How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You

by T. M. Franklin

  “So now you’re equating cookie dough with passion?”

  Hank leaned in. “Let me tell you something. Everything has consequences. Everything. Some good, some not so good. But if all you do is spend your life worrying about the consequences, you’ll miss out on everything that makes it worth living.”

  He thrust the roll of dough back into my hands, and I broke off another piece, the thick sweetness coating my tongue as I contemplated his words.

  I finally headed home around three o’clock, surprised to see both my parents’ cars in the driveway. It was rare for one of them to be home before six, let alone both. I braced myself for something bad—it had to be something bad, didn’t it? Look at my life lately—and came to a shocked standstill when I spotted them both in the kitchen.

  They didn’t spot me, as evident by the rather passionate make-out session happening against the refrigerator.

  Gross.

  I might have said that out loud, if the way they jumped apart was any indication.

  “Oliver, you’re early!” My mom ran a trembling hand through her hair as I looked pointedly at the kitchen clock.

  “Actually, I’m right on time.” I didn’t mention the whole skipping the end of school thing. Details.

  “Oh, well . . .” She shot a nervous glance toward my dad.

  He just smiled. “How was school?”

  “Fine,” I lied. They were too caught up in . . . whatever . . . to notice. “How was making out in the kitchen?”

  Dad flushed bright red—something I’d never seen before—and rubbed the back of his neck, a small smile growing as he glanced at my mom.

  “Good,” he said.

  “Okay, yeah. I do not need this right now.”

  “Son, we are two grown adults—”

  Ew.

  But also, I had to admit, kind of, well, nice.

  “Please!” I held up my hands, ready to beg if I had to. “Please do not finish that sentence. I’m happy that you”—I pointed back and forth between them and the tainted fridge. I might never eat again—“whatever. You’re my parents. I definitely don’t need to know . . . to see . . .” I wanted to go to my room, but I needed to get past them to do that. My life. Ugh.

  We stood around awkwardly for a moment until my dad broke the silence.

  “Anyway,” he said, “you and Sherlock will be on your own tonight. I’m taking your mom out to dinner.”

  “Really?” My parents rarely went out, and when they did, it was usually a work function.

  “Yeah.” Mom stepped forward to take Dad’s hand, linking their fingers. She was almost beaming. “Actually, we owe a lot of this to you, Oliver.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Me? What are you talking about?”

  My parents shared a soft look before my dad spoke. “I don’t think it was a big secret that your mom and I . . . we weren’t . . .” He seemed to be searching for the right words.

  “We’d drifted apart,” my mom said quietly. “Without even really realizing it, I think. It just happened, and we both let it.”

  Dad nodded. “But you started asking all these questions about falling in love, and it got me thinking.”

  “Me, too,” Mom said, and I saw her squeeze his hand. “Both of us. We started remembering what it was like—back then when we first fell in love. All the things we kind of let slip from our fingers when we weren’t paying attention.”

  Dad reached out to touch her cheek. “And we decided to make some changes.” Mom smiled at him softly, and he turned back to me. “You showed us what we’d lost, Ol. And, whether you realized it or not, how to get it back.”

  I was speechless. Literally. I opened my mouth and nothing came out, but a telltale prickle behind my eyes warned me I was about to lose it. My mom crossed the room and took my face carefully in her hands, avoiding the bruise. “Thank you, baby,” she said. All I could do was nod, and she leaned in and kissed my forehead.

  “I have to—” I waved toward the stairs. “Homework. And stuff.” My voice caught, and I cleared my throat. “I’m . . . happy, for you. I don’t know that I really did anything, but I’m glad.” And here came the tears. My mom’s face crumpled, and she gathered me into her arms, my dad joining the group hug a moment later.

  We stood there for a long time, and for a while I felt like a little kid again—safe and secure with my parents acting as a protective blanket between me and the world.

