Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (8 page)

Damn, three to one.

“So, are you really not going to tell me how it went with your ex, last night?” I ask, while we’re sitting on a grassy area stuffing our faces with French fries, funnel cakes, and cheese-on-a-stick.

“Before you do though. Who knew this cheese shit tasted this good?” I’d never tried it before; she insisted we get two of them.

“I knew. Actually, everyone does. It’s cheese. It’s fried. Duh,” she laughs, stretching her cheese from the stick and dangling it above her mouth. She glances over at me, smirks when she sees that I’m watching her every move, and then sticks her tongue out to wrangle the cheese into her mouth. Really Dre? Watching some chick you barely know eat cheese (cheese!) is turning you on?

Continuing she says, “Honestly though, growing up, I’d only tried a fried food once. Fried cauliflower. It was despicable,” she grimaces. “I had my first French fry in college.”

“No way, that’s a lie,” I argue. Laughing and shaking her head, she goes into the craziest story I’ve ever heard. Don’t get me wrong, I know firsthand that parents do some messed up stuff, but Kathryn’s mom sounded insane—and delusional if she thought there was one thing wrong with Kathryn’s body.

“Unfortunately now though, I just love anything fried. Heck, I’d fry my toothpaste if I could,” she adds. “But I’d have to add up the Weight Watcher points every time I brushed my teeth. Heck, after this meal, I’m probably over my points for the whole dang month.

“You’re cute, Pebbles,” I say, staring at her. I blurted it out before I could stop myself.

“Well thanks, that’s the adjective girls just die to hear,” she says, flipping her head back and forth, making her pigtails bounce around.

“I don’t think you get it. You’re sexy as shit, but your personality is just cute, fun … and … and refreshing.” I admit.

“Refreshing. You just called me cute and refreshing. Wow. I’m like the perfect date … for the Kool-Aid man,” she says.

Kathryn makes me laugh. Everything she does; everything she says. “How about I just say this then, I haven’t seen a girl that I wanted to sleep with, much less talk to in over a year, and I gotta say, just this past hour with you has been … well worth the wait.”

And make that three to two. Kathryn’s eyes widen and her mouth clamps shut quickly. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but she’s obviously thinking something. Her eyes narrow and then widen and then narrow again, like she’s trying to figure out if she wants to say something to me.

“Theodore told me that he didn’t propose to his girlfriend, because he’d rather be proposing to me,” she blurts out. Then her eyes really widen at the same time she covers her mouth with her hand. Just as I’m about to respond, she says, “I have no filter. It’s my biggest flaw. I say what’s on my mind. I never hold back.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

She continues, “No, not really. Everyone knows that girls are supposed to play it cool, be coy, and challenge men. I’m not like that.”

“Kathryn, believe me, you are very challenging,” I admit. “I’ve never worked this hard in my life to get a girl interested in me. It’s usually dinner, maybe some slow dancing, and then … well, you get the idea.”

“Dinner? Dancing? I get fried, processed food on a wooden stick, and you think you’re working hard?” she asks.

“I am; I’ve never talked this much in my life. Typically, I just feed a girl a bunch of lines, and I’m golden,” I admit. “With you … I … I … have to think,” I whine, rubbing my head, faking pain and turmoil. “This is like a serious game of strategy and skill.”

Staring at me intently, she takes a deep breath, and then says, “So, I told Theodore that for months I dreamed of the day he’d come back to me and say those exact words.” I feel my shoulders fall, but I keep my eyes on her, not wanting her to see right through me, and register how disappointed every ounce of my body is.

Smiling, she says, “Then I told him that I’ve moved on, and although he’ll always be special to me, he’s my past.”

I can’t help the smile that is betraying me and splaying itself ridiculously across my face. She’s right; she doesn’t hold anything back. God, I don’t want to hurt her. But I have no idea how I can possibly walk away like I should. I should finish this date, take her home, and forget I ever met her. Utterly impossible. I could never forget the honesty of her words, the sincerity of her voice, the beauty of her presence … all things I’m not used to. I’m definitely not used to spending so much time trying to get a girl interested in me. But the truth is Kathryn Howell is too wonderful to be crushed by the weight of my lies and deceit.

