The Trouble With Flirting (14 page)

He waves his hand. “Nah, it was my idea to buy them.”

I protest, but he’s adamant.

“It’s interesting.” Isabella crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “Both of you guys got something for Franny. And no one got me anything. Anyone care to analyze this?”

“Someone’s feeling left out,” Harry says.

“Come on.” Alex stands up and holds his hand out to her. “Let’s go get you a present. There are tons of stores here. I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

“That’s not the point.” She ignores his outstretched hand. “You both wanted to surprise Franny. Neither of you thought about surprising
me
.”

“Here.” Harry grabs a book out of the bag and holds it out. “For you, ’Bella. Surprise!”

She glares at him. “I’m touched.”

“Seriously,” Alex says. “I’ll figure out something that will surprise and delight you. Maybe even shock and awe you, but I’m not making any promises.”

She slowly rises to her feet, giving him a long sideways look, dark eyelashes swooping down over narrowed eyes. “You’d better. Or I’ll start thinking you like Franny better than me.”

“Franny?” Alex pulls her against his side with a shake of his head. “Franny’s the sister I never had. And by that I mean a
lovable
sister, unlike the one I actually have.” He winks at me.

Impressive: he just destroyed any pleasure I’d gotten from his gift.

But I can tell from his cheerful expression that he has no idea how deeply his casual comment cut me. I glance at Isabella and see the glint in her eye. She gets it, even if he doesn’t. She’s pleased. And I wonder whether part of the reason she’s throwing me in Harry’s path is to get me out of Alex’s.

Not that I’m particularly
minding
being in Harry’s path.

In fact, given Alex’s last comment . . .

“You and I can split off and do something on our own,” I say to Harry.

He snatches eagerly at the idea. “Take Isabella shopping,” he tells Alex. “I suggest you distract her with something sparkly, then text us when you’re ready to meet up for dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Alex says, and reaches down for the bag of books.

Harry says, “I’ll carry that.” In kind of a proprietary way. Like even though Alex bought the books, Harry is the one who should carry them. Because they’re mine. Which you’d think would mean
I
should carry them . . . but apparently not if you factor in stupid sexist male posturing.

Alex and Isabella head down the sidewalk, bodies close together, and he’s whispering something in her ear, and her head is tilted in a way that suggests she’s listening and she
will
forgive him . . . but he’s going to have to work for it.

“Poor Isabella.” Harry’s also watching them go.

“Really?” I say, turning back to him, my eyebrows raised.
“Poor Isabella?” That’s so not how I’m thinking of the situation.

“Absolutely. She’s a mass of insecurity. That’s why she can be hypersensitive sometimes. I shouldn’t have teased her.”

“Come on,” I say. “She’s rich, gorgeous, smart—”

“And wildly insecure. Especially when it comes to guys and relationships. Trust me: I’m the one she calls at two in the morning when she’s convinced she’s unlovable.”

“Wow,” I say. “She sure doesn’t come across as insecure.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t judge anyone by appearance.”

“Not even you?”

“Depends. What do I look like to you?” He strikes a he-man pose, elbows raised, hands in fists.

“Like someone who’s spent a lot of time flexing in front of mirrors.”

“Hmm . . . uncannily accurate . . .” He relaxes. “Okay—I guess with me what you see
is
what you get. But I’m the rare exception.” He looks around. “So what do you want to do now that we’ve dumped those losers?”

“I don’t know. Something indoors—it’s about to rain.”

“No, it’s not.”

I eye the clouds, which are thicker and darker than they were ten minutes ago. “I really think it is.”

“I finally have you to myself,” he says. “I won’t let it rain.”

“I so admire a man who can control the elements. Come
on.” I stand up, and we both reach for the bag at the same time. “I can carry my own books.”

“I know. I
want
to carry them.”

I roll my eyes.

“I mean it. It makes me feel all manly.” He gathers the bag handles in his fist and curls and lowers his arm a few times. “Look at that? See that? See my guns? Aren’t you impressed?”

“Stop or I’ll faint.”

“Yeah, I have that effect on all the women.” As we move away from the Starbucks, heading in the opposite direction from Isabella and Alex, he switches hands and insists I now check out
that
arm’s bicep muscle. “I’m not a one-arm wonder, Franny. Both sides are equally magnificent. This is what you call fearful symmetry.”

