Meet Cute

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “You gave me too much,” I say.

  “I’m good at math. You deserve more.”

  “It’s your job to compensate?”

  “It’s my choice to even the score.” His husky voice is even, practical.

  “No way.” You push most of the money back across the table, curl your fingers down, ashamed of your bitten nails.

  “Waitress! Hell-ooo! I asked for honey mustard on this omelet. This is Dijon!”

  You look over to see Maeve, your boss, make a guillotine-style chop against her neck—no fraternizing with customers—then jerk her head toward table five with their burning need for honey mustard. On an omelet. Dear God.

  He’s made no move to take the cash, now concentrating on smoothing out the wrapper from his straw, giving that job more attention than it deserves. “Look . . . I won’t overtip again. I won’t tip at all, if that bothers you. But whenever I come here, you never sit down. I’d like to see you at a movie or a restaurant. Having fun.”

  “Are you asking me on a date?”

  “Would that be your idea of fun?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t date.”

  A flick of . . . something—pity?—passes like a hand over his face.

  He sets his elbows on the table, looking at you straight on as you stack up plate after plate.

  “It could be a test date. If you don’t like it, you never have to do it again. Not with me, anyway. How about tomorrow? I could pick you up at your house? Or—”

  “Hey, girl! This coffee’s stone cold. Do something.” It’s the crabby guy at table nine who always takes up a four-person table by himself.

  Do something.

  “I get off at noon Saturdays. You could meet me here.”

  Not at your own home. Not now. You used to love having friends over—watching their faces as they saw where you lived. As if that defined who you were.

  Wherever this boy comes from, you’re willing to bet it isn’t a second-floor walk-up with bad plumbing.

  “Really?” His voice incredulous, almost cracking, like he can’t believe he’s gotten your agreement. As if he’d had more arguments lined up like ammunition, ready to fire.

  “Sure.” Your answer’s braver than you are.

  His slow smile transforms his face from striking to drop-dead gorgeous, the corners of his eyes scrunching as if you’re sharing an in-joke, dimples you hadn’t seen before bracketing his lips. You’re looking straight at him now—for the first time. Everything you’ve noticed before came from sideways glances. Hair long enough to curl around the backs of his ears. Generous lower lip, thinner upper lip that qualifies that generosity. Faint purple shadows under his eyes, suggesting sleep doesn’t come easily. Eyes that can’t quite make up their mind—blue with a ring of brown-green around the pupil—or is that gold? Chameleon eyes.

  Maybe they tell a truth about him. That he’ll be whoever he needs to be, depending on the setting or situation. Something you should remember.

  You step back, your bussing tray sharp between you like a gray plastic shield.

  “You might want to tell me your name, so I don’t have to call you Test Date.”

  “Sean.”

  He raises his hand, as if he’s going to shake yours, old-school polite, then changes course and brushes it through his hair, blue-black in the harsh overhead lighting of the diner.

  “Emma Greene.”

  “Oh, I know your name.”

  That takes a beat to process. Why? You don’t know his.

  “Tomorrow, then?” He’s reaching over now to gather his friends’ remaining plates together, as if cleaning up the table fast will make tomorrow come faster.

  You map the pulse beating in his throat, the dip and curve of the smooth skin above his collarbone, oddly mesmerized.

  You look up to find him studying your face for heartbeats that pulsed longer than heartbeats should. Then you look away again.

  “Tomorrow. But, so I know, what will we talk about? I don’t know a thing about you.”

  Sean slides out of the booth. Flashes that smile. “That’s what tomorrow’s for.”

  He’s out the door before you even notice he’s left the entire tip on the table.

  — — — —

  “If you can’t be good, be careful,” your best friend tells you.

  “That’s your advice, Jen? What are you, a health teacher from the fifties?”

  “I think that covers it pretty well. Text me if he’s a psycho or a loser.”

  “So not helpful.”

  “Just quit being the Caution Queen. Take risks.”

  “Risks haven’t turned out well for my family.”

