The Distance Between Us (6 page)

I set the phone on the counter, wrap both my hands around the warm cup, and lead the way toward the stockroom. He follows. I sit down on the old couch and put my feet up on the coffee table.

He sets the Eddie’s bag and his coffee on the table by my feet, takes off his jacket, and sits down next to me. “So, Caymen . . .”

“So, Xander . . .”

“Like the islands.”

“What?”

“Your name. Caymen. Like the Cayman Islands. Is that your mom’s favorite place to visit or something?”

“No, it’s her third favorite place. I have an older brother named Paris and an older sister named Sydney.”

“Wow.” He opens the bag, takes out a muffin, and hands it to me. The top glistens with sprinkled sugar. “Really?”

I gently unwrap it. “No.”

“Wait, so you don’t have older siblings or those aren’t their names?”

“I’m an only child.” Mostly because I was born out of wedlock and have no contact with my father. Would that statement send him running? Probably. So why didn’t I say it out loud?

“Note to self: Caymen is very good at sarcasm.”

“If you’re recording notes for an official record, I’d like the word ‘very’ stricken and replaced with ‘exceptionally.’”

His eyes light up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips, but that seems to imply he actually finds me amusing. My mother always told me guys were put off by my sarcasm.

“All right, your turn,” he says.

“For what?”

“Ask me a question.”

“Okay . . . um . . . Do you often force girls to invite you into their houses?”

“Never. They usually invite me in themselves.”

“Of course they do.”

He leans back and takes a bite of his muffin. “So, Ms. Observant, what was your first impression of me?”

“When you came into the store?”

“Yes.”

That’s easy. “Arrogant.”

“Really? What made you think that?”

Does that surprise him? “I thought it was my turn to ask a question.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that how the game works? We each get a question?”

He looks at me expectantly. I realize I have no question. Or maybe I have too many. Like why is he really here? When will he realize I don’t play with his crowd? What exactly made him interested in the first place? . . . If that’s what this is. “Can I go finish getting ready?”

Chapter 9

“
N
o. Okay, my turn. What made me come off as arrogant?”

I stare at the crease on the sleeve of his T-shirt—a clear indication it had been ironed. Who irons T-shirts? “You beckoned me,” I say, remembering that first day.

His brown eyes flash to mine. Even his eyes with their gold flecks remind me of his wealth. “I what?”

“You stay there. I’ll be you.” I walk to the far end of the stockroom and pretend to come in a door, holding a cell phone to my ear. I swagger a few steps, stop and stare at the wall, then hold up my hand and beckon him. I wait for him to laugh, but when I glance over he has a mortified look on his face.

“I may have exaggerated it just a bit,” I say even though I didn’t.

“That’s how you saw me?”

I clear my throat and walk slowly back to the couch. “So are you the soccer player or the math genius?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your grandmother brags. I’m wondering which grandson you are.”

“The one who hasn’t done much of anything.”

I toe the table leg with my slipper. “You do know who you’re talking to?”

“I do. Caymen.”

I roll my eyes. “I mean, I’m the queen of having done nothing, so I’m sure you’ve far outdone me.”

“What haven’t you done that you want to do?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it too much. I’m perfectly satisfied with my life. I think unhappiness comes from unfulfilled expectations.”

“So the less you expect from life . . .”

“No. It’s not like that. I just try to be happy and not wish I could do more.” Well, I was getting better at that goal at least. And having people like him around only serves as a reminder of everything I don’t have.

He finishes off his muffin then throws the wrapper in the bag. “And does it work? Are you happy?”

“Mostly.”

He raises his Styrofoam cup in a toast. “That’s all that matters, then, isn’t it?”

I nod and move my foot onto the coffee table. The order form in my pocket crinkles with the movement. I pull it out. “I should go. I have some work to do before we open.”

“Right. Of course. I should go, too.” He hesitates for a moment as if wanting to say something more.

I stand and he follows suit, picking up his jacket. I walk him to the front door and open it.

As he walks away I realize how little our question-and-answer session revealed about each other. I have no idea how old he is or where he goes to school or what he likes to do. Did we steer clear of those questions on purpose? Did we both ask ridiculous, meaningless questions because deep down we really don’t want to know the other person?

He pushes a button on his keys and the fancy silver sports car in front of the shop beeps. That car alone answers any question I could possibly have about him. No need for any more. He opens the door and throws me
that
smile and I hear myself yell, “Are you a senior?”

He nods. “You?”

“Yeah.” I hold up my drink. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“No problem.”

I shut the door and lean against it. Why?

It takes me several minutes to push myself away from the door and head upstairs. My mom’s in the bathroom so I drag a chair to the old computer and start entering orders online.

“Did I hear the phone ring?” my mom asks when she comes into the dining area rubbing her wet hair with a towel.

“Yeah. I answered it.”

“Who was it?”

“Just someone asking what time we opened.” And that is the first time in my life I have lied to my mother. We tell each other everything. It surprises me. I should’ve said, “This kid named Xander—yes, he goes by Xander on purpose—who has his T-shirts ironed and wears jewelry.” That would’ve been fun. My mom would’ve tried to pretend she was offended. We could’ve talked about how he probably gets his hair cut twice a month. She would’ve given a polite “it’s best if we don’t hang out with people like that” speech. I would’ve agreed. I do agree.

