Play On

by Michelle Smith

  Of course, she’d probably go for a restraining order if I grabbed her shoulders without asking first.

  Momma clears her throat from the stairs. “I’m making the dinner run. Any requests?”

  Marisa drops her head onto the counter. “FOOD,” she says, her voice muffled. “Lots and lots of food.”

  Momma shakes her head. “I’ll be back in a bit. Y’all start cleaning up.” She stops in the middle of the display room, scanning the near-empty shop. “Actually, it looks like the customers already did that for you since the last time I came down.” She glances over at Marisa, who still has her head down, and then back to me. She raises an eyebrow.

  What? I mouth.

  She bites back a smile and opens the door, the bell jingling as she leaves.

  With a sigh, Marisa raises her head, turning to me with droopy eyes. She glances down, her eyebrows furrowing as she grabs my hand from the counter. “Austin, your fingers look awful. They make Band-Aids for a reason, you know.”

  My heart hammers as her fingers wrap around mine. This is a million times better than a shoulder rub. I follow her gaze to my hand. It does look bad, but it’s no worse than normal. I came by the shop last night to help put together a gazillion flower arrangements, which was hell on my skin. Coach will be pissed when he realizes I didn’t wear gloves like I’m supposed to.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I tell her. “Just wait until tomorrow, when you’ll be putting together all the corsages for the dance this weekend. Those are a pain in the ass.”

  She scoffs, but her eyes are shining. “You’re really going to make me do all those by myself? You know there are, like, almost 200 orders, right?”

  My lips curve slowly. I wish I could be here to help her. As much as I love being on that field, practice starting this week has been a double-edged sword. I’m not getting nearly enough Marisa time.

  Good God, I’m pathetic.

  “There’s no way Momma will let you do them alone. She’ll help. Trust me.”

  She lets go of my hand. I fight a frown. Come back. “That sounds good. Are you…” Looking down at my now-lonely hand, she clears her throat. “Will you be going to the dance?”

  I shrug a shoulder. “Dances are a lot more fun when you’ve got a date to spoil all night, which I don’t. Never thought to ask anyone.” And if I did ask someone, it’d be the girl in front of me.

  She sighs and leans onto the counter, putting her chin in her hands. “Well, congratulations. You’ll hang on to your soul.”

  Or not. I bite back a smile. “Not a dancer, I’m guessing?”

  She shakes her head. “Never been a fan. Formal dances are the invention of Satan.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You have dances confused with Chem. That’s where Satan focused all his energy.”

  She pushes me, smirking. “I’m serious. A girl has to suffer through frilly decorations, spiked punch, and the guy trying to get in her pants afterward, and for what? A corsage, maybe some dinner, and two hours of dancing, which results in foot blisters.” She hops off the stool and grabs the push-broom. “I’m so glad I’ll never have to go to another one again. Homeschooling for the win.”

  ’Kay. So now I’m really glad I never asked her.

  “See, I’m insulted,” I say, moving around the counter. “Guys don’t always try to get in your pants. And dances aren’t that bad.” Maybe a little bad, but not complete torture.

  She starts sweeping, huffing a little. “So says Lewis Creek’s god of baseball. Of course dances are awesome for you.” She holds the broom to her chest, throwing her hand up to her forehead like she’s in Gone with the Wind or some crap. “Oh, Austin! I never knew there was a difference between fastballs and sliders, but whisper it in my ear while we dance all night in the bed of your truck.”

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “And by ‘dance,’ you mean what, exactly?” She swats the broom at me. I hold up my hands in surrender. “All right, all right! But I will say that, after a few beers, truck dancin’ is a blast. You should try it.”

  She rolls her eyes and resumes sweeping, turning her back to me. Okay, then. Challenge accepted. I dig my phone out of my pants pocket and scroll through the music app until I find a halfway decent slow song. You can never go wrong with some Luke Bryan. Girls eat that shit up.