  Later that night, Sherlock and I sat around eating pizza out of the box on the floor of my room, and I let him stay up way past his bedtime, even though it was a school night. When our parents finally got home a little before midnight, we could hear them giggling as they came up the stairs.

  Sherlock and I shared a quiet smile before I turned out the light, and we went to sleep.

  13.Find the Perfect Birthday Gift

  Don’t forget—it’s the thought that counts. As annoying and unhelpful as that is.

  I woke before my alarm on Tuesday and lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, an unsettled feeling in my stomach. When I heard the phone ring downstairs, a surge of panic ran through me that I couldn’t explain. And when, a few minutes later, my mom knocked on my door, I had the strangest urge not to let her in. Like I knew something awful was going to happen.

  But I called out for her to come in all the same. And when she sat down on the edge of my bed and took my hand in hers, I could see the tracks on her face where she’d been crying, the sheen in her eyes that showed she hadn’t quite stopped yet.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She swallowed and brushed at her eyes. “The Center called.”

  I froze. I knew it could only be one thing. I opened my mouth to speak, afraid to say the word. Afraid to hear the answer.

  “Who?”

  “I’m so sorry, honey—”

  “Who?” My voice cracked, and I could feel the tears prodding at my throat, fighting their way through. “Who is it?”

  She reached over to touch my hair. “Hank Wallace. They said it was a heart attack.”

  “Is he . . .” I couldn’t say the word, and neither could she, but her eyes dropped and I got my answer anyway.

  Of course, the most ridiculous thought was my first—I should have stopped him from eating that cookie dough.

  “. . . happened so suddenly. He was gone before they got to the hospital . . .”

  All those times I’d let him skip his exercise so we could play chess. All those times we’d snuck treats out of the kitchen.

  “. . . not entirely unexpected, but I know he was your friend. I’m so sorry, Oliver.”

  Why hadn’t I looked out for him? He was old. He needed to be more careful.

  “Oliver? Are you all right?”

  I looked up at my mother and realized I hadn’t been listening. “What?”

  “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know.”

  “I know this is hard, honey, but he lived a good life.”

  “It should have been longer.”

  “I think those left behind always feel that way.”

  “No!” I sat up and threw off my covers. “He didn’t take care of himself. He ate a bunch of junk, and he hated exercise—”

  “Oliver—”

  “And I should have made him. I should have made him take better care of himself.” The words caught in my throat, and I realized I was crying.

  “Oliver, it’s not your fault,” my mom said, getting up and gathering me into a tight hug. “He was an old man. It was his time.”

  “No—”

  “Yes. There was nothing you could have done. Nothing anyone could have done.”

  “But—”

  “No,” she said firmly, taking my face in her hands. “I know you’re upset, but I’m not going to let you do this to yourself.”

  I knew she was right, but the feeling, the overwhelming ache in my stomach didn’t ease. The realization that there would be no
more chess games, no more talks on the back patio, no more Hank, period, seemed wrong . . . impossible. My face crumpled. “He’s my friend.”

  “I know.”

  For a long time my mom just held me. And I let her.

  I didn’t cry much after that, but for the next couple of days I kind of walked around in a numb daze, when I wasn’t sleeping, which I did a lot. My mom didn’t even try to get me to go to school but made a quiet call to the office secretary and arranged for Viney to bring over my homework. Elaine had called to let me know there wouldn’t be a local memorial service. Hank’s daughter, Brianna, lived in Montana, along with the rest of his extended family, so they’d hold the funeral there.

  Still, Brianna flew in to make the final arrangements and pack up Hank’s room at the Center. Thursday morning, I drove over to see her. I suppose I wanted to say my own goodbyes, in a way.

  I didn’t know what I expected to happen, but it hit me as odd that the Center looked exactly the same. Janice was out smoking in front. Residents walked and rolled down the halls. Soft music filtered through the air from the common room, and it smelled the same as always—disinfectant and must. I guess I thought it would be different. That it would feel different now that Hank was no longer living under its roof.

