You Can't Catch Me

by Cassie Mae

  Tiff peeks out from her menu and looks at the mess we’ve made at the table. She just rolls her eyes and continues acting oblivious to our shenanigans.

  Fartbucket… ugh, Marcus… nudges Tiff under the table so she lets him out. She scoots and points to the slice of cake she wants him to get for her. He takes three steps toward the counter before turning around and lifting an eyebrow at me. I’m surprised he’s asking if I want anything, even in a silent way, but I’m too nervous, and my stomach already can’t handle so many things that I just shake my head and check the parking lot again.

  “There’s cookie in your hair,” Tiff says through a laugh. She reaches up and helps me get it out. I’m not used to wearing my hair down—Tiff insisted this is the better look. Framed my face or something like that. My hair is so naturally curly that I just had to shower then gel it up, but I forget how long it is when it’s not tucked back. Her hand is nearly grazing the Sharpies as she attempts to pry the Oreo from the curls.

  I wonder if she can tell how nervous I am. My heart feels like it’s in its own marathon as it beats around in my chest. How long’s it been since we walked in? I should’ve checked the time. He could be totally bailing. Maybe I’ll check my phone… but no, I have to resist because I’m trying to forget about the bra picture, and I know that’ll be one of my notifications. I should have Tiff turn those off for me so I don’t see them. I know if I go into Instagram at all, I’ll be tempted to scroll through the feed, see what friends of mine are suspecting me as well.

  The road outside Marcel’s place is a busy one, and so every car that slows down by the lot entrance makes me perk up and then settle back into my seat once I realize they’re just turning right at the light.

  Completely subconsciously, I put my hand to my mouth and blow a breath into it. Then I whiff like the almighty sniffer, thankful that I don’t smell anything rank going on in there.

  Tiff’s laughter pulls me from my head.

  “What?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head, swiping the table top free of cookie and sugar. “Nothing. You’re just cute.”

  I narrow my eyes, then cut them back to the parking lot. A giant navy blue truck is turning into The Rolling Scones, the diesel engine rumbling the window as it pulls into a spot right in front of us. The prairie dogs in my stomach zoo peek out of their holes when I see Oliver behind the wheel.

  “We’re taking his car,” Tiff says immediately upon seeing him. She’s a truck groupie, practically pooling at the mouth as she stares directly at the front bumper. The window stops shaking as Oliver turns the truck off and opens the driver’s side door.

  Oh sweet jebus, he got his hair cut. It looked adorable before, all messy and floppy and Beiberish. Adorable is nice; I’ve always liked adorable. But now I’m reconsidering, because sexy is better than nice. I think I love sexy.

  His black hair is cut a lot like used-to-be-One-Direction Zayn—longer on top with short sides. He’s sporting a faded red Henley, tight around his shoulders and chest, showcasing his break-you-in-half muscles. The shirt is looser around his middle, but still shows that he has a belly underneath all that fabric. He tucks a thumb into his back pocket, pushing his wallet down so it doesn’t pop out, and while Tiff drools over his truck, I drool over his butt.

  The overhead bell dings, and I have to use every amount of concentration I have to put a smile on my face and form an opening sentence. Oliver’s eyes wander around until they spot me and Tiff, and then they totally sparkle. Like I can see a star shoot off them.

  “Hey,” he says, beating me to the opening line. He’s really good at those; I’m just gonna let him take the reins on that in the future.

  “H-hi,” I stutter, and Tiff starts laughing at me. I give her a quick glare before turning back to Oliver with a twitterpated grin. “Tiffany…” I gesture awkwardly at her. “I mean… you know, that’s her name.”

  He reaches out to shake her hand, an absolute gentleman, and I fight another uncontrollable swoon.

  “Oliver,” he says. His eyes drift down to the spot next to me in the booth, but he doesn’t take it. “Sorry I’m late. Had to get gas, and it takes a good twenty minutes to do it, I swear.”

  “That’s okay.” I grin. He can take as long as he wants next time if I get to sit front row to an Edward Cullen entrance. “Did you wanna eat here first?” I nod up at the counter. “Marcus is up there grabbing food.”