  As the opening notes of “Crash My Party” fill the room, Marisa stops. Her head pops up, and she whirls around, cocking an eyebrow. “Um, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Grinning, I place the phone on the counter and hold out my hand. “I’m on a mission to prove that not all dance dates are evil. I’ll have you know, I’m a darn good date.”

  Her gaze flickers from my outstretched hand to my face. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack.” With the way my heart’s pounding, that’s entirely possible. Even though it sounds cheesy as hell, I think I finally know what girls mean when they talk about having butterflies in their gut, or stomach, or whatever. But even that’s not a good way to describe it. The butterflies feel like they’re all over the place.

  And now I’m thinking about butterflies. Lord, help me.

  She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been drinking moonshine again, haven’t you?”

  Maybe the Luke Bryan song wasn’t as foolproof as I’d thought. “Please?”

  She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue again, but instead she sighs and sets the broom against one of the coolers. “That’s not fair,” she says, crossing the distance between us. “No one in her right mind can resist that accent.”

  When she slips her hand into mine, I pull her against me in one swift movement. She sucks in a breath, looking up at me with wide eyes.

  “What?” I ask, resting my hands just above her hips. “Too close?”

  She smiles. Looping her arms around my neck, she says, “I think it’s just right.”

  Works for me.

  We sway to the music, slow and steady. Those darn shoes of hers squeak against the floor, and she hangs her head and laughs right along with me.

  “I’d be a great date, you know.” I pull her a little closer. “I’d wash my truck. Pick you up. Talk about guns with your dad. Even bring you flowers.”

  Pressing her lips together, she nods. “Flowers?”

  “I know a guy.”

  Another song switches on, this one a little slower and a lot more appropriate for truck “dancing.” She doesn’t say anything, though. She keeps rocking side to side, keeps smiling, keeps looking up at me with those Lord-help-me gorgeous eyes.

  “You know,” she says, “this experiment isn’t entirely accurate.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Her smile wavers. “You’re not like most guys, Austin.”

  Her gaze drops to the floor. I’d pay anything under the sun to make that ache in her voice disappear. I think I was screwed from the get-go with this girl. Nobody’s ever made me fall this far, this fast. Nobody’s ever made me care so much so soon. And it’s scary. Exciting, but scary.

  Instead of telling her that, though, I say, “Good. Because you’re not like most girls.”

  She lets out a breathless laugh. “No, I’m not. Most girls don’t have the issues I do.”

  I stop dancing, and she finally looks me in the eye. “That’s the biggest bunch of BS I’ve ever heard,” I tell her. “Every girl has issues. Hell, so does every guy. Anyone who says they don’t is lying through their teeth.”

  Her cheeks flush. She blinks quickly. My heart lurches because, God, I better not have made this girl cry. I take her hand and back away, holding my arm up. The corner of her mouth twitches as she spins, her cheeks returning to normal. And there are no tears. Dodged that one.

  “Is that right?” she says, beginning to sway again. “So what’s your issue?”

  My feet are killing me, but I refuse to let her go. I’d dance around this shop ’til daylight if she wanted. “My biggest issue,” I say, leaning down to her ear, “is that I’m trying to de
cide whether or not friends can kiss each other.”

  She winces. “You shouldn’t want to kiss me.”

  Ouch. Did she have to wince? I mean, is the thought of kissing me actually painful? ’Cause that’s brutal. Forcing the biggest smile I can, I ask, “And why’s that?”

  “You deserve so much better than me.”

  Huh. So people do drop that line. “I see. We’re really going with, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’?”

  She giggles as we come to another standstill, but there’s something under that giggle—something nervous, something unsure. I should probably regret even asking, but you only regret the chances you don’t take. She’s a chance worth taking.

  She takes a step back, lacing her fingers together. “Here’s the thing,” she says. “I think that sometimes, people get so caught up in a moment that a kiss feels right. And even though both people really, really want it to happen, the time isn’t right.”

