Head Over Heels

by Serena Bell

  I sneak a glance at Chase’s face.

  He’s trying not to laugh. I raise my eyebrows. He shrugs. “Woman up,” he murmurs.

  I glare at him.

  I crouch and address Katie face to face. “Maybe I could be something else. Like a queen?”

  Chase muffles laughter in the crook of his arm.

  “No,” Katie says, Cupid’s-bow mouth set firm. “You’re the frog. Hop.”

  “You could be the frog,” I tell Katie. “Don’t you want to be the frog?”

  “I’m Elsa.”

  Chase coughs. “We’re supposed to be encouraging her to use her imagination, not cramping it. She says I’m the princess and you’re the frog. So hop.”

  I glare, hard, at him, and he smirks back.

  “How does Elsa fit into this story?” I ask Katie, trying to buy time.

  “After the princess kisses the frog and he turns into a prince, Elsa builds a magic ice castle for the princess and the prince to live in happily ever after.”

  “Not all frogs turn into princes when you kiss them,” I can’t help saying. “And not all stories end with happily ever after.”

  “Now you’re crushing her innocent dreams,” Chase murmurs so only I can hear him. I elbow him.

  “This one does,” says Katie, undaunted.

  Even though I’ve clearly lost this particular battle, I silently cheer for Katie’s ability to stand up for herself. And I admit defeat. I hop to the lily pad (pillow) by the stream (where the rug meets the floor). The princess is strolling through the forest.

  Actually, the princess is prancing through the forest, clutching what appears to be an invisible parasol.

  “I thought you sucked at princess and frogs,” I say, sotto voce, when he prances my way. “I feel like I’ve been hustled.”

  “Just trying to keep standards high, Ugly Frog.”

  Snarling, I pull out my phone to video Princess Daddy.

  Katie snatches it away and sets it on the coffee table, out of my reach. “Frogs don’t have phones.”

  “I need my phone to video your father!”

  “Frogs can’t talk,” Chase says gleefully.

  I dart a dark look his way. “Please,” I beg Katie. “The world needs to see this.”

  “Frogs can’t talk,” Katie echoes.

  Chase is laughing so hard it’s impeding his prancing. I clamp my lips shut to hide my own smile.

  “You see the frog, Princess Daddy,” Katie instructs. “You look down and see him sitting on a lily pad.

  “The princess looks down at the frog and the frog looks up at the princess,” Katie intones. “And even though the frog is really, really ugly—”

  Chase snickers. I stick my tongue out at him.

  “Is that why you didn’t want to be the frog?” I ask Katie. “Because he’s ugly? Because beauty is only skin deep, you know. I’m full of inner beauty.”

  I felt the need to get that point in there. I give Chase a so there look, and he gives me a so what look back.

  “Yeah. Elsa is beautiful. The frog is ugly.”

  “But once I’m a prince I’ll be really handsome, right?”

  “No. You’ll still be really ugly. Like the Beast. And then we’ll have to figure out how to lift the other spell on you. The ugly spell. That’s why we need the ice castle.”

  This is a very fractured fairy tale. And I am definitely getting the short end of the narrative stick.

  “But Princess Daddy will be beautiful the whole time?”

  “Yup. And even though the frog is really, really ugly, Princess Daddy can see his inner beauty. You have to look at each other!” she shouts. “You have to fall madly in love!”

  I challenge anyone to disobey a determined five-year-old whose mom died two months ago. Chase and I do what anyone would do in this situation. We look at each other. And pretend to lock eyes and fall madly in love.

  Chase’s eyes, as I’ve mentioned, are beautiful, flecked with color. And full, at the moment, of undisguised glee. But as we stare at each other, something shifts. His eyes get serious. And dark. And—

  Huh. He’s a good actor.

  Chase is full of unexpected talents.

