Waking Up to Love (7 page)

Or something.

Ramona never bothered reading the description, but she knew it was good for the environment. She also knew these snacks would be good for Debra's recovery. They weren't exactly what she had written on the shopping list, but they also weren't jam-packed with butter and high-fructose corn syrup, either. Ramona tasked herself with making sure Debra ate right, even if that meant a few moments of grocery-unpacking disappointment.

Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Three warning buzzes and then her ringtone: the default classical music that came with this model. She'd had the phone for a year and a half, yet she hadn't bothered to change the music to something she liked.

Or at least something that didn't actively make her teeth chatter.

Her teeth chattered.

She knew it wasn't work, because she'd already told Nancy that she'd be running errands all day. Plus, the latest shipment of paperbacks wasn't expected till Friday.

No, this wasn't business. This had to be pleasure.

She looked at the screen. Scott's name popped up.
Great,
she thought. Scott McInney, the worst kind of pleasure.

“Hello?”

“Whatcha doing?” Scott asked. God, he knew she hated that.

For a second, Ramona wondered if she should lie about shopping. If he knew where she was, he'd probably make a couple of requests too, probably of the butter and high-fructose corn syrup variety.

Then she realized that was stupid. She was a grown woman; she could always tell him no.

“I'm at the supermarket,” she said. “Your mom needed some supplies.”

“You should get her some good, old-fashioned junk food,” he suggested. “It'll be a nice change of pace from, well, from getting nutrients through an IV.”

“No junk food.” Ramona needed to put her foot down then and there. If not, then this would quickly escalate into a high-stakes negotiation.
I'll trade you the soy milk for the boxed mac and cheese, but only if you upgrade the fat-free cream cheese to reduced-fat and jalapeno-flavored.

“Come on,” Scott bargained. “Just one box of—”

“Nope.” Suddenly, she was reminded of the hours they spend in their treehouse as kids. He'd always steal her Barbies, just so they could play Hostage Negotiator. It was fun, even if things didn't always end so well for Barbie.

“You know, a little junk food can be good for her.”

“That's not true.”

“It is! Happy taste buds equal happy lives. Haven't you ever heard that saying?”

“I'm pretty sure you just made that up.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Okay. Fine,” she gave in. “We can get her one thing from the bad list. What would you say is her favorite?”

Without thinking, he said, “Those maple cookies. The ones with the Amish lady on the front.”

Ramona was standing in the crackers aisle, so she could clearly see the cookies he was talking about. She also knew that the mascot was just a regular, old, non-Amish grandmother, but she wasn't going to start another argument.

She placed her hand on the box, but then pulled away. Scott wasn't even in the same room as her, yet he was still calling the shots. If she was going to remain sane for the next week or so, she needed to reassert herself.

“I just grabbed one box,” she lied.

Scott paused for a few seconds. “No, you didn't,” he said.

“What?”

“You didn't grab any cookies. Come on. They're right by your elbow.”

Ramona spun around. Yup, there he was, casually leaning against a rack of discount tortillas. He had a phone in one hand and barbecue ranch potato chips in the other. He always ate such disgusting snacks. It was a real testament to his outdoorsy lifestyle that he could keep in such good shape.

He clicked off his phone.

“You were spying on me,” she said. Not a question.

“A little.” He walked over to her and tossed a box of maple cookies into her cart. “Come on. Don't look at me like that. I was just calling you to see if we needed milk back at the house. I didn't realize you were shopping, too. And I also didn't realize that you were in the same store until I saw you in the cookie aisle. Lying to me, I might add.”

She didn't know if she should be embarrassed or mad or happy to see him. She chose D: none of the above.

Scott glanced at the piles of health food in her cart.
“You trying to kill us?” he asked.

She could explain to him about the importance of a nutrient-rich diet, or about saving the Florida wetlands, but she knew she couldn't change the mind of someone whose idea of lunch was half a bag of barbecue ranch potato chips. Instead, she told him, “This is the food Dr. Nguyen recommended.” He could argue with her all he wanted, but he couldn't argue with a licensed medical professional.

