The Trouble With Destiny (19 page)

“You're the one I like. It's
you,
okay? And I should have just said that right away.”

There's a long pause where I realize he's waiting for me to say something, only I'm still incapacitated by mud. And even if I weren't, I'd have no idea what to say right now. But I hear some more shuffling, this time a quick foot-to-foot, and realize I'm leaving him hanging in the worst possible way. I have to let him know that it's okay. That I like him, too. That the kiss was fine. Great, even, but frankly I'd like another try at it. I try to make something like these words come out, but the only sound that escapes me is a soft groan as I try desperately to break the mud mask.

“Okay, well, uh, I know this is probably super weird, or whatever,” Lenny says, and my heart practically stops.
Don't go!
“I'm going to let you think about it, I guess. Just find me if you want to, um…I don't know. If you like me too.”

The last words come out all in a rush, and then I hear the door open and close again. There's no shuffling, no throat clearing, and no more heart-stopping romantic declarations. Lenny's gone.

Now that the room is empty, I'm not worried about flashing my rack to a few bonsai trees and a water feature. I sit straight up off the table, letting the sheet fall to my waist, and reach up for my face. The towel that Ilsa wrapped there is still warm, so I use it to break the mud mask and scrape off some of the larger chunks. Dark-brown dust and pieces of hard mud rain down into my lap, and I shudder to think of what's still on my face. I don't care, though. All I can think about is getting to Lenny as soon as possible before he decides to change his mind.

I reach for my pile of clothes and jerk my underwear out from the bottom, throwing one leg through, then the other. But both legs wind up in the same hole, and I go down like a prizefighter, knocking a warm pot of yellow wax all over my clothes. I try to pull them out of the way, but it takes effort, as the wax begins to harden as soon as it leaves the pot, turning my clothes into a gross preserved specimen.

“Ugh,” I groan, dropping the heavy pile back onto the wood floor. With no sign of any fancy robes or souvenir T-shirts around the room, I have no choice but to take the towel draped over my lower half, wrap it around my body, and secure the little Velcro tab on the front. I give myself a quick glance in the mirror to make sure none of my, er,
bits
are trying to make an appearance, but the towel is doing a pretty good job. It covers more than my swimsuit, and as long as the Velcro holds, I should be fine.

I run out the door. My bare feet skid on the floor as I start down the hall, and I have to take short steps to keep my towel from flying open.

“Lenny!” I shout, finally getting back the power of speech. I shuffle past open doors of empty spa rooms, palm fronds pricking at my bare arms. “Lenny!” I call down one end of the hall, but it's empty. Then I turn in the other direction, nearly taking out a bamboo cart piled high with towels. A tall figure is turning the corner toward me.

“Lenny!” I shout again, but as the face rises to meet me, I see that it's not Lenny. This guy is taller and much more muscular, with an even, dark tan. I can see moisture glistening off skin that's stretched taut over rounded shoulders, tense biceps, and a rack of abs that looks like it stepped right out of a Calvin Klein ad.

Definitely not Lenny.

“Liza?” Russ asks, his hand going down to the towel knotted at his waist. His face is a puzzle of confusion, and I realize that I'm standing in the hall in a towel with untold amounts of dried dirt decorating my face.

Not my finest moment. Not that I care. Not about Russ, anyway. He's the reason I'm in this mess, him and that stupid picture. I straighten up, adjusting my shoulders back, and plaster a look of cool disinterest on my face.

“I was looking for Lenny,” I say, practically daring him to say anything.

Russ draws back a half step and cocks his head at me, trying to read my tone. He stares at me for a moment, then nods over his shoulder. “He went that way,” he says, his tone tentative. But I don't have time right now to explain to him all the ways he's screwed up my trip, so I just leave him to his confusion. Serves him right after all.

Before he can say another word, I stride past him, giving him a wide berth as he rides the opposite side of the hall. After a few seconds, I hear a door open and shut. When I glance over my shoulder, Russ is gone, and I'm back on my mission.

I need to find Lenny.

With the power back at full capacity, the ship's air conditioning is working overtime to catch up, and the chill in the air has my bare skin covered in goose bumps. Not that I'm noticing the chill, because the grinding of my mind as it turns the last few minutes over and over is warming me like a furnace.

Lenny likes me.

