Through to You (8 page)

“It's not a date.” Trying to fix my makeup with my finger isn't working. In fact, I'm just making it worse. I go to reach for my purse, but somehow my legs sort of splay apart, and I end up knocking my purse over onto the passenger-side floor. “Shit!”

“What happened?” Anna asks.

“I knocked my purse over.”

“In his car? How'd you knock your purse over in his car?” Suddenly she's suspicious, like she thinks I'm up to no good.

“I was trying to look at myself in the mirror.”

“She was trying to look at herself in the mirror,” Anna reports to Nico.

“Don't tell him that!” I say. I'm not sure why, but I don't want Nico to know what's going on. This is one of those times when the fact that he's male definitely gets in the way of me
being able to give him information. Plus, I've never been as close to Nico as Anna is. And I don't think he should get secrets about me just because I'm telling them to Anna.

“Why not? It's just Nico.”

“Because I don't want him knowing everything.”

“It's not like you and Penn are hooking up. Are you? Have you? Did you kiss him? Did he kiss you?”

“No!” I say. “It's not . . . I mean, it's not a date.” But suddenly I'm thinking about kissing him. He looks like he'd be a good kisser. Probably strong, but not too strong, with just the right amount of—

The driver-side door opens, and I scream in surprise, then immediately fall over into the passenger seat.

Penn is standing there. He looks down at me, my legs sprawled between the seats. He shakes his head. “Wow,” he says. “I leave you alone for one minute . . .”

“Um, I gotta go,” I say to Anna, scrambling back over to my side of the car.

“What?” she screeches. “Harper, you can't just—”

I hang up. I'm kind of humiliated. “Can I get in now?” Penn asks. He seems amused.

“Yes,” I say haughtily. “Of course you can get in.” I put my nose up in the air and roll my eyes, like he's being ridiculous. Which he kind of is. This is his car. Of course he can get into his own car. He doesn't have to ask my permission.

“Okay, good,” he says. He flings the Whole Foods bags into the backseat. “Just didn't know if you wanted to be alone.”

My face is burning. God, he must think I'm a complete and total head case. “I'm fine.” I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror, and my face is still streaked with eyeliner. I reach up and rub it off. There's no way I can fix it with Penn here, watching, so I'll have to just deal with having raccoon eyes for now.

“Okay.” He shrugs and puts the car into drive.

He takes me to Schoner Park and parks near the swings, right on the lawn. It's after nine o'clock now, and so the place is deserted.

He pulls the bags of food out from the back of his car and sets them down on the hood of his truck.

“You're going to be impressed,” he says, sounding proud of himself.

“Really? Why?”

“Well,” he says, “you probably have this impression of me. You know, that I'm just some jock ballplayer who knows nothing about anything else.”

“I don't really have any impression of you, except for that maybe you're a stalker.”

“A stalker?”

“Yeah, like how you showed up at my work and stalked me.”

He shakes his head. “I don't stalk.”

“Whatever.”

We hoist ourselves onto the hood of the truck, and Penn reaches into the bags and starts laying out the food he bought.
I have to say that he was right—it is impressive. Stone-ground wheat pepper crackers, cut up strawberries and honeydew, goat cheese, fig and walnut spread, and two tiny plastic containers filled with bow tie pasta salad.

He hands me a plastic fork, and as he does, his hand brushes against mine.

“Thanks.” Goose bumps fly up my skin.

“You're welcome.” All trace of the teasing he was doing before is gone, and now he just sounds . . . I don't know, sort of serious and sort of sexy at the same time.

I grab the crackers and start to open the box. Inside there are two sleeves, and my fingers fumble around the plastic. When I finally get them open, I realize there's nowhere to put them, so I pull a few out and lay them down on the cracker box.

“So,” I say. The air feels heavy all of a sudden. Yes, it's because it rained, and because it's humid, but it's also because things have shifted. It's subtle, but it's there. Before when I was with Penn, there was a lot of activity around us—we were at the dance studio, or the batting cages, or something, and now . . . now we're just here, sitting on his car with nothing to do but . . . talk.