“Those were suggestions,” Scott said.

Well, maybe he could argue with anything.

“Exactly,” Ramona said. “And that's why we're getting one box of maple cookies.”

“Jeez, Ramona. I expected more from you. I mean, I knew you were always the health nut, but—”

“What's wrong with being healthy?”

“The better question is, ‘What's wrong with eating cardboard?' And the answer: everything,” he said. “Naw, you were always the organic soy militant, and Nessa was always sneaking me the good stuff.” He held up his potato chips for evidence.

Ramona bristled at her sister's name. So few people mentioned Nessa these days, that when she did hear it, a bunch of negative images flashed into her head.

“Hey, sorry,” Scott said. “I didn't mean to … I know it's still a sore subject.”

“Naw. It's not your fault.” But even though the words came out of her mouth, and even though she wanted to believe she was over it—

She started walking away.

“Wait.”

“I really have to finish these errands,” she said. “I should've been back at the house a half hour ago.” She walked faster and faster down the cookie aisle, until she found herself practically jogging behind her shopping cart.

He chased after her. She hadn't gotten far, just a few feet past the cereals. “Wait. I'm, well, I'm sorry for bringing up Nessa. I know it's a sore subject.”

“Look,” she said. “I'm not mad.” And she certainly wasn't. She was sad. She was the other sister, the one not chosen, and that didn't make her angry—except maybe at herself.

“I don't buy that for a second,” he said.

“I'm not!”

“Ramona, come on. This is me you're talking to. I know when you're mad. Believe me.” He said it like she was constantly in a state of anger, like she was Grumpy Smurf or something.

To prove that he was wrong, to prove that he didn't know the first thing about Ramona Scapizi, she said, “Scott, would you like to help me finish the rest of my list?”

“I would love to.”

Together, they walked to the bakery aisle.

• • •

Scott was already late for work. His lunch break had already started to bleed into his afternoon. As soon as he helped Ramona load up these groceries into her van, then he'd be off.

Just his luck, had Ramona decided to park all the way on the other side of the parking lot. “It's good to walk,” she always said.

Every time Scott saw Ramona's wheels—a light brown van at least a decade past its prime—he couldn't help thinking that she drove the dorkiest vehicle on the planet. It was a van meant for soccer moms, not unmarried twentysomethings who should know better.

Then again, she'd had it forever. It was almost like her trademark. He couldn't picture her driving a little pink sports car.

Scott grabbed the last bag from the cart.
All that damn health food,
he thought.
It just wasn't natural.

Then again, the green apples looked pretty delicious. Maybe if he just grabbed one—

When Ramona's back was turned, he sneaked the biggest, juiciest-looking apple from the bag. He couldn't tell if she'd seen him from the corner of her eye.

He took a big bite, letting the flavors dance across his taste buds. Definitely better than barbecue ranch potato chips.

Ramona grabbed the bag from Scott's hand. “Funny,” she said. “It feels a little lighter than it did before.”

Scott smiled. His mouth was closed, of course.

“It's almost like … naw, it couldn't be,” Ramona continued. “Then again … it's almost like something's gone missing.”

Scott hid the apple behind his back.

“You sure you didn't steal anything?” she asked.

“I would never,” Scott answered, but his mouth was full of apple at the time. He smiled like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

She didn't say anything for a long moment. Then she held out her hand. Scott gave her the apple. It was big and green, perfect except for the single bite mark.

Then she took a bite.

Scott couldn't help but stare as at least three separate reactions played across Ramona's face.

1) Surprise, as if she hadn't expected the apple to be this tart.

2) Determination, as if she wouldn't give Scott the satisfaction of seeing her face scrunch up like a baby eating a lemon for the first time.

3) Enjoyment. Tart or not, it tasted good.

“Thanks,” she said when her mouth was no longer full.

