passenger seat of her car, changed my shirt, and pulled on the boots. The rearview mirror proved I’d seen better days. I finger combed my hair and worked off the smudged mascara beneath my eyes. Then I joined everyone back at the slate-paved reception area. At least it had stopped raining.
“Cute!” Micah said from where she was collecting abandoned dishes from the tables.
I pointed one finger at Andrew, who had looked up with Micah’s declaration. “Don’t,” I said.
“What?” he returned. “I didn’t say a word.”
“Your face said it.” My foot still hurt, but at least it was protected. I limped around for the next hour, mostly collecting marbles and vowing to never use them in vases again if I could help it.
My back hurt from bending over. I stood and stretched, taking in what we had left to do.
Micah was standing by what remained of the destroyed wedding cake. “Your dad didn’t make this, did he, Andrew?”
Andrew dropped a tablecloth onto the pile we’d created. “No. He doesn’t do wedding cakes. I think this was made by a local bakery.”
Micah nodded. Andrew picked up a chunk of cake and popped it in his mouth only to make a disgusted face.
“What?” I said. “Rainwater isn’t a good additive?”
“Why didn’t you guys use tents today?” Andrew asked. “There was a thirty percent chance of rain.” His tone made it sound like he thought we were idiots, which was surely what he did think.
“Because the bride wanted to avoid tents at all costs. She hates the way they look,” I said.
“Oh right, I forgot. The client always knows best.”
“It mostly worked out,” Micah said. “It was a beautiful wedding.”
“It was a five out of ten,” Andrew said. “I’ve been to a lot of weddings. This was average.”
Micah picked up a big chunk of cake and threw it at him. It hit him right on the side of the face, then slid off and landed with a wet splat on the ground.
I sucked my lips in, trying not to laugh.
Andrew slowly turned to face her, his expression a mix between anger and humor. “What was that for?”
“Being a snob,” she said.
He picked up a handful of cake himself. Micah shrieked and ran toward Lance, who had just come out of the house. Micah ducked behind him. Lance looked confused until Andrew came barreling around him and smashed his handful of cake right in Micah’s face to her squeals of laughter.
“I am not in this fight,” Lance proclaimed.
Micah blew air between her lips and wiped her face along the back of Lance’s shirt.
“Micah!” Lance tried to shake her off but she continued.
“This cake is nasty,” she said.
I laughed this time; I couldn’t help it. Andrew, Micah, and Lance all looked my way, and I knew I was in trouble.
“No!” I yelled. “I didn’t do anything! And I’m injured. I can’t run!” I limped toward the parking lot.
Andrew caught up with me first, grabbing me around the waist from behind, my feet lifting off the ground. Then Micah and Lance were in front of me and I received an entire face full of cake.
“Not cool!” I wiped my face with my hand. Lance and Micah were now in a mini cake fight, chasing each other around some tables.
“Put me down,” I said.
“Put your feet down,” Andrew said next to my ear.
“Oh. Right.” I lowered my feet and he released me.
I heard the sound of a buzzing phone. Andrew pulled it out of his pocket and swiped on the screen. I watched his jaw tighten again, like it had earlier.
“Who’s texting you?” Micah said, sliding up beside us. She must not have noticed he wasn’t happy about this text.
He put on a smile. “Just my mom,” he said.
His mom. I vaguely remembered him saying that his mom had left when his dad’s career had ended or something along those lines. I had thought he was implying she wasn’t in his life at all, but maybe I wa
s wrong.
“Tell her we say hi,” Micah responded happily.
My eyes went between Micah and Andrew. Micah knew him better than I did. Maybe he and his mom had reconciled or had never had a falling out to begin with. Maybe I was imagining the tense jaw and anger in his eyes. He was smiling, after all.
Andrew met my eyes, as if silently asking if I had anything to add, as if wanting me to say something that gave him permission to drop the fake smile. My mind went back to that day in the van when he admitted that it was hard for him to make friends, to let people in, to bare his soul. He feared getting close to anyone because he always moved. He always left. That was his deal. And I wasn’t the right person to change how he normally dealt with it.
