A Kiss Like This (21 page)

I lied. Shit, you actually
can
sound like a douchebag moron via text. I just proved it.

Me:
My PARENTS are in town, and we were wondering if you wanted to join us for an early dinner. If you’re not busy
.

Me:
I totally get it if you have plans. Or think it’s weird
.

Shit
, I scold myself,
stop texting her
. Jesus, Caleb, get grip.

After a few minutes go by without any kind of response, I resume my pacing, stopping to tap my fingers on the ledge of my windowsill like a fidgety crack whore.

My phone pings and my heartbeat stills.

Abby:
What time
?

What time? Was that a yes? Holy crap. What. Time.

Me:
I can walk over and get you in a half hour? Is that enough time for you to get ready
?

Me:
My parents just kind of showed up and my Dad is hungry. Sorry.

Abby
: No, that’s plenty of time. I went to church this morning, so all I need to do is change back out of these yoga pants. lol ;)

Me
: Great. I’ll see you in a half hour then.

Abby
: It’s a date.

~ Abby ~

It’s a date? It’s a
date
?

Ugh, why did I put that! That definitely deserves a face palm.

Groaning, I cover my eyes when my phone pings a few seconds later and peek at the screen through my fingers.

Caleb:
It’s a date
.

Yes!

Shrieking, I throw my phone down onto the bed like it’s just caught on fire and dance around the room, arms above my head, hair sweeping wildly around my shoulders. I feel like the girl version of Kevin Bacon in the original Footloose—you know the part where he’s dancing in the old grain mill? Yeah, that’s me right now, but in a good way, not in the pissed-off,
this stupid town has outlawed music and dancing
way, but in a
holy crappers I’m meeting his parents
way.

I pop on Spotify and dance around to the beat of “Good Girls” by Five Seconds of Summer before stopping to look at myself in the mirror, taking inventory of my reflection, breathing heavily.

Flushed cheeks, animated blue eyes. My long dark hair is still wavy from having been curled early this morning, but I’m wearing black yoga pants, and those simply won’t do.

I glance at my phone: seventeen more minutes to get ready before Caleb comes to pick me up.

Shoot.

Opening my closet, I peer inside, grabbing out a pair of worn boot-cut jeans and tossing them on my bed. I then thumb through my shirts, biting down on my bottom lip with indecision, but finally pull out a thin gray cable-knit sweater.

Gray heeled Frye boots complete the simple look, and just as I give my hair one last fluff and add some gloss to my lips, the rusty old doorbell croaks out a sickly
ding-dong
.

Grateful that both my roommates are out of the house, I smooth my hands down the front of my jeans, grab my phone off the bed, my purse from the hook beside my closet, and move through the living room to swing open the front door.

Caleb shuffles his feet on the front stoop, shoulders slouched, looking adorably embarrassed. “Hi.” He shoves his hands into the pocket of his jeans, but today, he’s missing the element of his hooded sweatshirt.

In its place is a flattering blue, white, and green button-down flannel, and I have to admit, it not only does his body good, but it’s also doing my
hormones
good… but don’t get me started on that.

Stepping out onto the porch, I lock the door behind me and smile up at him.

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “You look… cute.”

I feel the blush creeping up my neck at his halted compliment and cast my eyes downward, pulling back a few strands of hair and tucking them behind my ear timidly. “Thanks.”
Oh jeez
. “Should we, um…”

“Yeah, we should go. My mom’s kind of flipping out. In a good way.” He quickly reassures me, his low snicker filling me with warm fuzzies.

He pulls his hands out of his pockets as we walk. His loose left hand brushes my hip, and then, after a few paces, grasps for my palm.

I love the fact that he wants to hold hands, and it somehow seems intimate.

I love it.
Love
it.

I love the feel of his large hand clutching mine, holding it tight, the rough, hard-earned callouses a stark contrast to my smooth, self-manicured palms.

And now that I’m being honest with myself, I’ll be honest with you; I don’t just love his hands.

I secretly think I love
him
.

All
of him.

Every quiet, serious, brooding inch of him.

We stroll on without talking, our gait slow and leisurely. Caleb doesn’t say anything, doesn’t prep me or give me a pep talk. He just propels us forward to the Omega house, which sits stately in the center of the block down the street, its white trim and wraparound porch once belonging to a pillar of the Madison community.

