Love and Other Secrets

by Christina Mandelski

  “Can you stay for dinner, Alex?” Her mom is in front of me, smiling big.

  “I’d love to, but it’s family night, right?” I don’t want to go for the immediate yes, but I definitely want to stay. “I don’t want to hijack your time together.”

  She waves a hand. “Honey, you’re not hijacking a thing. Family includes family friends,” she says. “And you’d be helping me out. I mean, these two can be a little dull sometimes, and we have French food on the menu tonight. I’m making coq au vin. Have you ever tried it?”

  I nod, but she keeps talking as she leads me into the house.

  “Don’t worry if you haven’t had it. Between you and me, it’s just fancy beef stew. Oh, and if you can stay, Bailey is making us watch Amelie after dinner. Have you seen that one? I don’t know much about it, except that it has subtitles.” She opens the screen door, and I follow her up the porch stairs. “I’m not a huge fan of subtitles, but Bailey never leads us astray movie wise. Sometimes they’re weird, but they’re always good. Now come on in, I’ll get you a glass of champagne.”

  “Mom!” I hear Bailey yell after us. “No! You can’t give my friends alcohol. That’s against the law!”

  Her mother doesn’t respond, and I kind of love her. I follow her through the screened-in porch, which is scattered with folding chairs and an older sofa. It has a view to a crumbling dock where there used to be water, I guess, but is now all overgrown with tall grass.

  She opens a sliding glass door into the kitchen/dining area and pulls out the chair at the head of the table. “Sit, sit. I’ll get that champagne.”

  The air is thick with the scent of beef cooking in onions and mushrooms and butter. “Wow. It smells amazing in here,” I say.

  “That’s our dinner! Now you have to stay!” Her laugh reminds me of Bailey’s, deep-throated and loud.

  I glance around. I didn’t get this far into the house the one time I was here, so this is all new to me. There’s an opening in the wall to my left that leads into a small living room with a big TV, two recliners, a loveseat, and a fireplace. Along the wall behind the chairs are floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with books. There are so many books. My parents read mostly on tablets. The books in our library are never touched. The books in Bailey’s house look worn out, in a good way. Above the fireplace is a huge framed portrait of a baby, tiny and new, naked and curled up in someone’s arm. I’m guessing it’s Bailey because of that black hair.

  “That’s my baby,” Mrs. Banfield says, catching me staring, and hands me a glass that looks filled with orange juice. “It’s a mimosa.”

  “Mom!” Bailey walks in from outside. “I said you can’t give booze to my friends!”

  “Jiminy Christmas, Bailey. What, are you going to turn me in? It’s one mimosa; it’s not going to kill him. I hate to tell you this, but if we were in France right now—which we might as well be tonight between dinner and your movie—he would be able to drink anything he wanted.” Mrs. Banfield picks up her own glass and lifts it, ignoring Bailey’s annoyed face. “Does anyone know how to say ‘cheers’ in French?”

  I hope this doesn’t make me a douche, but I know this one. “Sante,” I say, lifting my glass. Bailey’s exaggerated eye roll confirms it—I am indeed a douche.

  “Ooh! Sante!” her mother says and takes a healthy swig. I smile and follow suit. It would be rude not to.

  “Mmm.” Mrs. Banfield puts down her glass. “So, tell me, Alex. Did you think of something for this promposal?”

  “We know what we’re going to do,” Bailey answers her quickly.

  I don’t know why, but I’m surprised that she told her mom about any of it. My mom knows less than nothing about my life.

  “I hope you’re going to share the details?” Mrs. Banfield looks hopeful as she takes another drink.

  Bailey plods past her, though the kitchen, and down a hallway. “He can tell you if he wants to. I’m going to change.”

  I watch her walk to the door at the end of the hall. She turns and catches my eye, shaking her head.

  I don’t mean to smile at her misery, but I can’t help myself. She closes the door hard.

  Her mom rushes over and sits down beside me as soon as Bailey is in her room. “Alex,” she says, eyebrows knit together. “Honey, let me ask you before she comes back. Do you think Bailey is okay?”