“So,” he replies.

I take a cracker and dip it into the goat cheese spread. It's delicious.

“Is this where you used to play baseball?” I ask, gazing out onto the field.

I'm not sure if it's my imagination or not, but I feel like he stiffens beside me. “No,” he says. He takes a swig of water. “Well, not recently. I played here when I was a kid.”

“Oh. And you . . . I mean, are you going to play in college?” I know he hurt his shoulder. I know he doesn't play anymore. I want to know if he's going to get better, but I'm not sure exactly how to ask him that.

He shrugs, then just gazes out onto the baseball field. Then, suddenly, he jumps off the hood of the car until he's standing in front of me. He leans in close to me and gives me a devilish smile.

“Hi,” he says, and that's when I know he's going to kiss me.

I hardly even know him, and he's going to kiss me. Which is crazy. But what's even crazier is that I want him to kiss me. I want to kiss him so bad, I can hardly take it.

He reaches up and pushes a piece of hair back from my forehead, and his eyes are gazing right into mine, and it's so perfect and romantic and passionate that I swear it feels like I'm in a movie.

“Hi,” I breathe.

He moves his face closer to mine, and then he kisses me. His lips are cool, but his mouth is warm and his kiss is soft. It takes us less than a second to find a rhythm. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against him.

A breeze ruffles the trees and sends a shiver up my spine, and I'm not sure if it's because the air has gotten colder or because of the kiss. He pulls back for a minute, and then his
lips are back on mine, teasing me. He's kissing me the exact way I thought he would—strong and firm and perfect. His face is smooth, but there's a little bit of stubble rubbing against my chin, and I lose all track of time as his lips move against mine. My heart is beating fast, and my skin is flushed. My lips are getting swollen from the kissing, and my hair is getting tangled in his fingers.

When he finally pulls away, he trails his fingers up my arms, sending tingles flying through my body.

“Well,” he says. “I guess that happened.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I guess it did.”

I shouldn't have kissed her. I knew that as soon as I did it. It's just that she'd been sitting there looking so adorable, trying to open that damn package of crackers. How could opening a package of crackers look cute? It made no sense.

But it was more than that. Not only is she cute, but let's face it, she is also hot. And I was stupid for not noticing it earlier. Although I guess I must have noticed it a little bit—I did put that note on her desk, after all. But that note was a throw-away, something I did on the spur of the moment. It's not like I wanted anything to come of it. If I want a girl, I don't waste time with cute little notes. That's what guys who have no game do. That's what guys who want romance do.

And I'm not that guy.

But now I've gone and kissed Harper, and to make it even worse, I did it on the hood of my car after a rainstorm, at a park while we were having a picnic. What the
hell
was I thinking?

After we kiss, I expect things to be awkward, like it usually is after you kiss a girl for the first time. But it's not.

We sit. We eat.

Harper asks me questions about my family (which I dodge), about baseball (which I dodge), about school (fine, whatever), and about how I got to be so good at picking out picnic food (completely safe, because I bullshit it and tell her that I'm into watching the Food Network. Which is true, but only because it's one of the only channels that doesn't have infomercials on late at night, and so I watch it when I can't fall asleep.)

I'm having a nice time. Like, a really nice time. The nicest time I can ever remember having with a girl. But as I'm driving her home, I can feel my mood starting to darken.

Yes, I had a nice time with Harper, but that doesn't erase the million things that happened today that could have set me off. Like seeing Jackson, or the fact that I'm on my way home and I have no idea what I'm going to find there.

“So,” Harper says when I pull into her driveway. She fiddles with the strap of her bag. “I guess . . . I mean, I guess I'll see you in school tomorrow.” She looks at me, and I can see in her eyes that she wants some reassurance. She wants me to tell her that we'll talk tomorrow, that me kissing her meant something.