“Why do you ever wear a shirt?” I say.

“For the mystery of it, Franny. For the mystery.”

W
e have fun, we really do. Harry keeps me laughing for the rest of the afternoon, leading me into stores, where he makes up a different story for each salesperson, telling one we’re twins who were separated at birth and have reunited for the first time that day, and another that we’ve escaped from a summer program where they’ve kept us locked up in a shoe factory stitching sneaker parts together (which I later point out to him isn’t all that different from the truth—at least for me), and asking a third if she knows a minister who can perform a quickie wedding.

The salespeople ask concerned questions, which Harry somehow manages to answer with a straight face, embroidering the original story with more brilliantly funny details, but I can’t say a word, too afraid I’ll crack up and give it all away if I do.

“Do you always do this kind of thing?” I ask him when we finally extricate ourselves from the last woman’s concerned pleas to “think long and hard before you kids do something you might regret.”

“Yeah, but you inspire me to new heights of imagination.”

“New depths of dishonesty is more like it.” I wince as a cool drop of water hits my cheek. “Can I inspire you to notice that it’s raining?”

“Do you want me to stop the rain?” he says. “I’d do it for you, Franny. Or die trying.”

“Yeah, that’s not over the top. How about you just figure out a place where we can stay dry? Preferably without making me pretend to be your sister bride or anything like that.”

“I never said you were
both
my sister and my bride. That’s just wrong.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Really, Franny. I had no idea what a depraved mind you have. Also? I’m saving that for when we meet someone important, like a senator or something.”

“You’re still talking, and I’m getting wetter by the second.”

He looks around. “Let’s see.. . . This way.” He leads me across the street and pulls me into a small grocery store, the kind you’d stop at to grab a carton of milk or a pack of gum but not to do your
real
food shopping. It’s very dim, the darkness of the rain clouds outside deepening the natural gloom of the cramped store. The owner is slumped at a stool near the entrance, watching a small TV next to the cash register. He squints suspiciously at us, then goes back to his show.

We duck to the back corner of the store, where the metal shelves are filled with dusty cans of beans and ancient boxes of pasta. It feels like no one’s been back there for decades. We slip around one of the high racks so we’re hidden from the owner’s view.

“Don’t say I never take you anywhere nice.” Harry sets the bag of books on the floor. “We can stay here until the rain lets up or that guy comes after us with an ax—whichever comes
first.”

“Maybe we should call Isabella and Alex and make a plan to meet them soon.”

“Sure,” he says, but then he stops and stares at me.

“What’s wrong?”

“You have drops of rain in your hair. They look like diamonds.”

I laugh. “Oh, please. That’s like a pickup line you’d use in a bar.”

“It would have to be raining inside the bar.”

“Fine. A pickup line you’d use
outside
a bar.”

He says quietly, “It’s not a line, Franny.”

And then he leans forward and kisses me softly and quickly on the mouth. Before I can even decide how I feel about it, he steps back. He holds his hands up. “No, sorry, that’s all you get. Don’t embarrass yourself by begging for more.”

“Harry—”

He drops his hands. “Don’t be mad at me, Franny. That was just an impulse. I won’t push anything. I get it.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

“But know that I like you ‘for realers,’ as my little cousin would say. Okay? And I’m not going anywhere, not unless you send me away. Or that guy axes me.”

I think for a moment, staring down at the unswept cement floor. Then I look up and say, “I’m not going to send you away. Not yet anyway.”

His face breaks out in a happy grin. “How is it that you say more with a few careful words than most girls say in an hour of chattering away?”

My laugh is shaky but genuine. “
You’re
going to criticize other people for talking too much?”

He steps back and surveys me. “You like to tear me down, don’t you, Pearson?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I kind of do.”

“You’ll have to keep building me back up again, then, won’t you?”

“I guess so.” I realized I’m reaching out for him. It’s almost like my body is doing it more than my mind. I don’t trust him. But he’s so good-looking and so near and that kiss made me curious. Eager, even. I touch his upper arm. “So what’s the best way to build you up? Should I say something about how strong you are?”

