by Seven Steps
“Not this week.” I pull off the gloves and turn to John. “When is this going to go on sale?”
“It’s still a year away from actual production. What you’ve tried on is one of the only two working prototypes in the world.” He hands Eric a white business card. “We have a GoFundMe if you’d like to contribute.”
“How much for the other one?” Eric asks.
John looks from his partner to Eric and runs a hand through his light hair.
“Sorry, pal. Not for sale yet. We can put you on the waiting list, though.”
“My friend here isn’t really a waiter,” he says, walking forward and picking up a pen. “If you can deliver me the second prototype by the end of the day, I’ll personally ensure that your GoFundMe is fully funded by tomorrow.”
He writes something on a piece of paper that I can’t see.
“Yeah, okay, kid,” John says. “Hate to tell you, but we’re a little short.”
“Yeah, like fifty thousand dollars short,” Jamie says.
Eric hands the man the paper.
“Like I said. End of day, and you’re funded.”
John looks from Eric to Jamie, and back to Eric.
“Eric Shipman,” he says with disbelief. “Of Shipman Exports.”
“End of day, buddy. I’d love the opportunity to work with you.”
Eric’s hand go to my lower back, and he gently guides me to the next booth.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “I could have waited until it was actually in production.”
He ignores my comment and steers me around the building crowd. The doors have opened, and now the center is starting to fill out.
“Think of it as a thank you gift,” he says.
“Thank you for what?”
His shoulders shrug, and he smiles at me.
“I’ll think of something.” He holds up two comic books. “Now, Batman or Superman?”
I put my hands on my hips.
“You read comic books?”
“I don’t advertise it, but I happen to be a connoisseur of the fine art of comic bookery.”
I chuckle. “I don’t know. Which do you like better?”
“Guess.”
I look from one comic book to the other, then to Eric.
What kind of guy is he? Dark and brooding, or a beacon for mankind? Honestly, he’s a little bit of both.
“I’m going to go with Batman.”
“Why?”
“Well, you have a lot in common. You live in a tower with a guy named Alfred. The whole parents thing. And you wear a lot of black.”
His brows scrunch.
“You’re right. I was going to buy the Superman, but I see it now. I’m Batman.” He stands up straight and looks around wild-eyed. “I’m Batman!”
I laugh so hard that tears form in my eyes.
“You’re nuts.”
“No, I’m Batman. You’ve discovered my secret.” He regarded me with teasing eyes. “If I’m Batman, what does that make you?”
“I’ve always thought of myself as more of a Mary Jane.”
“Mary Jane? That’s an entirely different franchise.”
I laugh. “You asked.”
“I didn’t ask to be disappointed.” He puts down the comic book and starts perusing a different stack.
“What are you doing? I thought you were going to buy the Batman.”
“Now I have to find the Spiderman.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re Mary Jane.” He runs a hand through his black hair. “And wherever you are, I want to be too.”
I sigh. He’s so sweet. So caring. So… Eric.
He finds a Spiderman comic, pays for it, and asks that it be held until the event coordinator picks it up later. Then, he takes my hand, and I can’t help but be filled with joy as we stroll to another booth.
∞∞∞
After hours at the convention, we finally go back to Eric’s jet.
Team Lightning placed number sixty-eight in the tournament. Considering that the top fifty went to the semi-finals, our placement was nothing to sneeze at. I counted it as a win. We didn’t find Thumbs Mitchell, but that’s okay. We’ll find him next time. I’m still going home with a Mary Jane T-shirt, a game vest prototype that isn’t available anywhere else in the world, a bunch of games still on pre-order, and a basket of French fries drenched in ketchup.
After we settled, and the plane took off, we continued our game of Risk.
“Kamchatka,” I say, picking up the box top and throwing my dice into it.
Eric wins the roll with six on one die and a one on the other.
“So, who’s going to be at this party?” he asks. “Anyone I know?”
“Just a bunch of freshmen. Oh, Jeffery Wolowitz will be there, I think. And some junior named Mel Reynolds.”
“Is he the one who always wears that long brown coat?”
“Yeah. Alana calls him dreamy, so I’m sure I’ll have to beat him up at some point.”
He wins the second roll and the country.
Crap.
He picks up the dice and places them in my open palm. He doesn’t release them, though. They hang there, making small circles in my hand.
My brain turns to mush. God, that feels good.
His gaze holds mine for a long moment. He looks down at my lips, then back up at my eyes. Without realizing it, I mimic the action.
It’s in this moment I realize I want Eric to kiss me. Badly. I didn’t know I could want something so badly until this very second, and it scares the crap out of me because a kiss with Eric isn’t just a kiss. It’s a pact. A promise. And I’m still not sure I can trust him not to hurt me again.
He finally releases the dice and moves his hands so they’re cupping mine. His head drops, he brings our joined, cupped hands to his lips, and gently blows on the dice within them.
My hand trembles, and he squeezes my fingers before releasing me.
I gulp in a breath.
“For luck,” he says.