  “Cake,” Tiff corrects with her pointer finger. “He’s getting me much needed cake.”

  Oliver chuckles, then his mesmerizing eyes lock on me. “Did you want something?”

  Is he buying? That’s a date thing to do. This whole thing screams date, and the thing is, I want it to. I want a take-back, to tell Oliver that yep, this is a date, and he better go in for hand-holding and door-opening, and we can have that awkward standoff on my porch at the end of the night.

  But since we’re just going to be weirdoes together, I blurt out, “I have to pee.”

  Tiff chokes on nothing but air as she stifles her laughter, and Oliver just grins at my ever-reddening face.

  “Did you want food after you empty out?”

  “Nah.” I slide from the booth and stand up, coming awfully close to his chest. I smell something manly and soapy, and my weight wobbles my knees. “Be right back. Then we can go.”

  “Sounds good,” he says as I pass him. I hear Tiff waste no time asking him about his truck, and I figure I’ve got a good two, three minutes to empty my nervous bladder and maybe practice some bathroom yoga.

  When I get back, my heart is still pounding like a hammer, but I feel a little more relaxed. Oliver is still standing, leaning against the booth seat instead of sliding in. It occurs to me that maybe he can’t fit inside it, and I feel like a total egghead for choosing a booth. Aunt Heidi has a hard time booth sitting because of her knockers, so unless the table moves, we sit at a table and chairs.

  Marcus and Tiff are sitting, sharing the giant strawberry shortcake Marcus got for her. For a split second I think that they look cute together, until he turns and belches over his shoulder, and Tiff’s nose wrinkles just slightly, but she otherwise ignores it.

  “You guys about ready to go?” I ask, sidling up next to Oliver. He jumps, and I laugh at giving him a surprise entrance. Then my eyes drift to his side, right by his ribs, where the long sticker to indicate size is still stuck to his shirt. I press my lips together to keep my laughter at bay. I’ll tell him in private, because a size tag is embarrassing enough without it being in front of people you just met.

  Marcus points a strawberry sauce coated fork at the two of us. “You guys not want anything?” he asks through a mouthful of cake and whipped cream.

  Well, if I did, I don’t anymore. “Can you open your mouth any wider?” I tease, and he sticks his tongue out, making both me and Tiff shrink back in disgust.

  Oliver leans down to my ear, and I feel like I’m skyrocketing off the planet just at the sound of his low, whispered voice. “I’m good, so we can meet them there?”

  “We’ll meet you guys there,” I say, answering his suggestion out loud. Tiff shakes her head and shovels the rest of the cake in her mouth.

  “Noppppe. We’re reafy,” she muffles while Marcus stares at the plate wide-eyed and a bit in awe at the dessert’s disappearance. “You okayf to drife?” she asks Oliver. I shake my head at her lack of subtlety.

  Oliver nods, and we turn to head out. His hand is right by mine as we walk, but he doesn’t reach for it, and there’s no way I’m reaching for his. My guts are not that strong.

  Marcus whispers to Tiff behind us, “What’s wrong with my car, babe?” Oliver raises an eyebrow at me as they start to not-so-silently argue. I can’t help but laugh and smile and relax, and suddenly holding his hand doesn’t seem so scary anymore. I don’t do it, but that’s only because we’re already at his truck.

  He opens my door. You know, like a date would.

  I have to heave myself inside, barely aware of
Marcus and Tiff climbing in behind me. Oliver makes sure I don’t have any body parts in danger of getting slammed before he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.

  The first time I even think about the Sharpies is when I buckle up. But I’m enjoying myself too much to let them ruin the moment.

  ***

  For owning a bad-A truck, Oliver drives like an old man. It makes me smile, but then again, I’m not sure if there is anything about him that has made me not smile. Tiff called this the honeymoon stage when we were getting dressed earlier, but I’m not real comfortable with that term. Can I just call it the Ga-Ga Goggles?

  The mini-golf course is inside an arcade/bowling alley, and it’s not extremely crowded for a weekend. Something I’m grateful for because crowds aren’t fun for me, and I’m subjected to them every time my family gets together.