  “For your family, not you. Emma. Babe. Go be seventeen.”

  After five years, you’d think you’d be able to separate your roots from your wings. Still hadn’t happened. You’re afraid it never will.

  — — — —

  You don’t expect a bright purple car, not from a boy whose entire wardrobe seems to consist of his lacrosse jersey or school uniform or white shirts and baggy khakis. Sean has his back to you, tossing things into the car’s backseat. You walk up next to him and clear your throat. He doesn’t seem to hear you, so you clear it again, louder, step closer.

  He straightens, his gaze traveling slowly up your legs to your face, flushes a little, smile shy now. “You came.”

  “Of course. I said I would. It’s not like I was going to skulk out the back door of the diner to avoid you.” You sound a little bitchy, your words shoved between you as if you still had that tray as a shield.

  He shrugs, offhanded, then his words come in a rush. “I never take anything for granted.”

  Turning away, he scoops a pile of catalogs—Victoria’s Secret, Sephora, a few copies of Teen Vogue—off the seat and tosses them in the back. “Sorry. This will just take a moment. You’ll have to shift the seat back. I forgot how long your legs are.”

  You’re slightly taller than Sean, you notice now. So long legs are . . . a good thing? Bad thing? God, this was part of the reason you don’t date. You need a translator, and you can’t afford one.

  After you climb in, he pulls open the glove compartment, drops a handful of jewelry into it. A necklace, a few unmatched earrings, a tube of lip gloss.

  You crane your neck to see if there’s anything even more disturbing in the rear seat—discarded condom wrappers, kicked-off high heels, lace thongs. Instead, more catalogs, a flowered scarf, hair scrunchies, a pink hoodie.

  “How many girls have you had in this car?”

  “Wha-at? Oh—no. Nothing like that,” Sean says, shifting into reverse. He isn’t good at it. Grinding sound. “My sister’s car.”

  A shot of relief. He’s never given off that player vibe.

  “That’s why it doesn’t exactly throb with testosterone.”

  “Yeah, I’ve found regular gas works better. I had to sell my own car. Which did not have a stick shift, obviously. Carrie’s crazy possessive about this thing. So, learning curve.”

  “You’re learning to drive this on a first date?” You almost bite your tongue. “First” implies there will be at least a second and possibly many more.

  “If I’m asking you to leave your comfort zone—not to mention the whole inexplicable ‘I don’t date’ thing—the least I can do is meet you halfway. No worries, though. I watched a bunch of YouTube videos on Mastering a Standard.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Nope. But, Emma, I got this.”

  He brakes fast at a four-way stop, nearly stalling out.

  Instead of getting pissed, or embarrassed, Sean laughs. “Maybe I haven’t got it. Can you drive a stick?”

  “I can.”

  “Go for it.” He pulls over onto the shoulder of the road, settles comfortably into the seat you vacate, folds his arms, completely at ease, no ego on the line at all.

  “Ummm . . .” you say, after driving for several silent minutes. “How’d you know my name, anyway?”

&
nbsp; “Superior espionage skills.”

  “So I’m with a spy?”

  He shifts in his seat, rubs a hand against his jeans. Nervous?

  “You could say that. Although your first name is, in fact, on your name tag at work.”

  “You might not be a good spy, since you just revealed your secret.”

  “Good point. But trust me, I’ve got more.”

  “I hope so, because that one isn’t going to take this conversation very far.”

  Sean chuckles. “Why don’t you tell me a secret? Like . . . why you don’t date.”

  “Or I could maintain my air of mystery and you could tell me another one of yours. Like where we’re going? That would be a good thing to reveal right about now.”

  He points left. Then right. Then a sharp left . . . over a short wooden bridge that rumbles in a way you remember so clearly it reverberates in your bones, onto a familiar graveled road.

  It would have been easier to drive straight off a cliff.

  — — — —

  You’re out of the car faster than the speed of thought, looking up, swallowing hard, arms locked tight against your waist.

