Magnolia (8 page)

“I'm . . . sorry about that,” I finally manage to choke out as I pull away, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

“Don't be.” He trails a hand across my cheek, wiping away my tears.

I shiver in response. Without warning, he pulls me closer
into an embrace. His arms encircle me, holding me tightly as I lay my cheek against his chest, inhaling his clean scent. I can hear his heart thumping noisily against my ear, keeping time with my own.

Being this close to him is both oddly familiar and completely foreign, all at once. It's totally right and yet all wrong. My head is spinning, my mind trying to make sense of the conflicting feelings swirling inside of me, making me dizzy.

Just as abruptly, he releases me. “C'mon,” he says, rising and reaching down to help me to my feet. “I should get you home now.”

Wordlessly, I follow him to his truck. We remain silent throughout the short drive to my house. The windows are rolled all the way down, the night air cooling my skin and making conversation virtually impossible. When we pull up, he cuts the engine and hops out, hurrying around to open my door for me.

I step onto the driveway, trying to smooth down my wind-whipped hair. “Thanks,” I murmur. “For the ride, and for . . . you know . . . everything.”

Leaning against the truck with his hands thrust into his pockets, he just nods.

I know that I should walk away, but something holds me there. He leans toward me, reaching for my shoulder. For a split second, I actually think he's going to kiss me.

Instead, he gives my shoulder a little squeeze.

As I'm still puzzling this out, my mom comes barreling out the front door. “There you are! Oh, thank God. We were worried sick!”

“I—I'm fine,” I stammer.

Mama shoots me a deadly glare. “Daddy's been looking all over for you! The barn, the creek . . .” She trails off, shaking her head. “Thanks for bringing her home, Ryder. I really appreciate it, hon.”

“No problem, Miss Shelby,” Ryder answers with a shrug, then climbs back inside his truck.

Mama turns to watch him drive off, her mouth curving into a smile. “That boy is such a gentleman.”

I roll my eyes as I follow her into the house. As soon as I step inside, my cell buzzes. Stopping to lean against the door, I pull it from my pocket and glance down at the screen. It's a message from Ryder. He must have pulled over at the end of the driveway to send it. My heart does a weird little flip-flop—until I read what he's written, that is.

Don't cancel on Patrick.

Y
ou're not eating much,” Patrick says with a frown. His tousled blond hair is still wet from his postgame shower, and he's changed into jeans and a blue-and-white-checked button-down shirt. He looks nice. Handsome, in a lean, Abercrombie & Fitch model kind of way.

“Sorry. I'm not all that hungry, I guess.” I pick at the crust on my plate, ripping it into little doughy pieces.

“I'm glad you're here, though. I figured you were going to back out on me. You know, because of this stuff with your sister and all.”

“No, I . . . The distraction is good for me. Helps keep my mind off it.” I force myself to smile even though I'm not feeling it. I'm not feeling much of anything, really—it's like I'm numb inside.

Nan's coming home tomorrow. Just a matter of hours . . .

“It was a good game tonight,” I say. “You played really well.”

“Yeah, good thing, too—there were scouts crawling all over the place. Mostly there to see Ryder, of course. Dude's
so
got it made. I don't think he has any idea how lucky he is. I mean, sure, he's got talent. But mostly it's just a size thing, you know?”

I just shrug noncommittally and continue picking at my crust.

“But you looked great tonight. I got to watch you some during the third quarter after I took that hard hit.”

“Thanks. I was kind of off. I almost fell during a toss.”

“You mean that thing where they throw you up in the air and catch you?” he asks, even though it seems pretty self-explanatory to me. Since it's called, you know, a
toss
.

“Yeah. Listen, Patrick—”

“Uh-oh, here it comes. Look, let me lay it out on the line, Jemma. We've known each other a long time—”

“Our whole lives.”

“Right. And I know it might seem like what happened on Saturday came out the blue, but I wanted to do that for a long time. Kiss you, I mean.”

My mouth goes dry, and I reach for my Coke and take a sip. All I can think about is Monday night—Ryder holding me in his arms, brushing away my tears. And then later, by his car, there'd been that moment when I'd thought he was going to
kiss me. Which seems pretty stupid now, considering the text I'd gotten from him just minutes later.

But what's really crazy? The fact that I'd been kinda disappointed that he hadn't. I'd lain awake half the night thinking about it, and the rest of the week hadn't been much better. I was confused. Mad at myself, more than anything.

I force my thoughts away from Ryder and back to the boy sitting across from me looking hopeful. I like him—I do. But I'm not sure I can give him what he wants from me. At least, not right now.

“All I was going to say is that it's kind of bad timing, that's all. Nan's coming home tomorrow, and I want to spend as much time with her as possible. Before her surgery,” I add.

“I know.” He reaches across the table for my hand, and I let him take it. “But I really want to spend time with you too.”

“Can't we just . . . you know, keep it casual? Play it by ear? That's all I can promise you right now.”

He shrugs. “Hey, I'll take whatever I can get.”

I wince at his choice of words. Mostly because I know Patrick is an experienced guy—God knows I've listened to him talk. Ryder was right. Patrick has been known to kiss and tell on occasion, often in graphic detail. Maybe he thought it would impress me. Who knows? But I'm fairly certain I won't be
giving
him anything, least of all my virginity.

“You want some dessert?” he asks, releasing my hand to
signal for the waiter. “They've got really good cheesecake here.”

“No, but you go ahead.” My phone buzzes, and I glance down at the screen.

