First Comes Love (20 page)

“No,” I say flatly. “I didn’t know that.”

His jaw drops at my indifference.

“You’re not even impressed, are you?” Miles asks. I look over at him.

“Should I be?”

“Gray, she’s the hottest woman I’ve ever seen in real life.”

Suddenly a shocked expression fills his face and he stops walking. I turn back and wait for him.

“Oh, shit. I get it. I finally figured you out.”

I smile. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” We keep walking, and he shakes his head with amazement. “You don’t even care. You’re really above all that, aren’t you? Looks don’t even faze you. How many models have you been with?”

I throw up my shoulders up with a shrug. “Dude, I grew up in Phoenix.”

“So?”

“Where did you grow up?” I ask.

He says on a farm in Mississippi.

“Exactly,” I say. “You’re just starstruck. See, every chick in Phoenix is hot and knows it, and runs around half naked all year round. You get desensitized.”

“Never,” he says, staring at me with jealousy, like I’ve been living in a taping of
Girls Gone Wild
for the last eighteen years.

“I’m serious,” I say. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who isn’t all about her clothes and her image. It’s nice to meet somebody who’s real, who’s beyond all the superficial crap. Who makes fun of it. You know?”

He shakes his head. “I have so much to learn,” he says.

“You want to know one secret?” I offer.

He nods about seventeen times.

“I don’t know much, but this is what I’ve learned. You’ll fall for the last person you ever thought you’d be interested in. That’s the tricky part. You might not even notice her at first. And she usually comes around just when you’ve stopped looking. But if you pay attention, you’ll know it’s her because she’ll stand out from everybody else. She might even scare you. But if you’re lucky enough to meet this girl, be smart enough to realize it and try not to screw it up,” I tell him.

He’s silent for a minute while he processes this.

“You’re my new God,” he says. “Will you please teach me?”

I just laugh and tell him sure, if he helps me work on my swing.

My roommates decide to throw a party,
which is as simple as ordering a keg and having Bubba and Todd call their girlfriends. Three hours later our house is packed and Amber won’t leave my side. I have a short taste of freedom when she goes to the bathroom, but then her friend and teammate, Melissa, backs me into a corner. She’s an outside hitter and has some seriously defined biceps, so I’m a little intimidated, but I’m not going to let her see that. I stand as high as my six feet three inches will stretch, and meet her eyes.

“Stop messing with her head, Gray,” she says, and she’s drunk and rocking on her feet but glaring at me like she means serious business. “You mess with her, you mess with me,” she says with attitude, as if I should watch my back, yo, or the women’s volleyball team will be waiting for me in a dark, abandoned alley one of these nights.

I’m calm and keep my eyes steady on her not-so-steady ones. It was brought to my attention a few weeks ago that the volleyball team voted me as having the “best eyes” on campus, so I’m trying to use it to my advantage.

“I’m not messing with her head,” I say. “I told her we’re friends. Friends,” I repeat. “Want me to grab a dictionary and review that definition with you so there isn’t any more confusion?” I grin and try to make light of it, but she scowls.

I’m determined not to let petty and catty girl qualms get to me. That’s one thing I’ve learned after Amanda’s death. When you experience a tragedy like that, it puts so much minor drama in perspective. I listen to my roommates freak out about dirty dishes or who drank whose milk or who left his wet laundry in the washer. I watch Todd sulk all day because he had one lousy practice, or Bubba get down on himself because he’s too broke to take his girlfriend out for dinner one night. So many daily problems drift over my head. It’s not that I’m above the drama—I just like to take a detour around it whenever possible. I know from experience things can turn so much worse.

Unfortunately, I’m learning this relaxed attitude only makes women more intrigued to
figure me out,
which honestly isn’t intentional.

Melissa muffles a burp with the back of her hand. “Get over yourself, Gray. I see through your whole blue-eyed, nice-guy bullshit.”

This makes me smile. I lift my baseball cap higher on my forehead. “Really? What do you see?”

“You’re a player through and through,” she insists, and I just nod and tell her she’s absolutely right, she’s finally figured me out, and this makes her even more pissed.