So what stopped me?

“Can you finish up this order, Mom? My hair is going to dry all funky if I don’t get ahold of a blow-dryer.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thanks.”

I close myself in the bathroom and press my palms to my eyes. What stopped me?

Loyalty.

I didn’t want my mom to have bad feelings toward him. Somehow the guy had managed to climb out of the box full of people I had already labeled off-limits with a permanent marker and he’d become different. And now, much to my irritation, I feel some form of loyalty to Xander Spence.

I had to change this immediately.

Chapter 10

M
onday morning I wave good-bye to my mom and open the front door to the shop. As I walk toward school, I notice a sports car that looks just like Xander’s parked a few doors down. I bend over to look inside, and when I straighten up again Xander is on my opposite side. I jump. He hands me a cup of hot chocolate and takes a sip from his cup.

I look at the cup—the same as yesterday’s. “I only want this if you drank out of it first,” I say, refusing to say, “What are you doing here?” That might give away that I care.

He grabs the cup from me, takes a drink then hands it back.

It surprises me so much that he acted on my sarcasm that I can’t help but laugh. “I believe there’s a meeting Thursday nights at Luigi’s for those addicted to Eddie’s muffins. If that doesn’t work, I hear there’s a pill you can take.”

“I’m afraid my addiction is not one I’m willing to give up yet,” he says.

I give him a sideways glance. We were still talking about muffins, right? “I’m sorry.”

“So whose turn is it for a question?” he asks.

“Mine,” I say, even though I really don’t remember. But I’d rather ask than answer.

“Okay, what’s it gonna be?”

“Do you have any brothers?” I know he doesn’t have any sisters because his grandma said she has only one granddaughter and he already told me that is his cousin.

“Yes, I have two older brothers. Samuel is twenty-three, just graduated from law school.”

“Which law school?”

“Harvard.”

Of course.

“My other brother, Lucas, is twenty and away at college.”

“Those are pretty normal names.”

“Normal?”

“No Chets or Wellingtons or anything.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Do you know any Wellingtons?”

“Of course not, but you probably do.”

“No, actually I don’t.”

“Hmm,” I say.

“Okay, my turn.”

I smile but am nervous at the same time. I really wish I got to control all the questions asked. Then I could steer clear of the ones I don’t want to answer.

“Are you wearing contacts?”

“What? That’s your question?”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not. Why?”

“I’ve just never seen eyes as green as yours. I thought maybe they were colored contacts.”

I turn my head so he doesn’t see my smile and secretly curse him for making me feel special. “Are you?”

“Of course I’m not wearing contacts. You think I would purposefully make my eyes boring brown?”

“Those gold flecks make them look more amber.” I want to kick myself for admitting I’ve noticed, especially when his smile widens.

“Well, this is me.” I point to the old high school on my right. It was built seventy-five years ago, and although its architecture is pretty and not seen much anymore, it could definitely use some upgrades.

He takes in my school. I shift uncomfortably, wondering what he thinks of it. Wondering why I care what he thinks of it. He probably goes to one of the two private schools in town. Yes, that is how many rich people live here—enough to require two private high schools in a small beach town.

His eyes are back on me. “See you later.”

“Later as in you’re going to be here at twelve o’clock to walk me home? Because I don’t know if I can handle you twice a day.”

He sighs heavily. “And my grandmother thinks you’re sweet.” Then his brow furrows a little. “Your school gets out at noon?”

“Well, not the whole school, but yes, I get out at noon.”

“Why?”

“Um . . .” I gesture toward the shop. “Work release.”

His eyes widen. “You miss half your school day to work in the shop?”

“It’s not a big deal. . . . It was my idea. . . . It really doesn’t bother me at all to help out.” I know I’m rambling because deep down it does bother me—a lot—so I cut off my list of excuses and finish with “I better go.”

“Okay. Bye, Caymen.” He turns around and walks back toward his car without even a backward glance.

“Caymen,” Mr. Brown says as I walk into science class a few minutes late.

“Sorry, I got caught in a thorny vine and had to untangle myself from its clutches.” Which is actually sort of true.

“Although your excuses are by far the most creative, that’s not why I addressed you.”

The rest of the class had already started on a lab and I want to be doing it. It looks like there are actual chemicals involved.

Mr. Brown must’ve noted my gaze because he says, “It will only take a minute.”

I reluctantly walk to his desk.

He slides several papers across to me. “This is that college I was telling you about. It specializes in math and science.”

I grab the papers. “Oh yeah, thanks.” I learned at the beginning of the year that it’s better to just play along with teachers about college than to try to explain to them that you’re not going for a while. I shove the papers in my backpack and take a seat at my station. At the beginning of the year we had an odd number of people in class. Mr. Brown asked for a volunteer to be alone. I raised my hand. I’d much rather do lab work alone so no one else can screw it up. It’s so much easier not to have to depend on anyone else.

The next morning Xander’s waiting outside the shop again, casually leaning against a light post, like we’ve been walking to school together our whole lives. He takes a sip of my hot chocolate then hands it to me as we start walking.