by Kasie West
When the last song is over Mason jumps off the stage and disappears into the back with the other guys. Henry comes out first, and he and Skye make out for a while right in front of me. Gross. Why do I suddenly wish I had someone to make out with? I’m good at being alone. I’ve pretty much mastered it. So what’s changed? Xander’s lip-biting smile flashes through my mind. No. I shake the image away.
Just when I’m sure that if I take a saliva sample from Skye’s mouth it will come back with Henry’s DNA, I say, “Okay, enough.”
Skye pulls away laughing and Henry pretends like he just realized I was standing there. Right.
“S’up?” he says, then leans over to the bar and asks for some ice water. He takes it and we search for a table. There are no open ones so we just stand in the corner talking.
Eventually Mason comes out and throws one arm around my neck. His T-shirt is sticky with sweat and almost reverses the effect his singing had on me. “Hey, Caymen, you came.”
“Here I am.”
“How’d we do tonight?”
“Really good.”
“Did you bring any old ladies with you?” He looks around like this is a valid possibility.
“Almost, but she canceled on me last-minute. I guess some metal-head band was playing downtown tonight.”
“Which band?” Henry asks, and Mason starts laughing.
“It was a joke, idiot,” he says.
“Don’t call me an idiot.”
“Then don’t act like one.”
Henry pouts, and Skye says, “You’re not an idiot, babe.” Then they start making out again. Ugh. Seriously.
“Do you want something to drink?” Mason asks, leading me toward an abandoned table.
“Yes, please.”
I sit down and he comes back with two bottles of beer. He holds one out for me.
I put up my hands. “Oh, I don’t drink. I’m seventeen.”
“So? I’m nineteen.”
“My mom says before I turn eighteen she still has the right to murder me.” My mom always tells me to blame it on her if I am ever in an uncomfortable situation. It seems to work well.
He laughs. “Okay, that’s cool.” He sits down next to me.
I watch him drink for a minute then say, “I’m going to get some water.”
“Oh.” He jumps back up. “Sit. I’ll get it.”
I watch him walk away and can’t decide if I’m feeling fluttery because I’m talking to the lead singer of a band or if it’s Mason. When two other girls approach him at the bar and he turns to talk to them, I realize it’s the first option. After all, I hardly know him. This makes me feel really shallow.
The bartender hands him my glass of ice water but Mason continues talking.
I stand, suddenly. I need to go. I have an early morning.
I walk to where we had left Skye and Henry and tap her on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m leaving.”
She pulls away from Henry. “Wait.” She looks around and spots Mason. “No, don’t leave. He always gets bombarded by girls. It’s not his fault.”
“I’m not worried about him. That’s not why I’m leaving.” At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself. “I just have to work in the morning. I’ll see you soon.”
I walk away to say good-bye to Mason and hear her say, “Wait, we’re walking you.”
As we pass Mason I wave and mouth bye. But Skye says out loud, “We’re walking Caymen home.”
He gives me the wait motion with his hand and nods politely to the girl in front of him, finishing up whatever conversation they were having. He sets the ice water he’d ordered on the bar, then he’s by my side. “I’m coming, too.”
Henry and Skye walk in front of us, talking quietly. Mason drapes his arm around my shoulder. I’m learning quickly that he’s a touchy kind of guy. We’re silent for a block.
“I didn’t realize you had to leave so early,” he finally says.
“Yeah. I have work in the morning.”
“We play again next week.”
I’m not sure if he is inviting me or making small talk so I just nod.
“Thanks,” I say when we get to the shop and I pull the keys out of my pocket.
He leans toward me, and because it never crosses my mind that he would try to kiss me no matter how touchy-feely he is and with witnesses, I don’t back up fast enough and am shocked when his lips meet mine. They’re surprisingly soft. “Oh, uh . . . wow,” I say, pulling back.
He doesn’t back up and his eyes meet mine. “Thanks for coming tonight.”
His smoky voice makes my heart patter to life and again I’m shocked at my reaction to him.
“Okay, see you.”
Skye smiles at me like that was the most exciting occurrence ever. I just want to escape.
Chapter 8
The store doesn’t open until nine, but like clockwork my eyes pop open at six Saturday morning. I try to go back to sleep but my body won’t have it so I stare at the ceiling for a while thinking about the night before. What happened? Did Mason mean to kiss me? Had I turned toward him when he was going in for a hug or something? My brain feels the need to disassemble and then reconstruct the night in a way that makes sense.
It comes up with two logical possibilities. One, it was an accident and he was too nice to say so. Or two, he was really friendly and kissed everyone. Now that I have some reasonable explanations, I feel better. I just hope we don’t run into each other for a while.
After an hour of unsuccessfully trying to go back to sleep, I roll out of bed and shower before my mom takes over the bathroom. I pull on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and slide my feet into fuzzy black slippers. With wet hair I go to grab a list of orders I had left downstairs the day before so I can enter it into the computer.