Decades old, yet just as impressive.

Obviously, I’m assailed with anxiety as we walk toward this uncharted territory. I’ve never met a boy’s parents, let alone the parents of a boy I’ve only technically been on one date with. A date that we weren’t even on alone.

He squeezes my hand when we get to the edge of the yard, and when we do, a figure in the front window catches my eye. The curtains hastily slide back into place, and beside me, Caleb gives his head a little shake and swallows a curse.

“Please just ignore whatever they tell you. And sorry in advance if they act weird.”

A giggle escapes my lips as we ascend the front steps and cross the covered porch, and Caleb is pulling me by the hand through the front foyer. We’re not five feet in the door when Caleb’s parents walk out of the dining room, a huge, ear-to-ear grin spread across his mom’s face.

Caleb drops my hand and stuffs his inside the pockets of his jeans.

I could have picked his mother out of a line-up: tall with shoulder-length black hair neatly cascading over an aqua-blue running shirt. Mrs. Lockhart has the darkest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen, surrounded by lots of laugh lines.

With an expressive smile resting on her mouth, she is the spitting image of her son. Or he’s the spitting image of her.

Whatever, you know what I mean.

She’s coming toward me, eyes darting down to where our hands had been joined on the way through the door, and, as if it were possible, her beaming smile widens. Then, as she’s biting her lower lip, her cheeks dimple. “You must be Abby!” She enthusiastically embraces me in a hug.

Her cheeks will certainly be sore tonight from all the smiling.

Caleb groans.

“Hello, yes, I’m Abby.” I laugh anxiously. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Lockhart. Ma’am.”

Ma’am
? Ugh—what am I, from the South?

“Oh goodness, call me Wendy. This is my husband, Rob.”

Okay. I thought Caleb looked like his mom, but I was wrong; he is the spitting image of his dad. Rob Lockhart walks toward me. His presence in the room has my eyes widening into saucers. Just a hair taller than his son, he has shaggy black hair, dark brown eyes, and his mouth is set into a serious line.

Nervously, I extend my hand and he takes it. “Sir, it’s good to meet you.”

Mrs. Lockhart—
Wendy
—preens at Caleb. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”

“Mom,” Caleb warns with a grimace.

“Sorry, sweetie.” She’s not sorry at all, because she looks at us both and sighs contently. “I’ll grab my coat and we can go.”

Caleb’s dad walks to the bottom of the stairwell, grabs the newel post, and shouts upstairs, “Guys! We’re leaving!”

Caleb groans again, and I look up at him. “What?”

“They invited everyone.”

I gulp. “Everyone?”

He nods. “Affirmative. Everyone.”

Oh boy.

~ Caleb ~

One by one, our friends and teammates walk through the heavy wooden doors of The Brewery, a local microbrewery and restaurant on the river, gathering in the hostess area. Collectively, there only ends up being eleven of us total, but given the size of half the people present, it might as well have been thirty.

Abby excuses herself to use the bathroom when we walk into the coat check area, and my parents use the opportunity to discreetly grill me as Blaze and Stephan excuse themselves to secure us a table. I shudder at the thought of having anyone else present when Mom pounces on me.

She is delirious with enthusiasm. “Caleb, she seems so sweet.”

Has it escaped anyone else’s notice that Mom has used the word ‘sweet’ at least three times in the last half hour? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Annoyed, I roll my eyes. “That’s because she is.”

“It didn’t take her long to get ready from the time you texted her to the time you picked her up. Punctual. I like that,” my dad says, taking a toothpick from the container on the hostess stand, unwrapping it, and sticking it between his bottom teeth.

He wiggles it around with his tongue, and it flops up and down as he watches me.

“That’s because she was at church and her hair was already done,” I point out.

My mom covers her heart with her right hand and whispers, “She goes to church?”

I cross my arms, and even though it’s disrespectful, I glare at my mother. “I swear to God, Mom, if you start tearing up, we’re leaving.”

My dad clamps a hand on my shoulder and leans in close. “Give your mom a break, bud.” He’s called me bud since I was little-ish. “We’ve never seen you with anyone. We know you’re not gay, but quite personally, I was really beginning to wonder.
Not
that it would matter.”

