Fireworks: A Holiday Bad Boy Romance (61 page)

“You’re really pretty
when you’re annoyed,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Surprisingly, yes, I have
been told before that I’m particularly attractive when I’m annoyed—though I
think the exact term used may have been irritated or peeved. I really don’t
remember which.

“No,” I answer, “and
you’re an idiot.”

“We still have like five
minutes of class left,” he says. “You don’t want to spitball a few ideas while
we’ve got the time to do it?”

“I’d really rather spend
what’s left of this class period facing forward and quietly reflecting on how
nice it is to not have to talk to you and how I’m going to endure the coming
months where such quiet moments are going to be in such short supply,” I
answer. “So, let me give you my phone number. Send me a text after three and
we’ll meet up.”

“What happens before
three?” he asks.

“Before three, you’ll be
waiting until three so you can send me a text,” I answer. “Now, I’m turning
around. Quiet moment…”

I turn my body and then
my desk/chair combo back toward the front, and I lean back in my chair. Now,
I’m scratching my desk and looking down at my desk, thinking about how awkward
it is trying to give the cold shoulder to someone who’s sitting right behind
me.

It’s more
anxiety-provoking than I would have thought. I hadn’t considered the sensation
that he’s watching me right now because he’s sitting where he is, that he can’t
help but be watching me right now.

I lean over and open up
my backpack, leaning over the side of my chair and giving a quick look. Ian’s
not looking at me. He’s giving the middle finger to someone on the other side
of the room and I have no idea if he’s being playful or if a fight is about to
break out.

It might be kind of
exciting if I weren’t sitting so close to the guy.

On the bright side,
though, at least I know he’s not staring at me. Not that he would, anyway.

*
                   
*
                   
*

The text came through a
few minutes ago. Ian wants me to meet him at this café near where he lives.

Frankly, I’m just
surprised I heard from him at all. I was kind of hoping I could at least get
the major footwork of this project done before Ian decided it was time to
actually get interested.

I get dressed and tell my
dad I’ll be back in a little while.

I’m still his little girl
and it’s really starting to bother me. I get that on some level, I’m always
going to be his baby girl or whatever, but I
am
twenty years old. The least he could do is update his
vernacular.

“You going out to play
with your friends, sweetheart?” he asks.

“I have a project for one
of my courses, and I’m meeting with my partner to go over the details,” I
answer. “It’s for psychology.”

“You’ve been taking a lot
of those,” he says. “I thought you were done with psychology.”

“Nope,” I tell him.

“Huh,” he says. “When did
you decide to go back to it?”

“I never decided to go
away from it,” I tell him. “The only reason I haven’t had any psychology
classes the last few months is because that was summer break and I don’t have
school then.”

“You don’t have to get
snippy about it,” he says, and I cringe. His eyes are wide and moving quickly
from side to side. “I guess I just haven’t been as available as I should be.”

It might be a less
frightening sentiment if it didn’t look like he’s on the verge of a panic
attack at the thought of missing some detail of my life, but it does, so it is.

“We’ve just been talking
about other things,” I tell him. “After classes, I don’t really want to talk
about school that much, you know that.”

“Yeah,” he says, seeming
to relax a little. My dad is how I know I’m not uptight. If I were even a
little uptight, there would be some aspect of his behavior that I could
understand on some instinctual level, but it’s taken every psychology class
I’ve ever taken and a lot of my own research to know that my father suffers
from an inability to let go of his image of me as a small child that needs to
be protected from anything and everything in the world. Most of the time, he
just comes off as weird. It’s about that long before he finishes his thought.
“I know that.”

“I’ve got to go,” I tell
him. “I don’t want to be late. I think my partner’s the type that’s not going
to sit around waiting too long to do homework.”

“All right,” dad says.
“Just drive safe, and I want you to watch out for kids on the road. They can
just pop right out in front of you with no warning. They’re like cats.”

“Cats?” I ask.

“Or spider monkeys,” he
says. “I don’t know. Whatever they’re like, they’re unpredictable. I just
assume, every time that I’m driving toward a part of the block where a child is
playing in the driveway or on the lawn that that kid is going to jump out in
front of my car. It’s good to go slow, even if it looks like they’re going
inside with their—”

“Dad,” I interrupt and
put my hands on his shoulders. “One day, I’m going to be graduated, and I’m
going to be able to legally diagnose whatever it is that makes you think I’m
still new to the world. Until then, is there any way you could tone down the
hovering, nervous guy thing?”

“Go,” he says. “Have
fun.”

“Thanks dad,” I tell him
and start for the door.

“Be safe,” he says.

I turn, smile and say, “I
will.”

I turn back toward the
door and get another couple of steps in before he says, “Call if you’re going
to be late.”

“Dad, it’s not going to
make much sense to call if you don’t let me leave,” I tell him.