I cross-check it with the list my mom had made one more time. We still have an hour until opening so, with plenty of time to finish getting ready, I tuck the list into my pocket and head for the computer. Before I make it to the bottom step, I hear a knock on the front door. My hand immediately goes to my wet hair and my brain immediately thinks it’s Mason. This scenario doesn’t fall into either of the explanations my brain had come up with. Overly affectionate rock stars don’t show up on the doorstep the morning after. We’re not open yet so the blinds are still drawn over the glass. I don’t have to open the door.
A second later the shop phone rings.
Mason doesn’t have the shop phone number, does he? Would Skye have given it to him? I pick it up before my mom gets the chance to answer upstairs. “Hello, Dolls and More.”
“A week ago someone warned me not to buy the blueberry muffins at Eddie’s, but I didn’t listen and bought them anyway. Now at odd hours I get these insatiable cravings.”
I’m so relieved at who’s on the line that I let out a weird laugh/sigh combo then quickly clear my throat. “They’re laced with addictive substances.”
“I believe you now.”
I smile.
“So are you going to let me in? It’s kind of cold out here. I’ll share.”
My eyes dart to the door.
“I think this muffin might even have your name on it. . . . Oh no, sorry, that’s my name.”
“I . . .”
“You wouldn’t want me to die of hypothermia, would you?” he says.
“I don’t think it gets cold enough here for that.” I shuffle on my slipper-clad feet to unlock the door then hold it open for Xander.
“Hi.” His voice echoes in the phone I’m still holding to my ear. I push the Off button.
It’s been so long I had almost forgotten how good-looking . . . and rich he is. But it clings to him along with the cold air as he walks inside. I relock the door and turn to face him. He’s holding a brown Eddie’s bakery bag and two Styrofoam cups with lids on them. “Hot chocolate.” He lifts the cup in his right hand. “Or coffee.” He lifts the one in his left. “I only took a tiny sip out of each so it doesn’t matter to me.”
Nice.
Maybe Rich is a communicable disease. I point to his right hand. “Hot chocolate.”
“I thought you might be a hot chocolate girl.”
I take the hot chocolate from him and try not to register my shaking hand as I do so. That would imply his showing up out of the blue on my doorstep is tripping me out.
My gaze travels the length of him. It irritates me that this early in the morning Xander can look so . . . awake. If I saw him in the middle of the night with bedhead and sleepy eyes, would he still look so perfect?
“Your stare can make a guy insecure.”
“I’m not staring. I’m observing.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The intent of observation is to gain data and form a theory or conclusion.”
He tilts his head. “And what theory have you formed?”
That you’re at least one step removed from normal. A chunky black ring on his pinky finger knocks against a rocking chair as he turns to glance around the dark store. I raise my eyebrows. Maybe two steps. “That you’re a morning person.”
He holds his arms out to the sides as if to say, You caught me. “I’ve made an observation as well.”
“What’s that?”
“You have very wet hair.”
Oh. That’s right. “Yeah, well, you gave me no warning. I don’t wake up looking perfect.” Like some people.
A realization comes over his face and I wait for him to express it. He looks over his shoulder toward the back. “Do you live here?”
“Yeah, there’s an apartment upstairs.” Now I’m confused. “So if you didn’t know I lived here, why did you knock on the door before opening?”
“Because I assumed you had to come in early to get everything ready to open.”
“This is where proper amounts of observation would’ve come in handy.”
He laughs.
“You have no idea how many nightmares a porcelain-doll store can fuel. I have been murdered in a variety of ways by angelic-looking dolls over the years.”
“That’s really . . . morbid.”
I laugh. “So what are you doing here?”
“I’m getting Eddie’s. Isn’t that obvious? And since you introduced me to the poison, I thought it only right that I share in the bounty.”
“You like to look at the dolls, don’t you? You miss them when you’re away.”
He offers one of his stingily given smiles. “Yes, I miss this place terribly when I’m away.”
I set the phone on the counter, wrap both my hands around the warm cup, and lead the way toward the stockroom. He follows. I sit down on the old couch and put my feet up on the coffee table.
He sets the Eddie’s bag and his coffee on the table by my feet, takes off his jacket, and sits down next to me. “So, Caymen . . .”
“So, Xander . . .”
“Like the islands.”
“What?”
“Your name. Caymen. Like the Cayman Islands. Is that your mom’s favorite place to visit or something?”
“No, it’s her third favorite place. I have an older brother named Paris and an older sister named Sydney.”
“Wow.” He opens the bag, takes out a muffin, and hands it to me. The top glistens with sprinkled sugar. “Really?”
I gently unwrap it. “No.”
“Wait, so you don’t have older siblings or those aren’t their names?”
“I’m an only child.” Mostly because I was born out of wedlock and have no contact with my father. Would that statement send him running? Probably. So why didn’t I say it out loud?
“Note to self: Caymen is very good at sarcasm.”
“If you’re recording notes for an official record, I’d like the word ‘very’ stricken and replaced with ‘exceptionally.’”
His eyes light up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips, but that seems to imply he actually finds me amusing. My mother always told me guys were put off by my sarcasm.