But I can't give her that.

So instead I just say, “See you tomorrow, Harper.”

I watch her walk into the house, until she's inside safely and has shut the door behind her. I imagine her walking up the stairs, dropping her bag in her room, maybe calling a friend or starting her homework.

It's all so normal.

And that's why Harper and I could never work out.

Because she's normal.

And I'm anything but.

* * *

When I get home, Braden's sitting on the couch playing video games, and my mom's in the kitchen baking cupcakes. It's ten o'clock at night, and my dad's car is still gone. He's probably on a bender, although it's impossible to know exactly where. He could be drinking himself to death in a hotel room, or a bar, or at a casino. Sometimes I wonder if he has a completely different family, like those people you see on the news who go missing and then turn out to have secret lives. Maybe my dad goes to visit his other family, and they all get drunk and watch sports before passing out in front of the TV.

“Hey!” my mom says happily when she sees me. She holds out a spoonful of batter, like it's normal to be cooking so late at night. “Here,” she says. “Taste this.”

“Mom,” I say, “that stuff is poison.”

She frowns and wrinkles her nose at the bowl. “Penn, if you're talking about salmonella, I got these eggs fresh from—”

“I'm not talking about salmonella, Mom.” I grab a bottle of
water from the fridge, uncap it, and down almost all of it in one gulp. “I'm talking about the fact that there's tons of hydrogenated fat in there. Plus the dairy alone is filled with hormones.”

My mom smiles and shakes her head, like she's exasperated with me. “My son the college athlete,” she says proudly. “Always worried about what he puts into his body. Not all of us have to worry about our performance on the baseball field, you know.”

I don't say anything, but my mood darkens even more. We both know I'm not playing baseball right now, that I probably won't ever again, and that I definitely won't be playing for a college.

And with my chances of a baseball scholarship completely dashed, there's really no way I'm even
going
to college. Which means I'll be stuck here, probably working at some shitty job that I hate. But my mom doesn't like talking about that. If you ask her, she'll tell you that of course some college is going to take me. She lives in denial—about my shoulder, about my dad, about pretty much everything.

“Well, have fun,” I say. I try to keep the sharpness out of my voice. I don't blame her for my dad taking off, but I do blame her for not talking about it, and for not confronting him about it, and for not leaving him years ago.

I walk into the living room, where Braden's zoned out in front of the TV. I can tell just by looking at him that he's high. His eyes are all red and he's slumped against the back of the couch. A half-eaten bag of chips is sitting in front of him on the coffee table.

“Yo,” he says, giving me a half salute. He gestures to the other controller. “You want to play?”

I shrug and pick up the controller, and we sit there for a few minutes, blowing things up on the screen. It's supposed to be mindless. And it is. I'm not thinking about Jackson, or my dad, or baseball.

But what I can't stop thinking about is Harper.

But instead of getting me excited, all it does is make me angry. What the hell was I thinking, taking her on a picnic? I'm not in any shape to be taking girls on picnics, especially not girls like Harper. She's too innocent. She works in a dance studio, for God's sake. She wants to be a choreographer. That sounds so . . . I don't know. Pure.

My mind is racing, and I don't realize I'm gripping the controller so hard, until I look down and see the indent the plastic is creating on my hand.

“I need to get out of here,” I say, tossing the controller onto the couch.

“Aww, come on,” Braden says, shooting at my guys on the screen. “I'm just about to kill you.”

I ignore him.

I walk through the kitchen and out the door, and as I do, my mom doesn't even ask me where I'm going. Instead she just waves and says, “See you later, honey!” like it's totally normal for her seventeen-year-old son to be leaving at ten at night.

I drive around for a while, not sure where I'm going.

Until, eventually, I end up at the same place I always end up.

At Sienna's house.

Which is no good.

Not for me.

Not for her.

Not for Harper.

Not for anyone.

Two weeks. That's how long it's been since Penn kissed me. That's how long it's been since Penn
talked
to me.