  Chapter 9

  Chase

  “…And then you divide by the number of innings pitched…”

  My Saturday night date, Ava, is explaining to the little boy sitting a couple of seats over how to calculate the ERA stat. His dad tried, but hit a wall, so she took over.

  We’re at Safeco Field, sitting side by side. It’s a blue-sky, sunny summer evening, and, well, I’m honestly kind of a mess.

  Ava is, at least on paper, my perfect woman.

  She loves sports. When I PM’d her on the online dating site to ask, Baseball game? she immediately texted back, OMG, are you for real? I love baseball. Buy me a hot dog and some Cracker Jacks and I’m all yours.

  That might be two check boxes, actually: loves sports and eats real food.

  Plus, if you count “I’m all yours” as a come-on—which I do, being a guy—you might even be able to check a third box: not shy about sex.

  I wrote back, Sounds like I’m getting the best end of the deal.

  So far, she’s lived up to her promise. She’s put away two hot dogs and is midway through her second beer. Her baseball cred is real: she’s actually scoring the game in her program, including every ball and strike. Apparently her dad taught her to do it when she was a kid, and she has a set of binders at home with every game she’s ever been to. She told me about the first time she went to a game, Yankees v. Orioles at Yankee Stadium, and what it felt like to walk into the park for the first time—the hush before the crack of the bat, the bright green field suddenly wide open in front of her, the smell of grass and dirt and hot dogs and peanuts and beer.

  And she’s cute. Long, shiny blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail (sexy and low maintenance), a killer tan, big blue eyes, and a great bod. Check, check, check, and check.

  Plus—she likes kids, or at least it seems like she must, because who else would explain baseball to a little boy she doesn’t even know?

  She rises out of her seat, cheering wildly with the rest of the fans as Canó hits a near-home-run ball that drops into the right-field corner.

  Perfect, right? So why am I such a mess? I should be ecstatic.

  It’s because I can’t stop thinking of Liv.

  This morning she took freaking forever in the shower, and I pounded on the door and yelled, “Get out of the shower! Before you erode!”

  I could hear her laughing. “Shut up, Chase.”

  “How long can it possibly take?”

  “You try shampooing long hair!”

  “I need to get in there sometime before work.”

  The water shut off. I leaned against the door, checking Facebook on my phone while I waited. A few minutes later, the door opened and fruit-fragrant steam poured out. At the center of the cloud was Liv, wrapped tight in a towel.

  All mental processes, and the brain cells associated with them, died.

  Her cheeks were bright pink, her hair was up in a towel-turban, and her bare shoulders, arms, and upper chest presented me with an expanse of creamy skin I couldn’t tear my eyes away from.

  “It’s all yours.”

  “Uh—” I raised my gaze and found myself looking at her lips, just as she licked them nervously.

  “The shower,” she said pointedly, and brushed past me.

  I mentally dope-slapped myself and got in the shower. Suffice it to say that getting clean was not the only thing on my agenda. I accomplished all my goals quickly and intensely.

  “I’m going to get a beer,” Ava says. “Do you want me to get you one?”

  I snap back to the present, pissed at myself. I’ve almost forgotten her, a
nd it’s a point of pride that I never do that, never think about another woman when I’m with one. I’m here, I’m with Ava, that’s where my mind should be.

  “No way. I’ll get ’em. You stay here and hold down the fort.”

  “Aw. That’s so incredibly sweet.”

  “Hey,” I say lightly. “What kind of asshole makes you get your own beer on a first date at a baseball game?”

  “Guess I’ve dated all the wrong guys,” she teases, with a suggestive little smile.

  Except all I can think about is that secret smile Liv wore last night when she and Katie unveiled their project. It wasn’t about sex, but it was sexy nonetheless. It made me actually feel, secondhand, Liv’s pleasure and joy. It made me think about other things that might put a smile like that on Liv’s face.

  Chase Crayton, quit it.

  I trudge up the stadium steps and find my way along the mezzanine to one of the places that sell decent microbrews. The lines are epic. Seventh-inning-stretch beer is a hard-won prize.