  The only thing different, the only thing off, was Hank’s room. I kind of expected to find him sitting in his chair near the window, the old chess set ready for a game. Instead, the bed was stripped, a few boxes and a suitcase balanced on top. The pictures were gone, the bookshelves empty, the old afghan he kept on the arm of the chair packed away along with the other remnants of his life. I stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to the echoes of all the conversations we’d had in that room, then crossed to Hank’s old chair. It seemed wrong to sit in it, so I opted for my usual spot across the table.

  “Oliver?” Brianna walked into the room, and I jumped to my feet. I’d met her once before, but I was surprised she remembered me.

  “Hi,” I said, jamming my hands into my pockets. “I’m sorry. About your dad.”

  She nodded, tears springing to her eyes and reached out to hug me. “He loved you so much,” she said into my hair. “He talked about you all the time.”

  “I loved him, too,” I choked out, the emotion hitting me suddenly.

  Brianna pulled away and swiped at her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, “for being his friend. I tried to get him to move to Montana, but he wouldn’t leave Mom behind. It helped knowing he had you here to keep him company.”

  I felt awkward at the compliment but tried to smile. “I like talking to him. He’s helped me a lot, you know? He’s a pretty smart guy.”

  She nodded, pressing her fingers to her lips for a moment, and I realized I’d used the present tense. “Yeah, he was.” She looked around the room. “Well, I think I’ve got everything. Just need to load up these last couple of boxes.”

  “Let me help,” I said, glad to have something to do. I grabbed the suitcase and one of the boxes, and Brianna took the other, leading me out of the room. I took one last look over my shoulder at the empty, hollow space and said goodbye to my friend.

  We loaded the rest of Hank’s things into Brianna’s trunk, and she opened the last box, fumbling around inside. “I almost forgot. Dad wanted you to have something.” She pulled out the old chessboard and held it out to me. “He left very specific instructions that you were to get this.”

  I blinked, a new surge of tears pricking at my eyes, and reached for the board, running my fingers along the scarred wood. “Thanks,” I finally managed to say.

  She nodded and pulled me in for one more quick hug. “If you need anything, you have my number,” she said.

  I nodded, hugging the chessboard to my chest.

  “Goodbye, Oliver.”

  She turned to get into her car, and I stepped slowly to the sidewalk, turning to wave as she headed out of the parking lot. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, clutching Hank’s final gift to me, but when it started to rain, I got in my truck and headed home.

  My mom had the day off work, and when I walked into the house, she and Sherlock were playing some card game at the kitchen table.

  “How did it go?” Mom asked.

  “Fine. Hank left me this.” I held up the chess board.

  Mom smiled sadly. “That was nice.”

  I nodded.

  “Any plans for the rest of the day?”

  I shrugged. “Some homework. Viney might come over later.”

  She nodded and shuffled the cards. “You want to join us?” she asked. I shook my head as I headed to my room and she dealt out another hand. I put the chessboard on my nightstand and sat down to tackle my history paper, but my eyes kept drifting toward that checkered board, a feeling of peace settling over me. It was like Hank was giving me one last piece of advice—reminding me that even though he was gone, a part of him would always be with me.

  Like he was telling me that life goes on.

  After a while, I was able to focus on my paper, and I was deep in the throes of World War II when my mom appeared at my door.

  “There’s someone here to see you,” she said.

  I was a little surprised. My mom had never felt the need to announce Viney’s arrival before. My confusion must have been apparent because my mom’s lips quirked a little. “Someone named Ainsley?”

  My heart stopped. “Ainsley’s here? What is she doing here?”

  Mom shrugged. “She said something about borrowing a calculator?”

  “A calculator?” The word had no meaning. “She wants to borrow a calculator?”

  “I guess,” Mom said. “She seemed a little nervous, though. So there might be more to it than that.”