As much as I don’t want to believe it, I like working this hard. People should have to work hard for what they want, what they get out of life. People shouldn’t be handed every little thing they want on a silver platter, like it’s hors d’oeuvres at a fancy country club dinner party. If you want something, then you have to go get it, not just wait until someone gives it to you. That’s not the way life works.

I have no idea what to say to her; I’m not even sure that a response is necessary. She just gave me the green light, when I know damn well I should hit the brakes and come to a screeching halt.

“If you’re done gorging yourself, I’m ready to ride some rides,” I say, pulling her up to her feet.

“Dre, I’m not really a thrill ride kind of girl,” she confesses.

“They have like five rides here. You can at least ride the merry-go-round with me,” I say.

Walking up to the ticket booth, I yell, “Hey Dave, two tickets please.”

Dave hands me a bunch of tickets, a lot more than two, and says, “Hey buddy, thanks for coming by earlier and—”

“No problem, anytime,” I say, cutting him off.

Nothing Dave says in front of Kathryn right now will be a good thing for her to hear. I have to remind myself of the goal: Bang and Bail. I have no intentions of getting serious with a woman right now—not even Kathryn Howell. Not even Kathryn Howell. Damn, it’s nuts how much I have to remind myself.

Dave nods and turns to the next customer. “Looking back and forth between Dave and me, Kathryn inquires, “What was that all about? Did you do some stuff for the Fair earlier today or something?”

“Or something,” I say, handing her some tickets.

“Dre, ummm, do you know everyone around here?” Kathryn asks.

“Nobody could possibly know everyone,” I say, blowing off her question. “That would be hyperbole—right? People don’t like exaggeration, do they, Agent of the Literary World?”

“No, no, they definitely don’t. Nobody wants to hear that he was the smartest, hottest man in the entire galaxy, and he took me to the edge a thousand times before—”

“Easy Pebbles, Bam-Bam might whip out his brontosaurus burger right here and—”

“Oh for God’s sake, are you ever going to let that go? The outfit wasn’t that slutty, geez. I’m sure you’ve seen much worse,” she argues.

“First of all, not from someone like you. Secondly, I like ‘Pebbles.’ It’s perfect for you,” I admit.

“What does that even mean, Dre, ‘someone like me,’ huh?”

“It means, good girls, classy girls, girls worth working for, don’t need to work so hard,” I explain. “What you already have works; you don’t need to try to make it work.”

“I don’t get you,” Kathryn says, staring at me like I’m a math problem with no solution. “One minute you’re kind and sensitive, the next minute, you’re chauvinistic, vague, and arrogant.”

“That’s me, a man of many faces—a mystery, an anomaly, a puzzle—”

“A walking thesaurus,” she laughs. “Easy there, your head might explode.

As we get in line for the carousel, I watch her as she watches the ride. Her eyes light up at an adorable little blonde girl, who’s squealing each time the horse rises and falls. Kathryn’s smile is infectious; I have this undeniable urge to make her smile like that—at me.

I feel a switch; I’m fighting something more than the urge to Bang and Bail. I feel like I could watch her all day long. I want to know what she thinks about, what her dreams are, what her childhood was like …

Son-of-a-bitch, I do not need this right now. There is no place in my life for feelings like this. Shit, I was doing so well, until she floated into my life, like an angel out of nowhere. Really? Am I about to bust out in tune, serenade her at the fair? God, get ahold of yourself, man.

Kathryn seriously takes forever choosing “the perfect horse.” She circles the carousel four times, before deciding on a white horse with a pink mane and golden reigns. “I couldn’t decide between this one and that yellow one,” she points, frowning between the two. “I want to ride both of them,” she says, climbing up on the white horse.