  Except for the distant heave of the ocean, the air’s so still, deep silence everywhere. As if no one’s lived here for ages. As though it all fell into an enchanted sleep when your family drove away.

  There it is. Three-tiered like a wedding cake, rose-red brick covered with climbing ivy. Home.

  “I loved this house.”

  You’ve forgotten Sean until his warmth comes up beside you, the back of his hand brushing yours.

  “Yeah,” he says, on a sigh. “Me too.”

  After this, it takes only an inhale to get it.

  “Sean . . . what”—your voice shakes—“what’s your last name?”

  “Lowell.” He shoves his fists deep into the pockets of his windbreaker, much too thin to hold off the harsh March wind whipping off the bay.

  Your throat constricts; you have to suck in air to get the words out.

  “Look, Sean Lowell, I don’t want to do this. Whatever this is.”

  He steps closer, hands splayed, apology-style. “You have every right to be pissed. I was afraid—I knew—if I told you the truth you wouldn’t come. I mean—why would you?”

  “Why am I here now? To meet your parents? See how they’ve redecorated?”

  He stares at you for a second, bites his lip, blinks. “A movie and a nice dinner seem sort of inadequate, considering the whole my-dad-destroyed-your-family-financially thing. Please, Emma. I can do this today—only today.”

  “Do you get how creepy that sounds? All of this is creepy. You wanted to see me have fun—that’s what you said! Instead of—I don’t know—mini golf—you’ve lured me to my old house with God knows what agenda.”

  “Mini golf’s really overrated. It’s like paintball, looks so great in the movies, but—Okay, never mind . . . no luring, I swear. I’m just asking nicely. If you want to leave, I’ll drive you back this minute. No matter how things look right now, I swear, I’m a normal person.”

  You look up at the house—your old corner room with its high-arched windows. The widow’s walk at the top, fenced in with black wrought iron, where you and Jen used to pretend you were captaining a ship, or pace, waiting endlessly for your mythical boyfriends to come back from sea. That life you barely remember, with no boundaries, no money worries, no limits to anything and everything you could hope for.

  Sean hunches his shoulders against another quick whip of wind off the water.

  “So you knew who I was all along?” An even worse thought occurs to you. “Are you doing this for your father?”

  He shakes his head. “No! God, no. At first I just got that you were this gorgeous girl with great . . . iced tea—then I found out your last name and thought . . . Shit, this sounded so much better in my head. Emma—Dad ripped off a lot of people. But you’re the only one whose house we lived in. I wanted to give you . . . something.”

  The wind has risen high enough that his words seem to blow away the minute he speaks them. You hear them, though, as clearly as you’ve seen the headlines. Rupert Lowell—“Billion-dollar con man.” The arrest. The upcoming trial.

  Sean’s father.

  “You mean something more than a sixty-dollar tip?”

  “I wanted you to . . . notice me. I didn’t know where to start. In retrospect—not there.”

  “Notice you? Have you . . . seen you?”

  Christ, Emma. “He’s cute” is very much beside the point.

  “Too busy looking at you.”

  Despite yourself, you crack up. “Oh my God—that’s the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard.”

  “But you laughed,” he says. “So there’s that. I haven’t even seen you smile at the diner.”

  “I never saw you looking at me.”

  “I’m a spy, remember? Practiced at stealth. If not at driving stick or asking a girl on a date.”

  You search his face, almost squinting to see past his color-changing eyes to what might not be changeable about him. To look beyond the looks.

  He can probably feel you wavering. Pushes one last time. “No one’s here. Please.”

  “So it’s just you and me, alone, in a deserted house. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “It’s already gone wrong. I’m aiming to get it right.”

  Sean ushers you in, holds open the door like he owns the place—oh, that’s right, he does own the place.

  You look around the kitchen, shiver. It isn’t cold—it’s that the house seems like a ghost ship, and you’re the ghost in it. With all that money, the splashy lifestyle his parents had—society queen, high-rolling financier—you’d have thought everything would have been redone, possibly dipped in gold or wallpapered in thousand-dollar bills. But the pale turquoise walls, the piney wooden cabinets—unchanged.