“Yep,” I said. “Say hi to your mom.”
With his smile more firmly in place, he looked back at his phone and started typing.
It was official. I was still a jerk. What was it about Andrew that brought out the worst in me?
CARNATION
A flower with a potent fragrance and distinct shape, mostly known for being the choice of cheapskates. Bring someone a carnation and you may as well have plucked a dandelion out of a crack in the sidewalk. But carnations don’t mind their reputation. They are both hardy and long-lasting. Stubborn little flowers. Long live the carnation!
My fingertips were various shades of blue and red. I’d spent the night before dyeing white carnations with food coloring. It wasn’t hard: Trim the stems under water, then add the dyes. The flowers soak the color right up to produce the cool effect of color-streaked tips. Bundle some red, white, and blue flowers together and you have instant all-American patriotism.
“This is what passes for a lake around here?” Andrew asked, joining me at the picnic table where I had set up shop. “Are there any gators in there?” he added in a horrible attempt at a Southern accent.
“Andrew.” I nodded at him in greeting. “A month away from you almost made me forget how charming you are.”
“My charm is unforgettable,” he said with a grin.
“No gators,” I said, arranging the red, white, and blue carnations in a vase. “They like southern Alabama better.” I gave him a sideways glance. He was wearing a blue polo shirt, its collar turned up, and some plaid shorts that no guy around here would’ve been seen dead in, because they hit him above the knee.
“How cute!” Micah said as she walked up. “You two look like you could take a couple’s picture together.” She set a large glass beverage dispenser on the table.
I glared at her, then looked down at my outfit. I wore a sundress, but she was right; it was almost the same exact plaid as his shorts. “Nice,” I said.
“How’s your foot?” Andrew asked me.
It took me a minute to remember that the last time he’d seen me, I’d cut open my foot at the wedding.
It was summer, so not much had happened since then aside from working at Every Occasion and going to drive-in movies with Micah and on diner runs and lake trips with Gunnar, but it felt like forever ago.
“Fine,” I said. “Healed.” With a killer scar. “How’s … whatever you do when you disappear?”
“Good. I got to get out of this town for several weeks and actually see things and people.”
I rolled my eyes.
Micah gestured toward the lake in front of us. “And now you get to enjoy the real life. Simple and uncluttered.”
The lake (at least what we called the lake) barely qualified as such. It was more like a watering hole. People could fish in it and swim in it. Right now, in fact, it boasted a couple of colorful inner tubes and their owners, lingering from the hot day. As the sun went down, the lake would empty and the park around it would fill up with people ready to watch the fireworks that happened every year, right here. Hank was bringing the barbecue and Mr. Williams (and Jett Hart this year) always provided the side dishes. Every Occasion, of course, provided the flowers.
“Is that what real life consists of?” Andrew asked, eyeing the lake. “Or is that what you say because you have nothing to compare it to?”
Micah’s brows shot down. “Going out of town was not good for you. Maybe I need to go baptize you in that lake and hope it cleanses the grump out of you.”
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Bad day.”
“What’s your excuse for all the other days?” I asked.
“Mostly you,” he said.
I laughed a little. I could appreciate a good comeback.
“Well,” Micah said, rolling her shoulders back, “I’m going to have a great day. Do you know why?”
Andrew and I waited for her to finish.
“Ask me why,” she demanded.
“Why?” Andrew said.
“Because look at me. I’m wearing real clothes.” She wore a pair of jean shorts and a red T-shirt instead of her usual cater waiter uniform. “And I don’t have to work today. People will get their own food. I just have to refill empty dishes when necessary. And Sophie doesn’t really do anything either. Just puts flowers at each table and waits to be bossed around by Caroline. It is my favorite event of the year!”
“Well,” Andrew said, “I still have just as many pictures to take, so try not to rub it in too much.”
“Oh please,” Micah said. “You take entirely too many pictures. You only use like ten on the website. Stop being such an overachiever.”