Scott felt that undeniable feeling in the pit of his stomach—that feeling he felt when she'd held him yesterday—that
Ramona
feeling. There was no other way to put it. She brought something out of him that he could never put into words, especially not to her.

If he was honest with himself, it was the same feeling she'd always given him, only more intense now. And if he was
really
being honest with himself, he knew that feeling, that unnamable feeling, was the real reason he'd never dated Ramona. He knew that if he put himself out there and tried to push things too far, he could lose her—and that feeling—forever.

Even more, that feeling was also why he started dating Nessa. She was his friend, too, but they weren't nearly as close. Their connection wasn't as strong. It was a safer place for a romantic relationship to start. And everything seemed to work out okay—until Nessa disappeared.

“What's with the face?” Ramona asked.

Crap. She'd caught him. “What face?”

“Nothing,” she said, but her tone of voice implied that there was definitely more than nothing.

Scott quickly made his face go blank. He wasn't much of a poker player, but he did have a knack for hiding his expression when he was bluffing—or when he wasn't.

One thing was clear. He knew he had to sort out these feelings. If he didn't, she wouldn't be in his life at all. Not as a friend, or anything else.

I have to talk to her about this,
he thought.

Bam!
Ramona slammed the trunk shut. The sudden noise jarred him back to reality.

Just not right now.

• • •

After hours of digging irrigation canals in the hot desert sun, all Scott wanted to do was take a shower and watch football. Heck, he'd be happy to sit through a soap-opera marathon if it meant sitting on a sofa inside an air-conditioned building.

While visions of basic cable danced in his head, Scott walked back toward the dune buggy he'd parked a few feet away.

“Dude!” Terry called from a few yards back.

Scott quickened his pace. Even though Terry was one of his closest friends—despite the surfer dude loopiness and the constant marijuana haze—he didn't feel very sociable right now. Let him bum a ride from Quinn and Miguel. Their Jeep was just down the hill.

“Yo! Scott-ay!” Terry called again, louder than before.

Scott paused next to the dune buggy. It was no use ignoring him. Terry would follow him to the ends of the earth, for better or worse. “Hey, man,” Scott said. “Hop on in. I'll take you back.” The invitation was more of a formality than anything. Terry was already mid-hop before the words even left Scott's mouth.

In a few seconds, Scott had revved the engine and begun his slow, careful drive down the mountainside.

“Dude,” Terry said, “you know you can go a little faster. I'm not exactly precious cargo.”

Scott's grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“Hot day, huh?” Terry tried for some more small talk. “I think I lost like twenty pounds in sweat.”

“Then you'd be dead,” Scott muttered. He was in no mood for small talk.

“Dude. It's called hyperbole. Jeez. All I'm sayin' is it's hot today.”

Because there was no windshield on the dune buggy, hot wind blasted their faces and pelted them with sand. Scott wanted to get inside—
needed
to get inside—as quickly as possible.

“Agreed.”

“Dude, what's with you? You still all funked out over Ramona?”

“Naw,” he lied. “I'm just … okay, yeah. I didn't expect to be seeing her all the time. It's like, since she agreed to pretend to be Nessa, she's just always around. She helps my mom, which is great. But she also, I don't know …”

“You don't want her around?”

The dune buggy sped up. Scott didn't realize his foot pressed down so hard on the gas. The wind got hotter.

“No,” he said. “I do. In fact, I love seeing her … you know, helping Mom and stuff.”

“You're worried that you like it too much,” Terry guessed. For someone with sun-bleached highlights and an eyebrow piercing, Terry was surprisingly insightful.

Scott couldn't admit that, though. “Not at all,” he said.

“Well, whatever you're feeling, you need to go and talk with her.”

“I do,” he said.

“On her terms,” Terry said. “Go to her work or something. Have lunch. Just hash things out, friend to friend.”

“Okay.”

They were roaring down the hill now. Scott never drove this fast, at least not when he was paying attention.