  My phone buzzes. A text from Liv. Actually, a whole string of them. How’d I miss them?

  Girls’ night out!

  There’s a photo attached, a selfie of her and Katie sitting at the local pizzeria, grinning from ear to ear. Katie’s hair is in two curly pigtails and looks stinkin’ adorable. The photo has managed to catch Liv at the worst possible angle—or, actually, the best. Right into the lush curves of her cleavage.

  My mouth goes dry.

  The next photo is them eating ice cream, each of them clutching a cone.

  I get this instant, hot flash of an image: Liv’s tongue sweeping out to lick the drips of the ice cream at the seam where cream meets crunch.

  C’mon, man.

  It’s because I’m overdue, right? Which is why I’m out on this date, because no man is an island, and even dads have to get laid from time to time or they start having unwanted fantasies about their nannies/best friends.

  The last text says Reading with Katie. Next up: Chick flick on the couch. The photo is the two of them propped together on Katie’s pillows with The Araboolies of Liberty Street in their laps. They are really cute sitting side by side like that. And Katie looks—

  She looks so freaking happy.

  “Can I help you?” a gruff voice breaks into my musings.

  I’ve reached the front of the concession line, and I stow my phone so I can place my drink order and carry the beers. For good measure, I buy my perfect date a hot pretzel and a bag of M&M’s. A girl who appreciates a ballpark hot dog and a box of Cracker Jacks is obviously all about the best things in life.

  I carry the beers and snacks back to our seats, where the bottom of the seventh is nearly over, thanks to the hapless A’s, and she rewards my efforts with a big smile. “I looove M&M’s!” she says.

  I sit next to her and she offers me some M&M’s.

  Oh, wait. I never replied to Liv’s text. I reach for my phone—

  Nope. Nope, nope, nope. One of my top ten rules of dating—actually, one of my top ten rules for being a decent human being—When you’re hanging out with someone, you give that person your undivided attention. You don’t futz with your email or answer texts or check in to make sure you haven’t missed breaking news or your boss’s latest whim.

  Or, you know, think about your best friend’s tongue in totally illicit ways.

  I let my hand drop back to my side, but it’s like an itch, those texts. I want to text back, What, you’ll slum it and eat pizza for Katie, but not for me? Or something equally dorky. Just some dumb joke to let Liv know I’m thinking of her—

  Everyone around me soars to their feet—something epic has happened and I wasn’t paying any attention. Two-run homer. While everyone’s riveted by the action on the field, I find myself sliding the phone a little ways out of my pocket, then jamming it back in, like I’m a junkie and it’s my fix. I read this study somewhere that having your phone in front of you facedown on the table while you’re trying to accomplish a task is more distracting than listening to music. Irritated with my weakness, I vow to give Ava my undivided attention for the rest of the game.

  The Mariners win it.

  I follow Ava out of the stadium, the two of us swept along on the wave of the exiting crowd.

  On the way back to the car, with the baseball game no longer holding our attention, we fall back on small talk. She asks me to tell her about Mike’s Outdoor Store, and once I’ve done that, I ask her to tell me about her big family—five girls!—which turns into a funny but meandering analysis of her relationship with each of her sisters.

  She’s smart. And witty. And—did I mention cute? If we were having this conversation at a cocktail party, I’d probably be trying to figure out how to get her to leave the party with me.

  But when I pull up in front of her apartment and she says, “Hey. You want to come in for a drink or something?” I already know I’m not going to say I’d love that.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I had a really good time. But, um—”

  Honestly? I don’t even know how the sentence ends.

  She looks at me with confusion all over her face, which is totally fair. She is a beautiful woman with a terrific body, and I don’t imagine there are many guys who have ever hesitated this long over the question of whether they want to be alone with her in her apartment.

  “Thanks, but I should get home. Early morning tomorrow.”

  Her smile falls.

  “Okay,” she says. “Well, um—call me?”