  I gape at her. “Congratulations. You just put more thought into a kiss than anyone in the history of ever.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe people should think more about them. Then so many hearts wouldn’t be broken.”

  That actually makes a lot of sense.

  “I like you,” she says with a tiny smile, and my heart slams against my chest. “I won’t even try to lie about that. You’re fun, and you’re sweet, and you’re, well, kind of hot.” She rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, don’t give me that look.”

  “What look?” I ask, smirking. “You just called me hot. How am I supposed to look?”

  She shakes her head, but her smile grows even more. “You’re also a good friend, and friends are safer. Right now, I need safe. I need a friend.” She takes a deep breath. “So can we do the friend thing?”

  Safe is good. Friends are good. It’s better to be safe than sorry and all that. And getting slammed into the friend zone kind of sucks—okay, it really sucks—but I’d rather have her as a friend than not at all. “We can absolutely do the friend thing.”

  She exhales with a huge grin. The next song on my playlist starts up, and she holds her hand out for mine. “Friends can dance, right?”

  “If so, then I’ll be the best damn friend you’ve ever had.” I grab her hand and pull her back to me. She bites her lower lip, looking up at me through those long lashes. I swear, the girl turns me to goo every time. And that’s why I can’t resist saying, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Marisa.”

  That smile of hers returns as she rocks to the music. Her cheeks flush again, making her skin nearly as red as her shirt. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  It’s a little terrifying, how one person can knock you clean off your feet before you even saw her coming. It’s also pretty freakin’ awesome.

  chapter ten

  Momma and I went to church this morning, like we do every Sunday. I took her home and drove off to meet the guys at The Strike Zone, also like I do every Sunday. When I came home, I found Momma locked in her room. Through her closed door, she told me that she needed some time alone. So without another word, I grabbed my keys and walked right back out of the house. I wasn’t touching that with a ten-foot pole.

  See, today would’ve been my parents’ anniversary.

  I wish there was something I could do to help. I wish I could suck it up and talk to her about what happened because I’m sure she does need to talk. Dad was her best friend. He was mine, too, for a long time. But that doesn’t mean I can forget what he did. He left us here alone.

  The worst part of it all is that I didn’t see it coming. Neither did Momma. It literally came out of nowhere. Maybe it’d be easier if something had led up to it or if something catastrophic had happened right before. Then maybe, maybe it would have made sense. But things were perfect. He was perfect. And then he was gone.

  The sun’s already disappeared for the day when I turn onto the main road leading through town. George Strait croons through my truck’s speakers as I stop at a red light and flop back against the headrest, squeezing my eyes closed. The green light brightens my windshield, and I hit the gas, speeding through the intersection. But the second I see her walking in my direction, I slam on the brakes.

  Even with my headlights shining right on her, Marisa doesn’t seem to notice that a truck just skidded to a stop in front of her. She continues down the sidewalk, with her head down and hood pulled up. What the hell is she doing out here? I honk the horn, and she jumps, finally looking at the truck. I release the brake and inch forward a little, pulling up right next to her. She crosses her arms as I hit the passenger window button.

  “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this all by yourself?” I call, leaning across the center console. All I get is a blank stare. ’Kay, so she’s possessed. Awesome. “Seriously, you shouldn’t be walkin’ out here alone. You need a ride?”

  She shakes her head. All she’s wearing is her Braves jacket, so she’s got to be freezing, unless she’s got an industrial-strength wool sweater on under it.

  “I feel like walking,” she calls back. “No big deal. You go ahead.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “I left it at the grill.”

  And she’s been walking ever since? We’re a solid mile from the grill. A chill shoots through me. I crank the heat up a notch. “Come on. I’ll drive you back there, or I can just give you a ride home if you want. Aren’t your parents freaking out?”

  “I don’t want to go home right now. I’m fine. My parents are cool as long as I text them every half hour.” She sighs. “We have an understanding tonight.”