  Sean shrugs off his windbreaker, passes it to you. You have the sudden sense that if you said your shoes pinched he’d kick off his own, give them right over.

  “This way.” He holds out a hand—as though offering the same sort of comfort as the coat, in a different form. You take it, without thinking. If you think, you’ll probably leave right now.

  The staircase is just beyond the kitchen. The banister you used to slide down. You’ve walked through this house so many times in your head in the past four years.

  “Wait. We’re going upstairs? Where the bedrooms are?”

  Sean’s gone one step ahead of you but he stops and turns back now. “Um . . . yeah . . . I have something to show you. I mean, something you might need and want—Jesus, that’s just as bad.”

  Now you’re both laughing, too loud in the quiet house, harder than the moment deserves—giddy—both of you—with a nervous need to release crazy tension. Then you fall silent. Look at each other in the half-light. It’s unknown territory—all of this—except that it isn’t. Except that it’s your home. And Sean strangely doesn’t seem out of place in it.

  He holds up a hand, straight-faced now.

  “Just to reassure you—all the furniture’s gone. No beds.”

  “I feel so much better. Totally at ease now, Creepy Luring Guy.”

  “You know, I really preferred Test Date.”

  Outside the mullioned window at the top of the stairs, a knife of silver sunlight slashes through the gray clouds—illuminating just enough for you to make out a tall, hunched figure in the corner of the landing. You clap your palm over your mouth, stifling a shriek.

  “Don’t worry.” Sean steps to the side, giving you a better look. “It’s just Dad.”

  Good God, it is a huge gold statue of Rupert Lowell.

  Naked except for a fig leaf.

  “Um. Wow.”

  “I know. There’s not enough money in the world to pay for the therapy my sister and I will need for that one.”

  You look at that gold-plated statue, the forbidding face, eyebrows drawn together, chin lifted, as if challenging the wor
ld to deny that Rupert Lowell knows better than most people. The opposite of the boy who stands in front of you, with his open face and his honest eyes. You can’t tell everything by looking at a person.

  But you can tell a lot.

  You just can.

  “You don’t look anything like your father.”

  “Well, I dress better.” Sean flashes you a smile.

  Now you’re on the second-story landing. This part of the house even smells the same—pine, salt water, musty carpet—as though you’ve stepped back through time. This house belonged to your grandparents, your grandfather’s parents before that.

  But you left it all behind when you were thirteen. You never stood in this spot, with a boy watching you . . . like . . . like this. Attention paid. Intent. The corners of Sean’s eyes crinkle again as his gaze meets yours, then he bows his head, kicks his Converse back and forth on the worn carpet.

  “What I want to give you—is this.” He drops your hand, heading purposefully to the corner room—yours.

  No furniture, different wallpaper, a window where there wasn’t one, the bookshelf gone—nothing familiar but the fireplace. No other girl you know grew up with a fireplace in her bedroom. Even though it had never worked. Which is why—

  Down on his knees in front of the fireplace, Sean reaches up the flue. He pulls out the black-and-white composition book you’d nearly forgotten about, hands it to you. It’s sooty, encircled by at least fifty multicolored rubber bands stretching vertically and horizontally—your way of keeping it safe and private—although you didn’t have prying siblings, and even Jen hadn’t known it existed. Sean’s watching your face carefully. He has a slash of soot on his forehead, some dusting his hair.

  The Book of Lost Things, the blue Sharpie writing scrawled across the cover proclaims, by Emma Greene. Don’t Touch. This Means You. No Exceptions.

  “You hid it. People don’t hide things that don’t matter to them. I only found it the day we moved out. I thought—well—the title—it seemed like something you’d like to have. Get back.”

  You start to strip off the rubber bands. It’s been a few years; the elastics are fragile, dried out. They break easily.