“All right, your turn,” he says.
“For what?”
“Ask me a question.”
“Okay . . . um . . . Do you often force girls to invite you into their houses?”
“Never. They usually invite me in themselves.”
“Of course they do.”
He leans back and takes a bite of his muffin. “So, Ms. Observant, what was your first impression of me?”
“When you came into the store?”
“Yes.”
That’s easy. “Arrogant.”
“Really? What made you think that?”
Does that surprise him? “I thought it was my turn to ask a question.”
“What?”
“Isn’t that how the game works? We each get a question?”
He looks at me expectantly. I realize I have no question. Or maybe I have too many. Like why is he really here? When will he realize I don’t play with his crowd? What exactly made him interested in the first place? . . . If that’s what this is. “Can I go finish getting ready?”
Chapter 9
“No. Okay, my turn. What made me come off as arrogant?”
I stare at the crease on the sleeve of his T-shirt—a clear indication it had been ironed. Who irons T-shirts? “You beckoned me,” I say, remembering that first day.
His brown eyes flash to mine. Even his eyes with their gold flecks remind me of his wealth. “I what?”
“You stay there. I’ll be you.” I walk to the far end of the stockroom and pretend to come in a door, holding a cell phone to my ear. I swagger a few steps, stop and stare at the wall, then hold up my hand and beckon him. I wait for him to laugh, but when I glance over he has a mortified look on his face.
“I may have exaggerated it just a bit,” I say even though I didn’t.
“That’s how you saw me?”
I clear my throat and walk slowly back to the couch. “So are you the soccer player or the math genius?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your grandmother brags. I’m wondering which grandson you are.”
“The one who hasn’t done much of anything.”
I toe the table leg with my slipper. “You do know who you’re talking to?”
“I do. Caymen.”
I roll my eyes. “I mean, I’m the queen of having done nothing, so I’m sure you’ve far outdone me.”
“What haven’t you done that you want to do?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it too much. I’m perfectly satisfied with my life. I think unhappiness comes from unfulfilled expectations.”
“So the less you expect from life . . .”
“No. It’s not like that. I just try to be happy and not wish I could do more.” Well, I was getting better at that goal at least. And having people like him around only serves as a reminder of everything I don’t have.
He finishes off his muffin then throws the wrapper in the bag. “And does it work? Are you happy?”
“Mostly.”
He raises his Styrofoam cup in a toast. “That’s all that matters, then, isn’t it?”
I nod and move my foot onto the coffee table. The order form in my pocket crinkles with the movement. I pull it out. “I should go. I have some work to do before we open.”
“Right. Of course. I should go, too.” He hesitates for a moment as if wanting to say something more.
I stand and he follows suit, picking up his jacket. I walk him to the front door and open it.
As he walks away I realize how little our question-and-answer session revealed about each other. I have no idea how old he is or where he goes to school or what he likes to do. Did we steer clear of those questions on purpose? Did we both ask ridiculous, meaningless questions because deep down we really don’t want to know the other person?
He pushes a button on his keys and the fancy silver sports car in front of the shop beeps. That car alone answers any question I could possibly have about him. No need for any more. He opens the door and throws me that smile and I hear myself yell, “
Are you a senior?”
He nods. “You?”
“Yeah.” I hold up my drink. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“No problem.”
I shut the door and lean against it. Why?
It takes me several minutes to push myself away from the door and head upstairs. My mom’s in the bathroom so I drag a chair to the old computer and start entering orders online.
“Did I hear the phone ring?” my mom asks when she comes into the dining area rubbing her wet hair with a towel.
“Yeah. I answered it.”
“Who was it?”
“Just someone asking what time we opened.” And that is the first time in my life I have lied to my mother. We tell each other everything. It surprises me. I should’ve said, “This kid named Xander—yes, he goes by Xander on purpose—who has his T-shirts ironed and wears jewelry.” That would’ve been fun. My mom would’ve tried to pretend she was offended. We could’ve talked about how he probably gets his hair cut twice a month. She would’ve given a polite “it’s best if we don’t hang out with people like that” speech. I would’ve agreed. I do agree.
So what stopped me?
“Can you finish up this order, Mom? My hair is going to dry all funky if I don’t get ahold of a blow-dryer.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thanks.”
I close myself in the bathroom and press my palms to my eyes. What stopped me?
Loyalty.
I didn’t want my mom to have bad feelings toward him. Somehow the guy had managed to climb out of the box full of people I had already labeled off-limits with a permanent marker and he’d become different. And now, much to my irritation, I feel some form of loyalty to Xander Spence.
I had to change this immediately.
Chapter 10
Monday morning I wave good-bye to my mom and open the front door to the shop. As I walk toward school, I notice a sports car that looks just like Xander’s parked a few doors down. I bend over to look inside, and when I straighten up again Xander is on my opposite side. I jump. He hands me a cup of hot chocolate and takes a sip from his cup.
I look at the cup—the same as yesterday’s. “I only want this if you drank out of it first,” I say, refusing to say, “What are you doing here?” That might give away that I care.