Lenny likes me.

The words repeat until they fall into a rhythm, eventually picking up a bouncy little melody to go along with them. The notes singsong through my head into a thundering crescendo.
Lenny likes me. Lenny likes me! LENNY LIKES MEEEE!!!!

Of course, there's a tiny bass line happening underneath my new tune, a low voice booming,
Wait, are you sure?

Lenny likes me!

(Wait, are you sure?)

Soon it's like a duet in my head, each voice trying to top the other, and I can't sort my thoughts. The melodies take on varying keys, becoming discordant and clanging until my brain sounds like a room full of six-year-olds learning to play the violin.

And then, as if my inner conductor has waved for a cutoff, the voices stop. There's a blessed silence in my head like a pause between movements, and the silence helps me realize that the sight of Lenny outside the door marked
STEAM ROOM
a few paces down the hall isn't a mirage. It's really him, in a pair of bright red board shorts, his lean and lanky limbs swinging as he disappears through the door.

My heart starts rolling like a timpani, and before the whole messy chorus can begin again, I tighten my grip on my towel and charge through the door after him. Once inside, the heat and moisture of the room closing in around me like a hug, I'm able to glance around. The wooden room, smelling strongly of cedar or some other overly fragrant building material, is silent and, thankfully, empty. The only spot of color is the red of Lenny's board shorts, sitting on a bench just in front of me. I can barely make him out through the steam, but I know for sure it's him.

“Lenny, I wanted to tell you that, um, you're right,” I say. My voice falters a bit, but a healthy gulp of steam smooths it out, and I charge on. “We
do
have a connection. I feel it too, and I'm so glad you said something, because I don't know if I ever would have been brave enough to do it. You're this sweet guy who encourages me and is there for me and understands why I have this dedication to the band and music.”

I see Lenny wave his hand in front of his face, as if he's trying to clear away the steam, but it doesn't do any good. There's still a thick curtain of white steam separating us. When he doesn't say anything, I take it as a cue to charge on.

“What I'm saying is, I like you. I like you a lot, actually.” I take a step forward, but the thick steam doesn't abate. For a moment I actually wish someone would come in, just to prop the door and let some of that blasted moisture out of here.

Lenny must have the same thought, because he stands and takes a step toward me.

“What?” he asks, crossing the floor until he's right in front of me. The steam seems to dissipate, drifting down to the floor, allowing me to see his gray eyes and the way his hair is sticking up in a few wild directions. I can't help but let my gaze wander to his torso, which is surprisingly muscled for a lanky artist type. I count two, four, six abs, and I let out what I'm shocked to hear is a tiny sigh.

I want to meet his gaze, but I can't, because I'm afraid between the heat and his hotness, I might pass out dead. But the longer I stare at his well-defined chest, the more I want not just to look at him but to kiss him. I want another pass at what felt so awkward and rushed the other night. I want to get it right, without Russ and Demi and a fight. I want the kiss I deserve.

I take one tiny step until I'm inches from him, and then slowly let my gaze rise past his freckled shoulders, the thin piece of leather tied around his neck, and up to his sharp jawline. I stop before I get to his eyes, because I don't know if I can take another deep gaze into his eyes as gray as the ocean on a misty morning.

Instead I close my eyes as I rise up on my tiptoes to reach him. I'm not going to let this kiss just happen to me. I'm going to make it happen. I feel the buzz of electricity between our lips as I rise and lean, breathing in.

But I find myself leaning…
too far.
I should be there by now. We should be kissing. The crackles of electricity should be full-on lightning bolts.

But there's nothing.

I let my eyes flutter open and see that Lenny's taken one giant step backward, his eyes wide as dinner plates, his hands up in front of him like a cop ordering me to
halt,
a look that's equal parts horror and confusion on his face.

Which is exactly what I do, teetering on my toes for a second before my heels slam back down onto the floor with a teeth-rattling thump.

“Uh, I'm sorry, I think—”

“Oh my God,” I say, the words barely escaping in a whisper. I cover my mouth, like maybe I can hide what just happened behind my fingers. But from the way Lenny's eyes are darting around the room, his feet shuffling on the wood floor, I know there's no taking back what just happened. It just
is.
“What is happening?”