Visions of me throwing the game on the floor, climbing over the table, saying screw the consequences, and kissing him silly flood my mind. Suddenly, there’s not enough air on this plane.
I shake my head, trying to regain my stolen senses.
“Ariel?”
“Huh? Oh, yes, it’s still my turn.”
With shaking hands, I throw the dice again, and this time, I beat him. I’m too tense to celebrate properly. My body feels like it’s on fire, but I manage a smile.
Maybe he was good luck after all.
I move my piece and look back at Eric. He’s focused on me as if I’m the only thing that exists in the world.
Why is he making this “keep my distance” thing so hard?
“Your turn,” I say in a choked voice.
But his hot gaze tells me he’s no longer focused on the game. He unbuckles his seatbelt and slides into the seat next to mine. With a flick of a button, the arm of the recliner comes up. He presses another button, and our seats slide toward each other, forming a love seat with the two recliners.
That’s some customization.
He places one hand on my knee, making small circles with his thumb. I feel it everywhere.
Our gazes lock, our eyes hungry and devouring. He leans closer, and his voice is a warm breeze over my lips.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
My mind has only one thought. Kissing Eric.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it too.
He doesn’t lean forward any further, and I know he’s giving me control of the situation. The ball’s in my court. All I have to do is lean forward just a little bit more.
No.
A small piece of my mind is still in functioning order, giving me the slightest bit of common sense.
No. Not yet. Not until you’re sure. When you kiss him, there will be no going back.
“Eric.” My voice is small. Choked. I’m not even sure he hears me. “I’
m…”
He bites the corner of his lip, his eyes hard and intense. They drop from me, and he leans back in his chair, his brows furrowed, his hands gripping his knees.
He’s not so close now, but it’s still hard to breathe.
“I’m just…”
“Not ready,” he says, and his eyes turn hooded. “I know.”
My heart leaps in my throat, and my body fills with some mix of warmth and disquiet.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should give you your space, but when you’re near me, it’s so hard.”
He looks at me, and I see the same war in him that I’m fighting in me.
Doing what I desire versus doing what’s right.
We were so broken before. If we rush into this, we’ll only break again.
He reaches out a hand, and I take it quickly.
“This is enough for me,” he says. “If it’s okay with you.”
I let out a breath. “Yes. It’s enough.”
He smiles, and I lay my head on his shoulder. He flicks the television on, and we watch The Big Bang Theory for the last twenty minutes of our trip.
Yes, Eric. For now, this, just this, is enough.
40
The Stamford club is filled with teens. Most are freshmen and sophomores I don’t know, but there are a few juniors and seniors sprinkled into the crowd too.
The raised dance floor looks like a giant disco ball, with colorful squares of light. Pink and green armless, cushioned chairs surround the stage, each close to a table so everyone can have somewhere to put their drinks. The left side of the stage has a huge television with what looks like a video game on it. Pink and green decorative squares hang from the ceiling, endlessly twirling.
The decorator’s done a fantastic job. The place looks better than I could have ever dreamed.
This morning, the twins sent out a text that their party was now eighties themed. It was too late to change the decorations, food, and DJ, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. They showed up in crimped hair, bangles, and leg warmers and danced to regular music like it was supposed to be that way. All in all, things were going well.
I decide to check the allergen table because Alana has me freaked out about someone going into anaphylactic shock. Everything is in place, but I still adjust the sign so it’s directly under the light.
Just in case.
The first eighties song of the night comes on, and I dance a bit while I watch my sisters move through the crowd with grace and charm.
Adella hangs out with a mix of boys and girls, probably jocks, while Alana holds court with the ninth grade popular girls. They hug each other, laugh, and sometimes scream, like girls do. Though there aren’t any boys in the immediate circle, I see quite a few buzzing around, staring with longing looks at my sister and her friends.
I force myself not to play the scary big sister, but knowing that boys like them, and that my sisters like them back, still bothers me. Even though dating’s inevitable, I’m not ready for it yet. I’m not ready for them to cry to me when their hearts get broken or to hear about kissing or jealous ex-girlfriends. I want them to always be the little girls sitting crisscross applesauce in the living room, fighting, arguing, and making up again. But that time has passed. This party isn’t just a party announcing their arrival. It’s a transition into another key moment of their lives. An awakening of sorts.
I vow then and there to be a better big sister to them. I’ll be there for them if they need hugs, chocolate, or good advice. Always and forever.
My brain mocks me, telling me I’m the one who needs good advice.
Yeah. I know.
“Excuse me, have you seen Duckie?”
Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn.
It’s a man, probably in his late thirties. He’s cute, with short auburn hair, and a goatee that looks both scruffy and shaped at the same time. He’s tall, almost an entire foot taller than me. His sleeves are casually rolled up to his elbows, and I can see tattoos that come down to his wrist. I don’t want to stare, but I can’t help it. He’s gorgeous.
Wait, did this hottie just ask for my sister?
“I’m sorry, what?”