“My dad looks at every single one.”
“He does?” I asked. “But you were putting them online before we’d even left the Valentine’s Day event.”
Andrew ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “He reviews them and sometimes has me trade them out.”
“That’s when you say, ‘Dad, you stick to cooking, I got this picture thing down,’ ” Micah said.
I let out a single laugh. “Have you met his dad?”
“He’s just a perfectionist,” Andrew said, defending him, like always.
“Is that the word they use instead of jerk in the city?” I shrugged. “I’m just a sheltered country girl so I don’t know these things.”
“You’re impossible,” he said. With that, he turned and walked away.
Micah was quiet.
“What?” I asked. “He said it himself. He’s grumpy today.”
“You didn’t help.”
“It’s not my fault he lets his dad walk all over him and doesn’t seem to recognize he’s being trampled.”
“Sophie! Just play nice.”
“I make no promises.”
The party was in full swing. People were eating and laughing, throwing Frisbees and footballs, or standing around Hank’s huge barbecue. It was so big that it had its own wheels and was hauled in behind a truck. Ribs and steak were sizzling on the grill, smoke rising into the sky. And Micah was right, we had nothing to do. She and I were sitting on lawn chairs watching my brother throw rocks into the lake. I had my phone out and was reading a sample application on one of the New York City design school websites.
“Unique,” I said.
“What?” Micah asked, understandably confused.
“This is the third time I’ve read the word unique when they are referring to the portfolio we’re supposed to submit.”
“Yeah … so …”
I swatted at some gnats buzzing by my ear. “My pieces aren’t unique, I’ve decided.”
Micah shook her head. “Your pieces are absolutely unique. They’re originals! How can they not be?”
I narrowed my eyes and pulled up a photo on my phone. “What do you think about this sketch?” I asked, showing her the sketch of a skirt I had designed a couple of weeks ago.
Micah looked at it. “It’s gorgeous. You should use that one.”
“What about this one?” I scrolled to the next picture.
She narrowed her eyes, studying it. “It looks very similar to the last one, but it’s pretty too.”
“This one isn’t mine,” I said, the same
sick feeling I had felt the week before settling in my chest. “I saw this on a design site I like to visit. And that’s when I started to notice the word unique in almost every application I read. Did they just add that word like yesterday?”
Micah didn’t know what to say. I could tell from her expression that she was searching her brain and coming up empty. “Those are two different skirts” is what she settled on.
“Not different enough,” I muttered. “I need something that makes me stand out. Something that makes my designs one hundred percent … me.” Which was exactly what Andrew had told me a couple of months ago. I hated that he was probably right.
“You’ll figure it out,” Micah said. “I have faith in you.”
I was glad one of us did. “I don’t want to think about it anymore.” I stuck my phone in my pocket. “Let’s talk about anything else.”
Micah lifted her hair off her neck and leaned back in her chair. “Is Kyle coming today?”
“I don’t know.” Kyle. Another thing in my life that I felt unsure about these days. And he wasn’t doing anything to help in that area. We hadn’t texted in weeks.
She read my mind, like she often seemed to, and said, “Just ask him out again. I’m sure that’s what he’s waiting for.”
“I’d rather let him reach out first.”
“Why?”
“Because I have massive amounts of self-control. Kind of like when Walker puts that biscuit on his dog’s nose.”
I nodded my head toward Walker, a guy from our school who was playing Frisbee with Lance. Walker’s dog wasn’t here today, but that didn’t matter; my point worked without the dog.
“You know that eventually Walker lets his dog eat the biscuit, right?”
Maybe she was right. Maybe Kyle and I were too alike, and we’d both wait until the cows came home if one of us didn’t swallow our pride. “I guess tonight I’ll eat the biscuit then.”
“Wait, what?” she asked, obviously not following my metaphor.
“Kyle will be here and I’ll ask him out.”
“Yay!” she said, then scrunched her lips to the side. “That biscuit analogy didn’t work, by the way. Don’t use it again.”