“That would work.” His voice sounds slightly hoarse.

“Oh, Harry, you’re so big and strong,” I say, not sure if I’m making fun of him or me.

“Yeah?” His arm snakes around my waist.

“Was that enough? Do I get to tear you back down now?” I have to tilt my head back to look at him now that we’re so close.

“Not quite yet.”

This time, when he kisses me, I kiss him back, and we both take our time. It’s a slow, long, lingering, exploring kiss. The kind that leads to more kisses. The kind that makes me
hope it keeps raining for a while so we have an excuse to stay right where we are, all alone in that dingy little area, surrounded by dusty shelves and ancient cans of food.

“If that guy’s going to kill me, I hope he does it soon,” Harry whispers at one point. “I might as well die happy.”

Over the top, as usual. But right now I don’t mind his exaggeration. I even kind of like it.

An hour or so later, we’re all seated at dinner together.

Harry and I are the ones who hitch our chairs closer together. Isabella and Alex keep a slight distance between theirs, and when Harry asks what gift Alex found to surprise her with, Isabella raises her elegantly arched eyebrows and says icily, “I told him not to bother. He was acting like it was a chore.”

“That’s not fair,” Alex says. “I wanted to get you that bracelet. You just kept saying that there was no point since it wouldn’t actually be a surprise. You wouldn’t
let
me get you anything.”

“You didn’t try very hard.” She waves her hand dismissively. “We saw some nice stores, though. And I got to walk in the rain, which I love. How about you guys? Did you have fun? What did you do?”

“Pretty much what you’d expect,” Harry says. “I spent most of the afternoon fighting off Franny’s advances.”

“In his dreams,” I say with a snort.

“Pinch me, then, because I’ve been dreaming all day.” He
holds his arm out to Alex, who shoves it away, more violently than seems necessary.

Isabella stands up. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.” She touches Alex’s shoulder. “Do you want to hold my cigarettes while I’m gone? Or would you rather just sniff at me suspiciously when I come back?” She turns to Harry and me. “I can’t even go to the bathroom without being sniffed up and down afterward. It’s like dating a DEA dog.”

“Whatever,” Alex says.

“I’ll join you.” Harry jumps up. “We can powder each other’s noses.”

“Sadly, that’s not a euphemism,” she says with an exaggerated sigh. They wrap their arms around each other’s waists as they walk across the floor together.

Alex and I are silent for a moment. Our eyes meet.

I say, “I don’t think I ever thanked you for getting me those books. It was really nice of you. I’m sorry if I got you in trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says. “I can buy books for a friend if I want to.” He takes a sip of water. We’ve ordered our food but have so far gotten only our drinks. Isabella and Harry got glasses of wine—they both have fake IDs, but the waiter didn’t even ask to see them. Still, Alex and I just got water. “You and Harry seem to be having a good time,” he says flatly, putting the glass back down with a little thump.

I shrug. “It’s been a nice day.”

“Glad to hear it.” He doesn’t look glad. He looks . . . not
like his usual cheerful self.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he snaps.

I shoot him a look. “Really, Alex?”

He holds his hands up in sudden apology. “Sorry. I honestly don’t know why I’m in such a bad mood. It’s just . . .” There’s a pause; then he leans forward abruptly. “Hey, Franny? Be careful, okay? With Harry, I mean. I’ve spent a lot of time with both him and Isabella, and you have to . . .” He stops himself. “Not that they’re the same. It’s just . . . I mean, they’re from L.A., you know? People are just different there. And for someone like you . . . You shouldn’t rush into trusting people. So don’t. Rush.”

“Maybe you should be careful too,” I say sharply. Why does he assume I’m some naive little kid who needs his advice? Who’s more careful than me? I’m so careful I haven’t even kissed a guy yet this summer.

Oh, wait, yes, I have. An hour ago. I kissed a guy a lot.

Cool.

“Isabella’s not like Harry,” Alex says.

“You just said she was. And, by the way, they’re best friends, so if you don’t like him, you should be wondering about her taste.”

“I never said I didn’t like him. I just don’t think you can trust him completely.”

I don’t actually disagree with him, but I’m too annoyed to let him know that. “Harry’s been nothing but nice to me.”