“You know she likes you,” she says, and jabs a finger hard against my sternum, and it actually hurts, but I try not to wince. “You’re leading her on.”

“I’ve never even touched her, Melissa. I’ve never asked her out. How is that leading her on?”

“Because Amber likes you,” she repeats in this whiny drunk voice, which is really irritating. Why are girls determined to have emotionally heated conversations when they’re drunk? In my observation, too much alcohol just makes guys one-dimensional hornballs and girls unpredictable basket cases, and under these dangerous circumstances they attempt to walk into the nearest house party and look for love. And people wonder why their relationships are so messed up.

I frown at Melissa. Now I’m going to get a shitty reputation because I’m trying to be a nice guy. I’m going to be a player and a tool just because I don’t want to have sex with Amber McCaphrey. But if I do have sex with her I’ll be a player and a tool for using her. I can’t win.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around and Amber’s standing there ready to hit me with Operation Confront Gray: Phase . She has a cell phone in one hand and a red plastic cup in the other. She flips her ponytail over her shoulder.

“What are you and Mel talking about?” she asks with these curious, innocent blue eyes even though it is obvious she planted this entire conversation. I know how girls work. It was a premeditated attack planned twenty minutes ago next to the beer keg.

It’s time to be blunt with this girl, because being friendly is making me too big of a jerk, evidently.

“Amber—”

And Miles interrupts me.

“Gray, the phone’s for you,” he yells over the music. Amber pulls on my arm.

“We need to talk, now,” she informs me. I sigh and turn back to Miles.

“Who is it?”

He shrugs. “Some lady,” he yells.

I frown because I forgot we had a land line. We only signed up for one to get a better cable deal. Must be my mom.

“Tell her I’ll call her back,” I say, and look down at Amber, who’s drawing circles on the sleeve of my shirt with her index finger.

I want to be honest and tell her I don’t like her, and maybe I would, but she ruins it because she tries too hard to impress me and it’s all an act. Why can’t she just be real? She stares into my eyes with that lovesick gaze, but it just makes me miss Dylan, the one girl who never looked at me that way. Every sentence Amber says begins with “I.” That’s the complete opposite of Dylan, and the more girls I meet, the more I’m realizing what a gem I discovered back in Phoenix.

Amber has a few other strikes against her. Not to be picky, but she refuses to play video games. She thinks Ms. Pac-Man’s pointless. Pointless? Ms. Pac-Man is a metaphor for life. And Amber hates Bob Dylan. She thinks his voice is too whiny and nasally. Has she even listened to his poetic genius? Bob Dylan is more than human. He’s a religious experience.

One time I let Amanda’s name slip into the conversation when I was talking to Amber. I wanted to test her to see how she’d react. She cringed and got so uncomfortable with the topic, you’d think I’d just pointed out a huge zit on her forehead or asked her what her calorie intake was up to that day. That’s when she lost my respect.

It’s not that I’m better than Amber. Far from it. The problem is, I already know someone exists out there who is so much better for me.

I set my hands lightly on her shoulders. “Amber, listen—”

“Gray!”

I suck in a deep breath and turn to Miles.

“What?”

He walks right up to me and throws an arm around my shoulder. He’s holding the phone in his hand. He’s drunk and leaning in to me and he’s shouting, even though his mouth is three inches away from my ear.

“Dude, this girl’s talking crazy! I asked her who she was and she made me try to guess and when I couldn’t guess she told me she was part mermaid, part water nymph and I’m really freaking out right now.”

“What?” This is definitely not my mom. And it hits me. I grab the phone out of his hand. My heart’s pounding. I look at Amber and she’s seething.

“We’ll talk,” I say. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she yells, and tries to slap me as I turn away. I duck under a blow from her hand and run up the stairs, my adrenaline soaring at the thought of who I finally have in my grasp. I hurry into my bedroom and shut the door. I head to the fire escape and step out into the cool fall air. A light mist is falling, and it feels like a christening. I press the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I say. And it’s her.