Having fun?

It's Lucy. I quickly tap out a reply.
I guess.

Don't do anything I wouldn't do
, she answers, followed by a winking smiley.

Patrick is still occupied with the waiter, so I continue the text convo.
What r u doing?
I type.

Hanging out @ Ward's. Ryder's here.

Why would I care if he's there?

Dunno. Just sayin'.

Umm, okay.

I shove my cell back into my pocket. “Sorry 'bout that. It was just Lucy.”

“Ah, Luce the Deuce.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Luce the what?”

“The Deuce—that's what some of the guys call her. You know, 'cause no one ever gets past second with her.”

“Seriously?” I ask, cringing. “You guys are so gross.”

“I ordered you a piece of cheesecake, by the way. Cherry topping.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I'm pretty sure I'd said no to the offer. “So, have you decided where you want to go to school next year?”

“Depends on whether or not I get any offers to play ball. I'm not counting on Ole Miss, but maybe Delta State. How 'bout you?”

I briefly consider telling him about the NYU thing—since we'd taken that film class together and everything—but decide against it, since I don't want the whole town to know by sunrise. “I'm not sure yet,” I say instead.

Just then the waiter appears bearing two dessert plates. He sets them in front of us and then busies himself refilling our water glasses before disappearing again.

“Any idea what you're going to study?” I ask as soon as we're alone again.

“You mean I'm supposed to actually study something? Besides Beer Pong 101, I mean?” He shovels a bite of cheesecake into his mouth, and I'm left wondering if he's kidding or not.

He's actually a pretty good student. Not AP track or anything like that, but he's not stupid, either.

He takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of his cup. “Seriously, though, my dad thinks I should go prelaw. You know, follow in his footsteps and all that. Who decides this kind of thing now, anyway?”

I want to say, “Oh, you know . . . people who care about their future,” but I somehow manage to bite my tongue.

I pick at my dessert, watching quietly as Patrick devours his.

“S'good, huh?” he says around a mouthful.

I just nod and continue poking. Trying not to be too obvious, I sneak a peek at my cell to check the time. It's getting late. I cross my legs. Uncross them. Fiddle with my napkin.

“You about ready to head out?” Patrick asks after a few minutes of awkward silence. “It's okay. I get it. It's been a long day. Just let me pay the check.”

He reaches for his wallet just as I go for my purse. “Hey, no way,” he says, shaking his head. “This is my treat. I asked
you
out, remember?”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.” He offers me a smile, his cheeks dimpling. “Sit tight; we'll get you out of here soon enough.”

He's a nice guy, and I feel terrible for being so transparent. “I'm sorry I'm such a lousy date. It's just . . . like I said, bad timing, is all.”

“S'okay,” he says with a shrug. “You can make it up to me next time.” Grinning now, he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a couple of twenties.

I stand and dig my keys out of my purse, ready to make my escape from the most awkward date ever.

He signals for the waiter. “Wait a sec and I'll walk you out.”

I owe him that, at least.

*  *  *

“Where's Nan?” I ask my mom, glancing around the kitchen.

She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of sweet
tea. “Out on the porch. She didn't get a lot of sleep last night, so she's napping.”

I know how she feels—I didn't get a lot of sleep either. Nan hadn't pulled up into the driveway until after eight, a good two hours after my parents expected her. Needless to say, dinner had been a strained meal. We'd all just picked at our food, barely saying anything to each other. You could tell that Mama and Daddy were mad, but they wouldn't dare yell at her, not now.

After dinner, they wanted to talk to her about the research they'd done—what the neurosurgeon in Houston had to say, what the doctors in Jackson recommended, what they'd read online. Different treatment options, surgical procedures, blah, blah, blah. I'd had to slip out of the room halfway through the discussion, because frankly, it was freaking me out. I could only imagine how Nan was feeling.

“I won't wake her up,” I say, and she nods, offering me a glass of tea. She looks strained. Older. These past few days have taken a toll on her, I realize—on all of us.

I lay a gentle hand on her arm. “Hey, why don't you go take a nap too?”

She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Maybe I will.”

I kiss her on the cheek and take the pitcher from her. “Go on,” I say, motioning toward the door. “I'll put this away.”

“Thanks, honey.”

I watch her walk out, marveling at how much she looks like Nan from the back. They have the same coloring, the same long, straight, honey-blond hair, and the same athletic build.

Whereas I got my dad's coloring—reddish blond hair, pale skin—and slight build. Only somehow I got Mama's blue eyes, whereas Nan got Daddy's green ones. Genetics are funny that way.

Carefully, I set the pitcher back inside the fridge. I know how much Mama loves it. It's beautiful, round with a sort of ruffled rim—from Tiffany's. She got it as a wedding present, and it still looks as good as new.

I quickly wipe down the counter, then tiptoe out onto the sleeping porch on the west side of the house. The entire rectangular space is screened in, with two ceiling fans stirring the air from above. The wood paneling below the screens is painted white, just beginning to peel in some spots.

In the corner closest to the door, a full-size wood-frame bed hangs from the ceiling—sort of like an enormous swing. There's a white wicker bedside table against the wall and two matching wicker chairs on the far side of the porch. All the linens and cushions are white with blue ticking, and several hurricane lamps provide lighting along with white twinkle lights wrapped around the rafters.

There's a second sleeping porch on the opposite side of the house—my mom's. It's pretty much the same, except
for the yellow-and-white color scheme. Still, I like this one much better. It's ours, Nan's and mine.