News of Rachel's party is dancing on everyone's lips by the end of the day. All she had to do was tell Kristy Landry for it to spread like wildfire, sort of like the STD rumor that went around about Carter last year. Kristy spread that one as fast as, well, an STD.
I'm pacing the halls in search of Rob, dodging the stragglers eager to get out of here like they've been imprisoned for months. I turn yet another corner, peering into empty classrooms before I catch a glimpse of Mr. Clarke at his desk. His hand dips into the cookie packet I gave him earlier, fishing one out and giving a hearty bite while he reads.
I haven't actually had a class with him yet, but I made all of my cookie deliveries today. I guess I am quite literally buttering them up as a precaution. He takes a sip from his mug and I keep walking so he doesn't catch me creeping.
Rob trying to bail on restaurant work is typical, but Mom made a point of getting him there today. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't chomping at the bit to throw my party attending decision in his face, too.
Jogging down the entrance steps, I immediately meet two clear blue skies at the bottom. "Matt!"
"Hey, I was looking for you," he says, and I'm almost blinded by that megawatt smile. Or maybe it's the beginning signs of a stroke about to occur from being looked at so intently by Matt Benson.
"You were?"
"Yeah, I missed you at lunch."
I tug at my backpack straps, dropping my attention to his spotless white sneakers. Truth is, agreeing to go to a party is a lot easier than making moves in the moment. It's still four days away. But seeing Matt and his rowdy friends in the cafeteria was like being zapped by a taser.
The unnerving thought of joining them drove me straight to the music room, a comfortable shell for me to hide in. And here I am wanting to brag to Rob about getting out of that shell. Pathetic.
"I usually eat lunch in the quad," I respond. That might not have been the case today, but it's true.
The cafeteria is loud, stuffy, and it always smells like stale oil and beans. Why would I subject myself to that when I could be sitting in the fresh air with the sound of either, A: mine and Rachel's frivolous conversations about nothing and everything, or B: my pen scraping in a notebook, accompanied by the rustling leaves of an oak tree while I eat alone in peace.
"Then I guess I'm eating lunch in the quad tomorrow," he says, sweeping my eyes to his shining ones.
I have a feeling he knows I was hiding out, and his lack of pressure in getting me to jump right into his group makes me like him even more. If that's possible.
"It's a date," I say, instantly panicked. "I mean, a lunch date. Casual."
"Sounds good."
I tuck loose strands of hair behind my ears. "Have you seen my brother around? He's my ride."
"Oh." He nods to his left, his lips twitching like he's fighting a smile. "Sure have."
I look past a knot of people, over the grass and to the unseemly sight of Rob in an aggressive game of tonsil tennis with Clara Booker. Pawing at her body, pressing her up against the building as if he's trying to push her straight through that brick wall. He may as well be sucking her face clean off.
"Jesus," I mutter, ripping my eyes from the scene.
"First day." Matt slips his hands in his jacket pockets. "He works pretty fast, huh?" I lightly slap his arm and he laughs, feigning hurt. "Where're you going? I can give you a ride."
"Really?"
"Yeah, for sure."
He's pulling his keys from his pocket, but I shake my head. "It's out of your way. I can walk."
Matt's brows dip. He almost looks perplexed. "I'm happy going out of my way for you, Lia."
The weight of that sentence soaks through my brain. It catches me off guard. It gives me nerves. For the first time since I started talking to Matt, I really feel the change coming. What I'm used to is slowly shifting and making room for this boy who's putting me ahead of himself.
I walk with him to the parking lot, hearing the whispers arise, feeling the scatter of eyes trained on us. They attentively watch me climb into his car, because any girl who gets a spot in Matt Benson's car would never go unnoticed.
I guess I need to start getting used to all of this.
〰️〰️〰️
I'm fighting to not stare at Matt's arms as he drives, and I'm losing the battle. He's shed his letterman jacket with the heat, white shirt hugging his chest, muscles tensing every time he makes a move. His fresh golden tan only amplifies it all.