  I stare at her, confused. “Okay? How?”

  She presses her mouth together. “I don’t know. Anxious? Depressed? What’s with this prom thing? Where did that even come from? I’ve never even heard of this kid she’s asking.”

  I quirk up one side of my mouth. “I don’t know. It was a surprise to me, too.”

  She sits back in her chair. “Oh dear. This boy…you know him? Is he a good egg, or what?”

  “Tex? I mean, his name’s Caleb. Yeah, he’s a good—egg.” It kills me to say it, but it’s true.

  She sucks in a breath. “Hmm. I don’t know. You’re going to be there, right? At the prom? If I know you’re there, I’ll feel better.”

  My eyes can’t meet hers. She doesn’t even know me, not really. I gaze around the room, to the framed pictures of Bailey everywhere. Baby Bailey, toddler Bailey, elementary school Bailey, awkward middle school in braces Bailey. She’s been Bailey since long before I met her, which for some reason fascinates me.

  “You’ll be there?” she whispers and pats my hand. “She needs you.”

  No. I don’t want to go to prom. But then Bailey’s door opens, and she walks toward me wearing a small black T-shirt and a pair of jeans shorts that show a lot of leg. Bailey has always been Bailey and will still be Bailey when I’m out of the picture. She doesn’t need me, despite what her mother thinks.

  I want to bang my forehead on the table in front of me. You gotta stop it, Koviak. Stop it.

  Her mother is still waiting for an answer.

  “Yeah,” I whisper as Bailey reenters the kitchen. “I will.”

  Mrs. B. winks at me and squeezes the hand she was patting.

  “What are you doing, Mom? Why are you holding Alex’s hand? That’s weird.”

  “Mind your own business.” Mrs. Banfield walks the ten steps back into the kitchen. “And help me make this dessert. I don’t want to ruin it. We’re having pot de crème, Alex. Have you ever had pot de crème?”

  “Um. I don’t know.” Yes, I know. I’ve had pot de crème in a three-star Michelin restaurant in Paris, but I’m not about to say it out loud. Even I’m not that big of an asshole.

  I stand up just as Bailey turns to sit down, and once again, we’re in each other’s space. Like last night by my door, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, we’re closer than is appropriate for two people who are only friends. Or maybe it’s just me, thinking that. I need to step back, but first I notice her height. I’m tall, and she’s not short, but I use my limited knowledge of Physics and decide her head would land perfectly on my shoulder if we were slow dancing.

  Now I do step away because this is the dumbest train of thought I’ve ever been on and I need to get off, right now.

  She follows me, though, closing the space again. My pulse speeds up. Fuck, is she going to kiss me? Am I going to let her?

  Hell yes, I’m going to let her.

  “If you want to stay for family night, you’re not going to sit there chugging champagne,” she hisses in my ear. Not at all going to kiss me. “Sit down.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  But I don’t sit. I lean closer and smile instead, sucked in by her gray eyes. She’s still close, we are too close, and her audible gulp does things to me that are way too inappropriate for mixed company. But the second my eyes drop to her mouth, she scrambles back and hurries into the kitchen. Before I know it, she brings me a cutting board, a knife, and a hunk of chocolate.

  “Chop that shit, Julia Child.”

  Why is that like the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me? I want to drop everything she handed me. I want to drag her down onto my lap and ta
ke her face in my hands and kiss her until neither of us can breathe.

  Her eyebrows shoot up like she hears the out-of-control crazy thoughts running through my head.

  Then her dad walks in, and she follows him back into the kitchen. He says something about those bushes out front being totally dead. Something else about digging them out next weekend.

  I’m only half listening.

  Hell, I’m barely breathing. If she hadn’t run off, I know with absolute certainty I would have kissed Bailey Banfield.

  And that would have ruined everything.

  Chapter Eight

  Bailey

  When the movie credits roll, I feel…I don’t know how I feel. Confused? Annoyed? Twice in two nights, Alex and I had weird moments when we were close enough to kiss. The first lasted for less than a second, but the one tonight… That one lasted long enough to trigger thoughts I definitely shouldn’t have. Long enough for me to imagine them actually happening.