  Oliver parks kinda far back, and I don’t blame him. The truck’s girth needs a lot of room, and the spots near the door look a little squishy.

  I open my door so Tiff and Marcus can get out the back, but I don’t hop out yet. When I know they can’t hear, I lean across the cab and whisper to Oliver.

  “New shirt?”

  His hand has stopped on the door handle, his eyebrows pulling down in equal measures of confusion and amusement.

  “Yeah actually.” His smile twitches. “Is it obvious or something?”

  I suck in a breath, holding it while my heart beats a drum solo and my fingers reach to his ribs. He jerks a little, grin fading as he watches me inch closer to him.

  Trying to be smooth about it, I hook a fingernail in the bottom corner of the size sticker, then tug it up. I manage to get it all off in one swoosh.

  His eyes bug out, and his neck goes sunburnt red. He plucks it off my finger and crumples it in one hand. “And I thought I was doing so well,” he says through a low rumble of laughter.

  I grin at him and lean back. “You still are.”

  Tiff hops on Marcus piggyback-style as we get out of the truck, and Oliver and I lag behind them somewhat. His neck is still red, and I bite my lip, eyeing his free, swinging hand by my waist. If I uncross my arms, letting my hand fall, it might just graze the back of his.

  “You ready to prove your skills?” he asks, winging the subject over to our next activity. Tiff and Marcus fumble through the front door, and Oliver hurries to hold it open for all of us.

  “Oh yeah,” I tell him as I pass, trying to ignore the dance my tummy does when I catch his fresh, soapy scent again. “I’m the champion of scoring… goals…”

  He lets out a laugh that could make angels jealous.

  Tiff hops off Marcus’s back when we step up to the counter. I rest my elbows on the smooth surface, listening to the bowling pins topple over in the background. I wonder if we’ll have time to do that too.

  “Four for the eighteen holes,” Oliver says. I swoon on my feet at the fact that he’s paying, and Tiff grins so wide and obvious at me that I nearly smack her to knock that off. Instead, something rams into my right Sharpie. Hard. So hard that a sound extremely similar to a dog in pain squeaks from my lips, and my eyes drift up to Oliver, who is staring at me with his mouth open, his hand halfway to his wallet, elbow inches from the point of contact.

  “I…” A stifled grin starts spreading over his lips as his face sunburns again. “Oh my… Ginger, I’m sorry.”

  It takes me a minute to realize that I’m full-on groping myself to alleviate the pain. Marcus is cracking up behind me, Tiff’s at least trying to contain herself, and I start chuckling, rubbing out the pain while Oliver—with lobster colored ears—pays the guy behind the counter.

  Four balls are set up on the counter, and Marcus reaches for the red one before I can even see what other colors there are. Tiff takes the yellow, leaving the pink and the green.

  Oliver looks to me. “Which one you want?”

  “Green’s my favorite color,” I admit. He grins and takes the pink one, not a single complaint on his lips. He hands me one of the club thingies, and Tiff and Marcus follow behind since Oliver seems to know where he’s going. Funny, since I’ve lived here my whole life, and he just moved here.

  I skip a step so I can walk next to him and not behind—not that I don’t enjoy that view—and Oliver swings his club up and lets it slide through his fingers till it nearly hits the floor.

  “Oh no,” I say, eyeing his easiness with the club. “I’m about to get my butt handed to me, aren’t I?”

  He lifts one shoulder, and I shake my head at the worn carpet beneath our feet. I’m so glad he’s had his dose of embarrassing already, because I’m about to match him in awkwardness.

  We pass the arcade and the pool tables and head through a door. Then I almost run into a giant, plastic lighthouse.

  “Who’s first?” Marcus asks, kicking his club out with his foot, nearly smacking Tiff in the crotch.

  “You,” I say, stepping back to let Marcus through. I’m definitely not going first. I’m not even sure how to set the thing up.

  Marcus drops his red ball in the center little tee thing on the floor, then settles the club next to it. He swings back, but not a lot. It’s not going to go very far with that measly swing. I nudge Tiff to make fun of him, but she just raises an eyebrow at me like I’m nuts.

  He hits the ball, and okay… it goes farther than I thought it would. But it still doesn't get to the hole.