"I don't know how you do it, Lia," he says, saving me from falling into a puddle of my own drool.
"Do what?"
"Work in a restaurant. On your feet for so long, running around, dealing with difficult people. It's gotta be brutal."
I can't contain a laugh, and it comes out too loud in this car. I think it's the nicest car I've been in. A black Mercedes so smooth and quiet that it kind of feels like we're sitting in the first class section on a plane, the rich smell of leather hanging around us. The scruffy backpack between my ankles is wildly out of place. As is the girl riding shotgun.
"It's not too bad. I love it, actually," I say, turning to him. "Well, not the waitressing, but I love the cooking."
"You cook there, too?"
"When it's quiet enough."
"What's your favorite thing to make?"
I hum, chewing the inside of my cheek. "Probably the ravioli. Not to eat, but I like the process of making the pasta and constructing it together with the filling-"
"Oh, man, that spinach and ricotta one, right? The sauce was mind-blowing when I had-" He cuts himself off, drawing his lip between his teeth.
I'm glued on him. "You've had it? Oh, you mean, in general?"
"No, that one. At Floriana," he sighs, strained. "So, confession: I ate there a while back, and it might've been the best meal of my life. Put me in a food coma."
I let out a giggle. "Why didn't you mention it before?"
"Because I saw you there and you were swamped, and I wanted to talk to you but I didn't wanna admit that I chickened out. Like, sweaty palms, stomachache chickening out."
"Shut up, no you didn't."
"I did!" He laughs, the slightest bit of red tinging his cheeks. The break in composure is insanely adorable.
"You expect me to believe you got nerves around me?"
"Why is that so hard to believe?"
"Because you're you, and I'm-"
"Lia DeMarco." He presses my name, pulling his gaze from the road to lock onto me. "And if a guy doesn't get nerves around you, Lia... there has to be something seriously wrong with him."
〰️〰️〰️
I stroll along the sidewalk with so much bounce in my step that anyone who passes by might think I have marshmallow soles in my shoes. The restaurant is three blocks away, and that should be enough time for me to lose this rosy glow before Mom sees it.
I asked Matt not to take me directly there. If my mom saw him dropping me off then I'd drown in a stream of never-ending questions, and I want to avoid that for as long as possible.
When I round the corner, a vinyl record sign catches my eye. It hangs above a neon green, paint-chipped door. I've passed here before, caught glimpses through car windows and told myself I'd go inside one day. I'm running a little late, but five minutes won't hurt. And since Derek gave me that refurbished turntable months ago for my birthday, it's about time I look into building a record collection.
I hear indie music as soon as I cross the threshold. The rows of stacked records are a little overwhelming, and I head to the first one I see, passing an exposed brick wall teeming with colorful band posters, artwork, and vinyl disks. My fingers flip through the albums, quickly finding that I'm in the classic rock section. Not exactly what I had in mind.
I'm about to go to the next one when a familiar chime stops me, drifting over the entirety of the store, dripping over me like sticky honey. I can't see him, but Nate Miller is here.
He laughs again, and I back up. I don't know why I'm suddenly on edge. I guess the ice cream incident was a little embarrassing. Okay, a lot embarrassing. Not to mention that I have no recollection of what I was rambling to him about either. I'd rather not cross paths again.
I move so hastily that I don't sense the shelf behind me, bumping a stack of records off and watching them spread over the floor like playing cards. I rush to gather them, barely registering the paused laughter and quickening footsteps creaking over the wooden floorboards.
"Here, I got it." A body crouches down, taking over and scooping up the rest of the records, forearm ink straight in my eyeline. "Oh, hey."
"Hey," I push out, standing fast. "Thanks. I mean, sorry. I mean-"
"You're giving me déjà vu." A grin stretches across Nate's face as he slips the records on the shelf.
My nose scrunches. "Right. Sorry."
He takes the stack I'm holding, our fingers grazing for a moment. It sends a buzzing current up my arm, quick and strong.