  Kissing Alex, in my imagination, is amazing. Like, think of the best movie kiss and up the heat by about 95 percent. I kissed a few boys back at my old school, but those kisses were less than stellar.

  In reality, Alex could be less than stellar. In fact, not kissing him could be the best thing that ever happened to me. Yes. I like that. Let’s go with that.

  It doesn’t help that I’ve been stuck next to him on this loveseat for two hours and we’re watching a French film about a girl looking for love. Amelie is a classic.

  “Well, Alex,” Mom says as the movie ends. “You’re welcome to hang out for a while longer. I gotta get this one to bed.” She laughs and touches Mr. Banfield’s arm. He’s sound asleep in his recliner.

  “What? What? How’d it end?” Dad comes back to life, and we all laugh, including him.

  “Honey, I’ll catch you up tomorrow,” Mom says to him.

  Yes, please go to bed, I try to send her a mental message. I’ve reached my limit for family bonding for the night. “We need to go get my car,” I say. “Alex?”

  Alex stands up. “Yeah. Thanks again, Mrs. Banfield. Dinner was so good.”

  “Thanks for chopping the chocolate,” she says. “I’ve never had pot de crème, but I think that one was probably the best ever.”

  “Totally agree,” he says, shamelessly kissing up to her.

  Only I know that Alex has probably had pot de crème in some actual French restaurant, probably in France. There’s absolutely no way what he’s saying is true.

  “Alex.” Dad stands up and puts out a hand. Alex shakes it. “Good to meet you. You seem like a nice kid.”

  “Thanks. It was nice meeting you.”

  I hold back a groan as my thoughts twist into a pretzel. Why does this feel like they’re meeting my boyfriend? We have to get out of here.

  “I need to grab my keys,” I say and hurry off to my room while my parents finish gushing over Alex. By the time I’ve got my phone off the charger and throw on a light jacket, he’s there, in my bedroom doorway.

  Something bad inside of me switches on like a floodlight. It’s too bright, and I’m suddenly achingly self-conscious and aware of how ridiculous this tiny room must look to him. “Come on, let’s go,” I say with a shake in my voice. Instead, he steps inside. You actually can’t take many steps inside of my room, so he’s limited to how much farther he can come. All I know is, I want to leave.

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  “Hang on.” He’s scanning my walls, where posters of my favorite movies hang. I try to stand in front of the goals list I’ve hung on the wall next to my bedside table, but now he’s looking on my narrow bookshelf, where I have all of my camera equipment arranged neatly.

  “What’s this?” He picks up one of my treasures.

  “It’s a Brownie. Eight millimeter, from the 50s. It was my grandpa’s.” I step toward him. “Be careful.”

  He glances up at me and grins. “I will. Do you ever use it?”

  “Yes, sometimes.” I take it from him and place it gently back on the shelf, which makes him laugh, for some reason.

  By the time it’s back in its spot, he’s turned around and is reading my goals. Shit. I remind myself that this is Alex. It’s okay, probably, but that doesn’t mean it’s not scary.

  “Let’s go, Alex. Come on.”

  He ignores me. “An Oscar by the time you’re thirty?”

  When his eyes meet mine, I can’t tell if he’s making fun, but I think he must be. I know how this must look to him—our little trailer house, this bedroom that’s smaller than any closet in his mansion, my dreams, written up in multi-colored Sharpies and tacked to my wall. “Yes.” I bring myself back to the question. “If you don’t set goals, you don’t get anywhere.” That’s a lesson he could stand to learn, but I don’t bring that up.

  He shakes his head and laughs. My breath catches.

  “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “I’m not,” he says, his eyebrows drawn together. “Come on. I wouldn’t laugh at you. I mean, I’m impressed.”

  What in here could possibly impress him? “Right.”

  He sits down on my bed and leans back on his hands. The sight of him on my bed, that look on his face and an eyebrow raised in question, makes my cheeks go hot. Oh God, this is getting out of hand.

  “No, I mean it,” he says. “You’ve got a plan. I believe you’ll do it, too.”