  What, is she planning on staying out all night or something? I put the truck in park. “Do they know you left your car in a parking lot and you’re walking?” Her silence is the only answer I need. “Marisa, I can’t leave knowing you’re out here alone. As in, my conscience will eat me alive for the rest of the night. It’s thirty degrees outside. Please get in the truck.”

  And I won’t even tell her that drunk assholes still wander the streets in small towns like this. If anything, they’re worse here.

  She levels me with a glare I didn’t even know she was capable of. Yikes. “I don’t want to go home,” she repeats, pointing a finger at me as she inches toward the truck. “Got it? Promise you won’t try and trick me.”

  I hold up my left hand, placing the right over my chest. “Swear it. If it makes you feel better, I don’t want to go home right now, either. We can be homeless together for a few hours.”

  Her face tightens. I understand wanting alone time, but walking by herself in below-freezing weather isn’t the way to get it. Finally, she sighs again and opens the door, climbing inside. She stares straight ahead, silent.

  Okay, then. At least I won that battle.

  I shift the truck into gear and continue down the road, unsure of where to go next. I know where I wanted to go a few minutes ago, but now I have unexpected cargo. I don’t want her thinking about being the topic of some creeper Lifetime movie.

  Momma watches them. Shut up.

  We drive for a solid ten minutes before Marisa finally says, “Where’re we going?”

  “Where were you heading?” I ask with a quick glance over.

  She shrugs, still staring out the windshield. “No idea. I just wanted to be alone for a while.”

  Everyone wants to be alone tonight. I stop at the caution light, which casts a yellow glow across her face. There are streaks of missing makeup on her cheeks, and with the black smudges beneath her eyes, it’s clear where they came from. What I wish I knew was why, and how I can make it better. My fingers twitch with the urge to wipe the tear stains away, but I grip the steering wheel instead. Friends. She wants to be friends. Rein it in.

  “Austin.” She looks at me, one corner of her mouth turned up in the tiniest hint of a smile. “Are you going to stare at me all night, or take me somewhere?”

  My heart leaps into my throat. I’d be perfectly happy with staring at her all night,
if she’s giving me her permission. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She inhales deeply, looking back to the windshield. “Honestly? I’m kind of a mess tonight.”

  Yeah, I can’t resist anymore. Using my thumb, I wipe her cheek, clearing it of a tear that slipped from her eye. “You say you want some quiet time?” I ask. Head still down, she nods. “Then I know the perfect place. But you have to trust me.”

  She buckles her seatbelt, finally seeming a little more relaxed. “I do.”

  Those two words sound better than anything I’ve heard in a long time. Trust is something that’s earned. I’ll take trust any day.

  I hit the gas and drive through the caution light, taking us past the county line. It only takes a few minutes for us to leave civilization behind, surrounded by nothing but trees and the open road ahead of us.

  “You’re not kidnapping me, are you?” she asks. “Taking me out to the woods to slice and dice me?”

  Called it. I flash her a grin. “Told you that you’d have to trust me. But if you want peace and quiet, this is probably the best place in a twenty-mile radius to get it.”

  “I feel like we’ve already driven twenty miles.”

  I chuckle. “Not even close. Lean back, kick up your feet, and relax. You’re not used to backwoods drivin’, are you?”

  With a smile, she rests her head against the window and closes her eyes. “No. This is a first for me.”

  It takes everything in me not to stare at her, but I’d rather not drive this truck into a tree. By the time the road turns into the familiar dirt path, the moon shines brightly ahead of us. I slow down. The sound of rocks crunching beneath my tires takes my nerves down a notch, same as always. There’s not much that beats that.

  “Austin?”

  Except for her voice. Marisa looks around as I park by the pond’s edge, beneath the massive oak tree. And immediately, I regret coming out here. This place holds a lot of memories, memories that have no business attacking me while she’s in my truck.

  “Wow,” she breathes, leaning forward to look out the windshield. “The stars are amazing tonight. They’re like little diamonds. There have to be millions of them.”