"You let me off the hook too easy," he says.
"For?"
"Making you fall on your ass yesterday? I owe you one."
"What, you're going to fall on your ass?"
His smile widens. "Actually I was thinking I'd just reimburse you for those cones you lost, but sure, push me."
I laugh, but he stands back, swiveling around to make sure no one is behind him in the aisle.
"I'm not pushing you."
"I could get a frisbee you could catch? Make this super accurate."
I refuse again, my gaze wandering over his stature. He's not bulky, but his shoulders are broad like a swimmer, with toned muscles peeking from the sleeves of his shirt. Plus, the solidness was the first thing I felt when he knocked me down yesterday. I doubt I'd move him an inch.
"Fine," he sighs, widening his stance. "Blake!"
The floorboards creak again, Blake rounding the corner with a huff. He's got headphones on, holding one side away from his ear. He spots me, giving a friendly nod before turning his attention to Nate.
"Push me on the floor, won't you?"
He shrugs. "Kay."
Without any need for context, Blake charges at him like a bull seeing red, too fast for my protests to make it in time. He shoulders Nate surprisingly hard for his lanky body, slamming him to the floor with a massive thwack. Nate groans, cursing under his breath as Blake raises his fist in victory.
"That was fun." Blake chitters an excited laugh as he pulls him up. "Can I do it again?"
"Nope, I'm good. Thanks, man." Nate pats him on the shoulder, sending him on his way before he drags himself over to me again. "Cool, so, now we're even."
"Hey, I did not agree to that," I scoff, unable to suppress the smile of disbelief. "I would've been fine with the reimbursement. I know you're good for it with that stunt you guys pulled this morning."
He stops rubbing his shoulder, the tilt of his head shifting his curls. "Hm, interesting."
"What's interesting?"
"The fact that you were watching me and not the naked guy on stage."
My cheeks burn up, and I wish they'd incinerate me so I could turn into a pile of ash. "I just happened to notice."
His mouth tugs into a lopsided smile as he digs in his pocket. "Sure, Lia."
"You know my name," I say it before I can stop myself, stunned.
"Course I do." He offers a creased bill between his fingers, the forest in his eyes drawing me in. Getting me lost among those trees. "You're Rob's little sister."
Little sister. Makes me sound like I'm twelve. But... figures. Nate Miller would never know who I was if I wasn't related to Rob. No one does unless we share classes, and even then, that's not a guarantee.
"Now we're even," I say, taking the money as I turn on my heel.
"Whoa, hold up. You looking for something specific?"
I turn back, and he points to the records. "You work here?"
"Nah, Ollie does, but I know my way around."
My fingers twist together. I'm going to be late for work, but I can't bring myself to leave just yet. "Um, piano?"
His eyebrows lift. "Classical. Nice."
He motions for me to follow, leading me to a section across the store and opening his arms like he's presenting the Holy Grail. I thank him and expect he'll go back to his friends, but he leans against a pillar, watching me sift through the albums. "You play?"
I nod, looking over a Debussy cover.
"There's some sheet music you can check out too. Classic, modern. Whatever you prefer."
"I can't read music." I glance up when he doesn't respond, and his face looks smaller, creasing to the middle like an invisible hand is squeezing it. I've clearly piqued his interest. "I had lessons as a kid but my teacher used to get annoyed because I wouldn't read music and I'd memorize pieces, so I stopped going. It's easier for me to play by ear."
He pushes himself off the pillar. "Wait, so you can hear something and just play it?"
"With practice, but yeah, basically."
"Rob never mentioned his sister was a musical genius."
"Far from it. And Rob would never mention anything about me, anyway."
"He would if I asked."
I set down the album I'm holding. "Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Ask him about me."
A pause.
"Nope." He picks up the same album, toying with it. "Never."
That current from earlier shoots to my stomach, flowing in waves. "Hm, interesting."
"What is?"
"The fact that you've never asked him about me but you knew my name."
Caught out, he's grinning, and I'm lost in that forest again.
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