  Tiff goes next, and she swings even less, and the yellow ball goes about a foot in front of her. Marcus and I both laugh as she growls at the ceiling.

  Oliver gestures for me to go next. I’m confused because their balls are in my way, but I guess this is how you play. I crouch down, and it takes me three tries to get the ball to stay in that little tee thing. My shaky hands are to blame, and I try to ignore the heat stemming from my cheeks as I line up my shot.

  I’m gonna whack this thing. My ball probably won’t go in the hole down there, which is what I’m assuming we’re aiming for, but if I hit it hard enough, maybe it’ll bounce off the back wall.

  I pull the club back over my shoulder, just like I’ve seen all the golf people do on TV, and Oliver goes, “Whoa, whoa!”

  He grabs onto the club, preventing me from my dedicated swing. The corner of his lip tilts upward, and he steps into me.

  “Yeah, we’re not driving here. We’re putting.”

  “Driving?” I ask. What does driving have to do with anything?

  He laughs. I look to Tiff and Marcus, who are waiting on the far side of the hole, Tiff containing a squeal as Oliver reaches for my hands.

  “Here, put your hands like this…” I’m so sweaty and nervous he has to pry them from the rubber on the club. Another laugh tumbles from his very perfect, very beautiful lips, and he shakes my hands to get them to cooperate. “Thumb here,” he says, placing it on the club. “Fingers wrapped like this.” Oh gosh, his palm is cupping the back of my hand. It’s like our hands are hugging. I flick my eyes up, and they meet his, and we have this total movie magic shared glance before he steps back. He hooks a finger around the metal of my club and slowly raises it a few inches off the ground. “Don’t swing back farther than this.”

  “You got it,” I say, my voice a little more breathy than I want it to be. And he drops my club before I’m ready, and it taps the ball down the course. It rolls past Tiff’s, past Marcus’s, and settles a few inches from the hole. I turn around and gawk at Oliver. “Do it again.”

  He grins at my request. “After my turn,” he promises. I step out of the way and stand next to Tiff. We watch Oliver line up, and she bumps her shoulder into mine.

  “You guys are cute,” she says. Normally I’d make a face at her. But you know, I just can’t find it in me.

  21

  Huggable

  Oliver gets three holes in one—apparently that’s what it’s called when you only have to hit it once—and obviously whoops all our butts so hard I don’t think I can walk.

  I ended with a score of +43,
which is really bad. I still claim that high scores are the best, but then Oliver points out that the lower number in running is also the better score, and he wins yet again.

  As promised, Oliver does feed me, taking me to the grocery store, and I educate him in gluten. When he finds out I can’t have licorice, he takes my hand in his and pats it, saying he’s dearly sorry for my loss. It’s so cute that I drop my sparkling water, and it cracks open and fizzes all over the floor. We check out pretty quickly after that.

  Around nine o’clock, I can tell Marcus has just about had his fill of company for the day, and he starts getting rather handsy with Tiff in the seat behind me on our way back to The Rolling Scones. Tiff is giggling, and I shift, feeling mighty uncomfortable since Oliver and I are just starting to be “weirdoes” together. Oliver just shakes his head and keeps his laughter under control as they grope each other. As soon as he pulls in the lot, I swing open the door and let them out.

  “Wait…” Tiff says when she sees that I’m still planted in the front seat. “You not coming home yet?”

  I look at Oliver quick, and when he grins at me like he really wants me to stay, I turn back to Tiff and say, “I’ll just get a ride from Oliver.”

  Marcus throws his arms around Tiff’s waist from behind and kisses her cheek. “Come on, babe. Let ‘em say goodnight to each other and crap.”

  And crap. So eloquent, our family is.

  “Bye,” I say, then shut the truck door. Tiff makes a phone call gesture before she’s picked up and swung toward Marcus’s car.

  “What time’s your curfew?” Oliver asks. We’re still parked in front of Marcel’s place, and I gaze at the clock on the dash.

  “In an hour.”

  He turns the key, letting the diesel engine settle, and silence creeps into the cab.

  “Feel like going for a walk?”

  I nod, and we both unbuckle and hop down from the truck.