  My throat constricts, and I force myself to swallow. “I will do it.” I stare down at him, and I feel a different kind of constriction, like a force pulling me toward him. A force that I definitely need to punch in the throat.

  That smile, though. That irresistible, you-know-you-want-me thing. “Can we go, please?” I hold up my keys in a desperate attempt to remind myself that I must resist, that I do not, actually, want him.

  We leave and drive in mostly silence. I spend the time coming back down to reality. That moment there in my room felt weird and way too intimate. This is better. When we get to his house, he puts the car in park, and we sit in the dark. It’s only nine, fairly early for us, but we both know that he needs to go inside. His parents are probably pissed that he blew them off.

  “Thanks,” he says, “for letting me come.”

  “I’m sorry I made such a big deal out of it. They aren’t all that bad, I guess?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  I laugh, suddenly unsure again. “Or maybe they are?”

  I turn my body toward him, but it’s too dark to read his face.

  “No,” he says. “Your parents are great. They’re just like you. Well—not just like you, but it’s cool to see who you came from. I had an awesome time.”

  The self-conscious lightbulb that turned on back at the house switches off. This is Alex. He’s not mocking me or judging me. He’s completely attractive and sexy, yes—I’m mature enough to admit that—but the best thing, the most important thing about him, is that he’s my friend. Honestly, it did seem like he fit in with us, as different as our families are. It felt comfortable and easy.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me, too. You really are good with parents.”

  “I told you,” he says. “I think even your dad was warming up to me.”

  I smirk. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as saying he likes you or anything. More like he thinks you’re tolerable.”

  “I’ll take it, Raven Girl,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Ugh. Dooonnn’t.”

  We both laugh, then sit for a few minutes longer in the silence, car engine off, no music, no talking. Just us, breathing from our toes. Just friends.

  “So,” he says. “Only a few more days until promposal-geddon.”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling strangely irritated that he brought it up. “I know.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.” I reach for the door handle and open up. He reaches out his hand and touches my arm.

  His fingers are warm, almost pulsing on my skin. His touch is the last thing I need right now. “What?”r />
  “I’m…I’m really glad I met you in that express lane Bailey Banfield.”

  His voice is soft, but strong and deep. I totally get why so many girls fall all over him. It’s not hard to understand. And I’m lucky. I think of all those girls, who as far as I can tell mean nothing to him, and feel a sense of relief knowing that I do mean something.

  “Me, too, Alex Koviak,” I say. “My parents are worried that I don’t have enough—or any—friends, really. So tonight helped, I think. And my mom wants to marry you. So there’s that.”

  “If your dad ever splits, I’d consider it.”

  “That’s a disturbing thought.” I step out of the car and walk to mine. “Bye, Alex.”

  “Night, Bails.”

  I get inside and start the ignition, probably waking up the whole neighborhood. I had a good time with him tonight, too good of a time, but all will be well when I ask Caleb to the prom. I need it to be, because I refuse to lose what Alex and I have.

  When I drive off, Alex is still standing in front of his door, watching me go.

  I had a restless sleep, and I’m only semi-conscious by lunch as I make my way to the library to do my Pre-Calc homework. I need to get it done because I’m working at the coffee shop til close tonight, and I have three tests Wednesday that are going to kill me. It’ll all be worth it someday, I tell myself.

  When I push through the glass library doors, I know that I am not going to get any homework done today. At a table, just inside, are Alex and Caleb, books open in front of them.

  Shit, shit, shit. This shouldn’t scare me as bad as it does, not if I’m promposing to this guy in a matter of days. From atop a cow. Alex promised to set up a meeting for us, and this must be it. He looks up, like he’s been waiting for me, and waves me in.

  I’m so not ready for this, but I breathe deep and pull the door open.

  “Hey!” Alex fails miserably at library voice. Caleb seems a little lost, but then he looks at me and smiles, which gives me a little bit of courage. I smile back and walk to the table.

  “Hey, Bails,” Alex says when I reach them. “How’s tricks?”

  I don’t even know what that means. “Fine?”