“I think you might have gotten the wrong idea?” Lenny fumbles at an explanation, but it's not anywhere near sufficient. His face is crumpled and slightly pained, like he's been sucking on a warm lemon.

“Then why did you come over here?” I ask, waving my hands in the now-empty space between us.

“I don't have my contacts in. And with all the steam and you in that towel, I couldn't really tell who you were,” he says. He gives a tiny shrug that sends a matching fissure into my heart. But before I can wince in pain, I realize he's right. I'm in a towel.

I'm
naked,
and I just tried to jump him.

Oh. My. God.

“Wait, was that, um,
you
in the spa?” Lenny asks.

The question hangs between us like a lead balloon, then smacks me hard in the gut. I hear an audible rush of air escape me.
Who did he think it was?

As if he can hear my inner monologue, he grimaces. “I thought it was Demi.”

“Demi.” Her name sticks in my mouth.

“Yeah, uh, I thought it was her. She's, uh, the one—”

“Okay,” I say, cutting him off. I don't want to hear him say it. I don't think I'll be able to take
that,
on top of the mountain of embarrassment now resting on my head. I wish the weight of it would just drive me through the floor to the deck below, so that I don't have to stand here and watch Lenny struggle through embarrassment and pity.
Pity.

But the floor doesn't open up. A giant hook doesn't reach out and yank me out of the room. No curtain drops between us, no orchestra plays me off. It's just me, standing here taking in everything. Lenny likes Demi.

Lenny does not like me.

Lenny likes Demi.

Something isn't adding up. I try to run through the past few days, but there are so many mistakes, explosions (literally), and near misses that I can't sort fiction from reality. If that kiss was for Demi, then nothing is what I thought. And if Lenny didn't write my name that first day, then
who did?

“But what about our kiss?”

“What kiss?”

“After the performance! You kissed me, and then Russ—” I say, though as soon as the words tumble out of my mouth I know the answer.

“I don't know, it seemed like a good way to get Demi to notice me.”

My embarrassment morphs into a white-hot rage.

“If you want a girl to pay attention, you kiss
that
girl, you asshole,” I snap.

“Fair point,” he replies, one eyebrow arched.

“Why does everyone have to play games?” I mutter.

“Because sometimes they work,” Lenny says with a shrug. “I mean, that picture certainly did the trick.”

At the mention of the picture, my ears perk up. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“That picture of you all cozy with Russ. That got Demi over Russ right quick.”

Wait, what?

Watching him say the words has a strange effect, like suddenly the Lenny I knew is dissolving into this whole other guy. He's not the sweet, artistic boy cheering for me from offstage. Now he's this creepy dude snapping pictures and kissing people and trying to woo
Demi.
The inside of my mouth turns sour, and my face crinkles to match, as I realize what he's saying.

And what the real truth is. Russ didn't take that picture. And neither did Missy.

Lenny did.

Maybe it's the twinkle in his eye, or the twitch in the corner of his mouth that's working its way into a smirk. Maybe it's the already painful memory of me standing on my tiptoes, kissing air while Lenny backs away in horror. Maybe it's just a snowball of anger and embarrassment and misery that this week has become. Maybe it's all that and more, because I feel my hand rise up to my shoulder and then swing,
hard.

Lenny sees the slap coming and ducks. My hand whiffs over his head, my balance going with it as I teeter over on my left leg. I put my hand out to catch myself from splatting on the wood floor, and almost immediately feel my towel loosen. Without my left hand holding it to my chest, the fold is quickly falling apart.

Lenny, either trying to save me or my towel, reaches his hands out. I'm not letting this asshole anywhere near me, especially not when I'm three seconds away from standing there in my birthday suit. A girl can only take so much embarrassment before it's time to take control, and if I have to do that while standing naked, well, dammit, that's what I'm going to do.

I swat his hands away, and when he's off balance, I give him a shove for good measure. He compensates by throwing his body weight forward until we're pressed against each other in what might look like a romantic embrace, my towel between our chests.

I feel a light breeze on my rear end. I glance over my shoulder to see that my towel has risen in the scuffle, and my bare butt is now exposed to the wall behind me.

“Liza!”

No, not the wall behind me. The breeze is coming from the open door, and standing in the entrance to the steam room?

One very tall, very rigid band director and one horrified home ec teacher, both standing there, mouths open in twin Os.