“I want grandbabies,” my mom announces.

Oh yeah.

Every college guy’s worst nightmare, and she went there.

“Mom!” I shush her, horrified. “Stop. Jesus, she could come back any minute and hear you.”

“Fine, I’ll behave.” My mom has the decency to look shamefaced. Sort of. Okay, not really. “I’m just so happy! My little boy finally likes a girl!”

~ Abby ~

After a lot of shuffling around, I end up sitting sandwiched between Jenna and Caleb, his mom and dad on one end of the table, Molly and Weston at the other, while Cubby, Stephan, Blaze and Shelby sit across from us.

It’s not long before the table is covered with appetizers—eight plates in all—and everyone is digging in, the waitress making her rounds and taking everyone’s dinner order.

So far, so good.

That is, until…

Yup. Someone is definitely rubbing their foot clumsily up and down my leg, the rubber sole of a running shoe digging into my calf. As the foot grazes my shin, I look up, immediately fixating my gaze on Caleb, who has his head bent, eyes moving across the menu, elbows resting on the table in front of him.

Nope, not him.

My brow furrows, and I arch my back to get a quick look under the table. “Cubby, are you playing footsie with me?” I ask as quietly as I can across the table and bite my lip nervously. He doesn’t hear me, so I ask again. “Psst. Cubby.” I glance over at Caleb anxiously. “Are you playing footsie with me?” I half-mouth and half-pantomime this last part.

“No! I’m playing footsie with her,” he replies at the top of his lungs, pointing at Jenna with his meaty middle finger.

My roommate laughs. “No, doofus, you have the wrong foot.”

Cubby looks under the table. “Whoops. Sorry.”

He certainly doesn’t
look
sorry.

“I want to play footsie!” Blaze teases, putting his arm around Shelby and planting a kiss on her blonde temple.

Molly chimes in, “I remember once, when Cecelia came to dinner at my parent’s house, Matthew tried playing footsie under the table with her but ended up rubbing my leg instead.” She takes a sip of water. “He was so embarrassed. To this day he still won’t admit it was him.”

“If he wouldn’t admit it was him, who does he say that it was?” Shelby wants to know.

Molly shrugs. “He just pretends it never happened. But I’m telling you, his foot was
up
my pant leg. I thought I was going to gag when I realized he had his shoe off. Cecelia was horrified. Of course, that was when they hated each other.”

“Didn’t take long for
that
train to derail,” Weston says with a laugh as the waitress comes to take our food order. She lingers over Weston, pen poised above her notepad, smiling down at him with stars in her eyes as he continues. “Two months later they’re shacking up. Who would have thought that douche canoe would be domesticated?”

I remember Cece texting that night, both horrified and delighted that Matthew was finally starting to put the moves on her. And, although my best friend wouldn’t admit it—not to herself or anyone else—she had already fallen for Molly’s brother at that point.

“So, Abby, tell us more about yourself,” Mrs. Lockhart—Wendy—says after closing her menu, ordering, then handing the menu to the waitress. “How did you and Caleb meet?”

I clear my throat, readjust the napkin on my lap, and clear my throat again. The waitress catches my eye from across the table and her brows raise. Is she waiting for my answer to Mrs. Lockhart’s question, or for my dinner order? I’m not quite sure.

“How did we meet?” I ask, glancing over at Caleb. He’s blushing too, and he’s staring holes into his napkin.
Great
. No help there. “We met, uh… How we met.
Um
.”

Rob Lockhart tilts his head and studies me as I struggle to string together a perfectly normal sentence, like a normal human being, and my palms begin to sweat. Profusely.

I mean, I can’t very well tell him I met his son when I climbed out the window of the neighboring fraternity house. He’ll think I’m a… a… slut. Or a puck bunny, or whatever it is they call those girls who chase hockey players for the popularity.

“They met when she climbed out the second story window of the shithole next door.”

At this pronouncement, all eyes go wide and everyone gapes at Blaze as he innocently pops a loaded tortilla chip from the appetizer platter into his mouth, chewing and gazing up at the ceiling.

Jenna swallows her water too hard and begins coughing. “Was.” Cough. “Not.” Cough. “Expecting.” Cough. “That.”