  “Nervous? Why would she be nervous?” I stood up, pacing across my room and back again, kicking at a pile of clothes on the floor. “What is she doing here?” My breaths came in sharp pants, and I realized I was on the verge of a panic attack.

  My mom crossed to me and grabbed my shoulders. “Relax, honey. You’re going to hyperventilate. Breathe.” She looked into my eyes, and I matched my inhales and exhales to hers until I calmed a bit.

  “What do I do?” I asked, feeling more than a little lost. How was I supposed to forget about Ainsley when she was in my house?

  Mom smiled. “I think you need to go down and talk to her.”

  “Talk. Right.” I nodded slowly. “About what?”

  She laughed. “Well, I think that’s up to you.” She rubbed gently at my arms. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

  “Okay, then.” She moved toward the door. “I’ll get her something to drink and tell her you’ll be right down.” She glanced toward the stairs. “She’s down there alone with Sherlock. Probably should have thought that through.”

  “Oh no.” I hurried over and shoved my mom out the door. “Don’t let him interrogate her.”

  Mom laughed. “It’ll be fine, honey. Just get yourself together and come down, okay?”

  She disappeared down the stairs, and I took a minute to brush my teeth, make sure my hair wasn’t a total disaster, and gulp down some water to moisten my dry throat. I shoved my dirty clothes into the closet and shut the door, taking a couple of deep breaths to try to slow my racing heart before I made my way downstairs. Ainsley was in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast bar next to Sherlock, my mom leaning on the counter in front of her. They all looked up as I entered, and I noticed Ainsley twisting her fingers together nervously before tucking her hands in her lap.

  “Hi,” I said, grateful that my voice didn’t crack for once.

  “Hi,” Ainsley replied. “I, uh, was hoping we could talk.” Her cheeks were pink, eyes only meeting mine for a second before she glanced quickly at my mom and then down at the countertop.

  “Umm. Sure, yeah. If you want.” I surreptitiously wiped my sweaty hands off on my jeans. “I left my calculator in my room.”

  Ainsley looked a little startled. Then her face got even redd
er and she nodded. “Oh, yeah. The calculator.” She hopped down off the stool. “That would be great. Thanks.” She shifted on her feet a little, like she wasn’t sure where to go.

  She didn’t know where to go.

  “Oh!” I felt my own face heat as I waved toward the stairs. “Come on. We can talk upstairs.”

  Ainsley nodded and passed in front of me to head up the steps.

  “Leave the door open, please!” my mom called out, making my humiliation complete. I showed Ainsley to my room and hurried past her to fumble through the mess on my desk. I held out a calculator.

  “It’s kind of old,” I said, my hand shaking a little, “and the clear key sticks but—”

  “It’s fine.” Ainsley took the calculator and stared at it for a moment before placing it back on the desk. “I heard about Hank. I’m so sorry, Oliver.”

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Thanks.”

  “I wish I could have met him.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Are you okay?” She took a step toward me, her hands fluttering at her sides like she wasn’t sure what to do with them.

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine,” I said. “I miss him. But, yeah.”

  She nodded sadly, and we stood in awkward silence for a long moment. “So—” I said.

  “I actually—” she said at the same time. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, a smile pulling at my lips. “What were you going to say?”

  She twisted her fingers together in front of her. “I wanted to talk to you about something. But maybe this isn’t a good time.”

  “It’s fine,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. Really.” The sun filtered through the window and gleamed red on her hair. She was so beautiful. I looked away. “What is it?”

  “Viney told me what happened.”

  I froze. “What do you mean?”

  “He told me what Ian did. What he said to you.” She frowned slightly. “Viney also told me you believed him.”

  Was it hot? It felt hot. I glanced over at my thermostat, wondering if Sherlock had turned it up to torment me.

  “It’s fine,” I said weakly.

  Ainsley waited until I looked at her before she asked, “What’s fine?”