My heart speeds up at the sound of his voice.
It makes all the memories flood back. I’m still doubting if I should have called. It’s a sweet temptation to open up the past, but then you invite it back into the future.

“Hey, you,” I say.

“Dylan?” he asks, even though he knows it’s me. It’s like he just wants to say my name out loud.

“You might need to counsel your roommate. I think I scared him a little.”

“Most women do,” he says.

“I’m interrupting a party,” I say.

“You’re not interrupting anything,” he says, and gets right to the point. “What took you so long to call?”

I freeze up. I hadn’t expected this question so fast. No small talk?

“I thought maybe first we could break the ice by talking about the weather in our respective locations, or maybe roller derby and whether or not it should be inducted into the Olympics.”

I hear an annoyed breath stream through the phone. Okay, maybe not.

“I don’t do small talk,” he says, and I feel myself nodding. Of course he doesn’t. That’s one of my favorite things about Gray. Once you crack the thick surface, he’s miles deep.

“Was it just a fling, Dylan?” he asks.

“You really want to get right to it.”

“It wasn’t a fling to me. This summer. It was the real thing. But I don’t want to stretch this out anymore. So what’s going on in your head?”

I hear the edge in his voice, a little anger and hurt. Mostly frustration. I know he’s losing sleep again and I feel responsible, as if I started to teach him how to swim only to leave in the deep end too soon.

“I know,” I say, and I don’t know what I’m referring to because I can’t remember what I said or what I need to say or why I called. It’s all blending together, and too much time has passed. I thought this conversation would be easy. A quick recap of life’s events. Just the highlights, not all the heavy details. I forgot that Gray prefers to dwell in the heavy details. And how am I supposed to translate what’s in my head when I can’t even decipher it myself? My mind is like one of those brainstorming webs, going in a hundred different directions until my thoughts are crawling off the page.

“Dylan?” Gray asks.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I honestly thought giving you some time would help. That’s why I didn’t call. I wanted you to get settled in first.”

He knows what I’m getting at.

“You mean forget about you? Do you really think I’m that small-minded? Do you think after what we had, I’m going to move on just because you decide not to call?”

“I know,” I say in this quiet, timid voice. Too quiet. I sink deeper into my chair.

“Maybe this wasn’t the best way to start things off,” he admits. “Maybe we should have started with small talk.” I nod and my eyes start to water. I want to know what fills his days. Where he sleeps. What friends he made. But too many feelings press against my heart.

“So what happens now?” he asks.

“I honestly don’t know,” I say.

I hear him breathing into the phone and I imagine his face and those eyes. God, I miss those eyes.

“Well, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” he says, and he take the reins, takes control of this while he has a chance. “I’m going to see you again, because it’s not over between us.” He tells me he has three weeks off over Christmas break and he’s driving up to California to stay with me.

“It won’t work,” I say. I tell him I moved in with the owners of the coffee shop I work at, in an apartment above the store. They offered me housing in exchange for helping to babysit their two little kids on the weekends. “I’m sleeping in one of the kids’ rooms because it’s rent-free and I’m broke.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll sleep in my car.”

“Gray, I live in the mountains and it’s freezing and you don’t even own warm clothes,” I say, for once sounding logical. Very uncharacteristic.

“Since when are you logical?” he argues. “Besides, I won’t need clothes. You can crawl into my sleeping bag and keep me warm.” A heavy sigh lifts my chest because he refuses to be discouraged. “Come to Phoenix,” he tries. He tells me to stay with my aunt for the holidays. I chew on my bottom lip. I had thought about that before, but it just leads to another problem.

“And then what?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

I ask him what happens after winter break, and he tells me we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

“Long distance never works,” I say.

I’m answered by complete silence and my stomach knots. We both know there’s only one other alternative.

“So is this over?” he asks. I curl my fingers tight around the phone. I hate that I can’t see him right now. It never occurred to me this might be my last conversation with Gray, that the point of this phone call wasn’t to say hello but to say goodbye.

“Are we finished?” he asks.

“I don’t want to do this over the phone,” I say, and my voice starts to shake.