  I’m about to say I will. But then something stops me. Instead I say, “You know, I had a really good time, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

  “Oh,” she says. Sadly. So sadly I want to tell her I’m making a mistake—

  Except honestly? I kind of know I’m not.

  She gets out of the car and waves goodbye and I pull away from the curb. Headed home. Which is where I’ve wanted to be all evening.

  Truth?

  It goes back to last night. To that weird fucking moment when Katie commanded Liv and me to fall in love with each other. And we did. Look into each other’s eyes, I mean, not fall in love.

  Okay, I’m just going to put it out there.

  I was not pretending.

  I mean, you can’t fall in love on command; that part is ridiculous. But something definitely happened in that moment for me that wasn’t all acting.

  I wanted to kiss her.

  A lot.

  And I still do.

  Chapter 10

  Liv

  When Chase comes home, one of the women in the movie, Simone, has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Tears are pouring down my face. I’m crying so hard, I almost don’t hear the door. This group of friends, they have such an awful shared history, but they’ve always been there for each other, and Simone is such a gentle person, like, I don’t know, Beth in Little Women. She doesn’t deserve this. It’s so unfair.

  I pause the movie, grab a wad of tissues from the box on the coffee table, and scrub the tears away.

  Chase comes into the living room.

  “Oh, wow,” he says, taking in my tear-ravaged face. “Wait. No, don’t tell me. Someone dies?”

  I punch him in the shoulder.

  “Ow.” He plops down on the couch beside me. He looks good. Worn jeans, thin where his thighs strain the denim, and a gray Mariners T-shirt with navy trim, including bands that stretch over his biceps. He tosses his baseball cap on the coffee table. His hair, of course, is a total, gorgeous mess.

  “Shitty date?”

  He gives me a weird look. “It was fine.”

  “It’s only midnight.”

  “I can get a lot done in a short time.”

  It shouldn’t, but that makes me laugh. I don’t doubt it. “So—on a scale of, I don’t know, ‘woulda
rather watched a movie’ to ‘planning marriage proposal’?”

  “Um, I don’t know; it was fine.”

  Chase is never cagey with me. Or at least not in this way. I raise my eyebrows. “I might need a little more than that.”

  “Whatever,” he says irritably. “She was cute. Blond hair, high ponytail. Definitely loves sports. Scored the game, explained ERA to the kid next to us—”

  I feel an unfamiliar twinge. Like—jealousy? Because some blond girl with low-maintenance hair knows stuff about baseball?

  Surely not.

  “—likes stadium food. Seems really easygoing. Loves camping, loves playing sports, too—she plays pickup basketball and Ultimate Frisbee—”

  He’s ticking off the items on his checklist, one by one. In fact, he’s pretty much ticked off every item on the list, except one.

  “Is she hot?”

  “Um, yeah. Blond, tall, stacked—did I mention ponytail?”

  Now I’m irritated. “Wearing a ponytail doesn’t mean she’s low maintenance in an emotional way, Chase.”

  “No, but it means she doesn’t plow lots of energy into doing her hair.”

  I can’t believe I’m getting sucked into this argument with him, but I am. “Doing your hair isn’t a moral failing. God gave me this hair—” I wrap a fist around it. I love my hair. It’s thick and malleable and a coppery fall-leaf color I’ve never seen on anyone else—naturally. It deserves all the respect I give it. “—and it’s a source of joy to me. And men,” I add.

  An odd expression crosses his face. “I’m sure it is.”

  “No need for sarcasm.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

  I suddenly realize how far off topic I’ve let him steer me. “Did you get me off on this rant to keep me from asking more questions about your date?”

  He gives me a sideways look.

  I roll my eyes. “She’s perfect, but…?” I draw the last word out. “Without getting into gory details, what happened?”

  “I just—I don’t know, whatever.”

  “It was just, whatever?” I ask incredulously. “You whatever’d the perfect woman?”