“Then we’ll ride it twice,” I offer, solving her dilemma. Kathryn smiles and kicks her feet back and forth. She’s so tiny; her feet don’t even hit the leather stirrups or the metals ones. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Let’s play a game,” I say. “This time, this ride, count how many times your horse goes up and down.”

“Okay … but why?” she asks.

“You’ll see … just wait,” I instruct. “Next time, count how many times the yellow horse goes around in circles.” She nods, and the ride slowly begins to move. Kathryn’s horse starts easing its way up and further away from me as my horse remains in place.

Smiling, she waves, and says, “three … four …” I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s beautiful, but adorable, sexy, but sophisticated, smart, but yet fun. I’m treading on very dangerous ground here, but have no intentions of trying to get out. Not one part of me wants to bail—bang yeah—bail, no. My purpose has switched; the change is in motion. Shit that was fast. All I want, all I can see is Kathryn Howell.

The ride comes to a stop, and she giggles and says, “26 times. It went up and down 26 times.” Quickly, she runs to the yellow horse and jumps on.

I walk over to the yellow horse, and swing my leg up on the back of the horse, sliding down into the seat against her back. Slowly, I wrap my arms around her, trying to gauge her comfort-level. I don’t want to do anything she doesn’t want me to do.

I lean forward and whisper in her ear, “This is the horse I wanted.”

Kathryn turns around, grins, and says, “Then hold on tight … it’s going to be an incredible ride.”

Every time I think I’m going to weaken her knees and make her melt, she counters with something more knee-weakening and melting. I spend the entire ride trying to control the big-guy-in-my-pants. What? Like I’m going to refer to him as “little man” or “baby Dre.” Not going to happen.

With my arms around her and Kathryn sitting snugly between my legs, I feel like that adorable little blonde girl, like I’m on the greatest ride of my life. I’m pretty sure I am. Although Kathryn’s petite, it’s almost as if she was made to fit perfectly within my arms and legs. I can hear her counting, taking my game seriously. My thoughts are too heavy; I’ve got to lighten things up.

Suddenly, I jump up, standing on the back of the horse and start singing, “You spin me right round, baby, right round” as everyone stares and laughs. I’m horribly off key and loud as hell, but surprisingly not feeling the rush of embarrassment at all. This is who I want to be now.

Kathryn flips a leg around, sitting sidesaddle, and belts out, “Like a record baby …” We continue singing, destroying Dead or Alive’s hit, until the merry-go-round attendant comes over the speaker, admonishing us, instructing us to remain seated.

Once the carousel comes to a “complete and final stop,” I help Kathryn down off of her yellow horse, and she says, “Redundant much? ‘Complete and final stop.’ That’s stupid.”

As we step down off the platform, I take her hand in mine, interlocking her tiny fingers with mine. Kathryn doesn’t protest, but says, “Dead or Alive’s got nothing on us.”

“Hell no they don’t! We can sing about spinning while spinning,” I proclaim.

Sitting on a bench near the kiddie rides, Kathryn asks me, “So what’s the game?” She pulls her knees up and tucks them under her chin. She’s so small, I wonder if she’d fit in my pocket.

“Easy game, your horse went up and down 26 times; you have to tell me 26 things about yourself,” I announce.

“Oohh … I love it. Love talking about myself,” she giggles, adjusting her body to face me. “Hey wait,
that’s
why you sat on one of those stationary horses! No fair!”

“I can’t help it if you aren’t any good at this game,” I say, smirking at her.

“Whatever. Fine. Number one, my favorite color is yellow,” she states.

“Boring! I want good stuff. Not favorites,” I complain.

“Two. I hate coffee. Three. I don’t use profanity,” she reveals.

“Wait? What? You don’t cuss?” I ask, realizing that she must think I have the most vulgar mouth in the world.

“Not really. When it’s a
must
, I do. But normally, I just try not to,” she explains.

“But why?” This bit of information is crazy to me.

“I had a college professor who said that swearing breeds ignorance and lack of class. I thought about it for a while, and decided he was probably right. So, I’ve tried to quit,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “I do ‘think cuss’ though … a lot. I’ve got a potty brain.”