His top button’s unbuttoned, and I see the outline of more tattoos swirling across his chest.
“You’re Ariel, right?” He looks at my hair, then back at me. “Well, sans the red hair.”
My brows hook together. “Uh, yeah.”
“I’m James.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it. His hand feels dry and warm and strong. The kind of hand you want to hold onto forever. The kind of hand you’d imagine a man who works outdoors would have.
When he releases me, my hand cools uncomfortably.
“Hi, James.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “Have you seen Duckie?”
I just stare back. Who’s this guy and why does he call my sister Duckie? No one calls my sister Duckie except family and Eric.
He must think I don’t know who he’s talking about, because he leans closer and practically shouts in my ear.
“Aquata.”
The shock from this god of a man looking for my sister finally begins to wear thin, and I open my mouth to speak.
“Yeah. Duckie. Right. She’s behind the bar.”
He offers me a smile. The sort of smile that girls go weak in the knees for. I have to admit, even my knees shake a little.
“Ariel, right?”
I nod. “Yes, Ariel.”
He gives me a pat on the back and strides to the bar.
I follow him.
Who’s this James and how does Duckie know him?
He walks to the bar and sits there, his eyes on my sister’s back.
Duckie’s going over some things with the bartender and doesn’t notice him at first.
When she turns and sees him, her entire demeanor changes. She beams at him and jumps a bit on her tippy-toes. He stands, and she walks around the bar, throwing her arms around his neck. He lifts her off her feet, dips his head, and moves in for a kiss.
Duckie’s eyes catch mine, and she freezes, her expression dropping.
That’s when I know.
I know exactly who James is.
I know exactly why Duckie has said all those things.
I know exactly why she’s leaving.
And I hate her for it.
41
Duckie’s home on time tonight.
It’s Monday, the day after my sisters’ party. It’s teacher development day, so there’s no school, which sucks because I really wanted to see Eric again.
Maybe it’s for the best, though. We need time apart to really think about what we’re getting into. To slow down and figure out what we have. Still, after spending an entire day with him, I miss him almost as much as I miss swim.
Even though my sisters and my father are all at the table, my eyes stay on Duckie.
Did she go to work today? Is she really going to leave us to run off with some guy we don’t even know? How can she choose him over us?
I poke at my eggplant lasagna, my stomach too sour to eat a bite.
The twins are still ranting and raving about their party, which was a huge success.
Meanwhile, Duckie looks like she’s been freebasing sugar candy for the last twenty-four hours. She’s fidgety, and she keeps rearranging the salt and pepper shakers.
When the bell rings, she runs to the door, but I beat her to it. I pull the door open and instantly know the reason for Duckie’s nervousness.
Standing in the doorway is James, the man I’ve met at the party on Sunday.
The man intent on taking my sister away from me.
It takes all I have not to slam the door in his face. He seems to anticipate this and puts his foot over the threshold.
“What do you want?” I growl.
“Hi, Ariel. Duckie invited me for dinner.”
My brows shoot up in surprise.
Duckie invited her secret boyfriend for dinner and didn’t tell anyone.
>
Daddy is going to go nuclear.
“I don’t think this is the best time,” I say, closing the door a little. I fully intend on slamming it against his shoe if he doesn’t leave my doorstep in the next ten seconds. “Maybe you should come back another time.”
“Ariel,” Duckie hisses, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Let him in.”
“Duckie—”
She cuts off my protests with a hard look. The same look Mom used to give us. I roll my eyes and walk away, leaving the two of them at the door to whisper to each other.
I pull my seat out and flop into it.
Let the fallout begin.
A few moments later, Duckie and Jamie appear in the doorway of the dining room. I know this because my father looks as if a lion has just walked in. His face is a mixture of surprise and anger.
That’s never a good thing.
“Who’s this?” he asks, his dropped fork clanging against his plate.
Duckie squares her shoulders, lifts her chin and, in a bold move, laces her hands with James’.
“This is James Buchannan. He’ll be having dinner with us.”
We all freeze, our eyes flitting between Duckie’s hand in James’ and my father’s shocked face.
“You didn’t tell me we were having guest,” he growls. His eyes haven’t left Duckie’s and James’ clasped hands.
“It must have slipped my mind.” It’s a lie. Nothing slips Duckie’s mind. This is a formal introduction, and she didn’t tell us because she didn’t want anyone backing out at the last minute. Especially Daddy.
Duckie leads James to the far end of the table, to the spot next to her.
“I’ll get him a place setting.”
Daddy’s jaw clenches.
Duckie goes to the kitchen and returns a minute later with a full place setting. She sets it in front of James, grabs the pan of lasagna, and places that in front of him too. She then sets into her food like it’s her last meal.
With the way Daddy’s glaring at her, it probably is.
James is surprisingly calm. He dishes out his food, takes a bite, then swallows. A smile spreads on his face, directed to everyone at the table, including a scowling Daddy.
“Wow. This is really good.”
Alana, not one to be left out of the drama, speaks up.