“You’re right,” he says.
“I’m chilling out. Be well.”

Be well?

I’m not looking the gift
horse in the mouth. I just get to the door, turn the knob and get to the other
side of it as quickly as possible.

The first few weeks of
classes are always the most difficult, but it seems to be particularly bad this
time. Dad’s starting to realize that I’m not going to be living at home
together, that one day sooner than later, I’m going to be out of this house and
out of his life.

That’s the way he puts it
when he really wants to guilt me about it: “Out of his life.” After mom ran
off, he’s been particularly fond of the phrase.

Still, you’d think after
nine years, the guy would have gotten things together. He’s still a reasonably
young man, after all, but I’m not jumping back on the grenade of trying to get
him to date again.

Last time I got that
particular bug up my butt, I set him up with one of the women I used to babysit
for in the neighborhood. Apparently, he spent the whole date talking about how
mom left and how someday I would leave him, too. From what I understand, the
date was pretty much over when he started talking about how even if the two of
them were to fall in love, she would only end up leaving him.

Mrs. Aragon is a nice
woman: she almost became a nun when she was younger until she decided she could
better serve the world by dedicating her life to motherhood. Even with that
gentleness of character, she still couldn’t take more than twenty minutes of
listening to the sad tale that is my father.

At one point, and they
both told me this with the same mixed look of irritation and regret, she told
him to “quit whining or else even the birds won’t want to listen anymore.”

In almost-nun terms,
that’s like someone like Ian telling my dad to go screw himself.

Now, though, I’m out of
the house and for a few minutes, I’m successful in pretending like things are
going to be any less strained when I get where I’m going.

The café is mostly empty.
That should be a positive thing if I end up yelling at Ian at some point. It’ll
also make him easier to spot, because he certainly isn’t here yet.

I take a seat at a table
in the corner with a good view of the whole café, so he’s sure to see me and
I’m sure to see him. The way I see it, the sooner we spot each other, the
sooner we can get to work. The sooner we get to work, the sooner we can be done
and the sooner we’re done, the sooner I can go over to Abby’s place and tell my
dad that the project is running long.

I don’t have curfews in
the normal sense of the word. That’s one thing I was able to talk my dad out of
after I turned eighteen and agreed to live at home while I’m going to
college—something I’ve been trying to get out of ever since that first day when
I came home and he greeted me at the door with tears in his eyes and snot
coming out of his nose.

Ugh.

Still, though, if I’m
ever in after ten o’clock, he gives me the dad talk. He never specifically
reprimands me, but he makes sure that I know how worried he was waiting for me
to come home and how he’d expected me so much earlier.

I’m still waiting for the
day that he loses it entirely and he tells me that I had him worried that I
wouldn’t come back at all, but he’s somehow managed to avoid going down that
particular winding path.

The door to the café
opens, but it’s not Ian. It’s some older couple who are smiling and nudging
each other as they point out the wonderful kitschiness of what I could swear I
hear one of them refer to as a, “European-style café.”

This is utterly surreal,
but I’m unable to enjoy it because I’m stressed about my dad and Ian’s still
not here.

It’s a wonderful life.

Sometimes, I just want to
track mom down, even if it’s only on the telephone and really let her know what
I’ve had to put up with since she’s left, but then I start feeling guilty about
being so cold. It’s just one fractured onus on top of another and nobody wins.

I order up some food and
he’s still not here. The food arrives and I’m still sitting at my table alone.
By the time I’m finished eating, my phone is in my hand.

“Hey, what’s up, loser?”
Ian answers.

“Are you forgetting
something?” I ask. “I’ve been sitting in this café for like—”

“Yeah, I wanted to see
how long I could get you to talk before you realized you’re talking to a
voicemail, but I’m running out of time here, so, surprise. Leave a message,”
the message ends and there’s a beep.

“That is the stupidest
message I’ve ever heard,” I tell him. “I’m sitting here at Antony’s on Sixth,
Ian, and you’re still not here. I’ve been waiting for an hour now, and I’m
really starting to get irritated that you’re not here. If you need to reschedule,
call me, text me, let me know, but if you’re just going to—”

The line beeps again. For
a moment, I’m all excited as if it’s actually going to be Ian calling me, but
it’s just the sound of the allotted message time running out.

I call Abs.

“How’s your date with
skater boy?” Abs answers.

“It’s not a date and he
never showed up,” I tell her. “What are you up to? I don’t think he’s coming,
and it looks like I have a couple extra hours.”

“I’m going to a party,”
Abs says. “The Betas are throwing it and you’re coming with me.”

“I’m not really the
sorority party kind of girl,” I tell her.

“It’s a frat,” Abs says.
“Betas are a frat.”

“Whatever,” I tell her.
“I’m not really into frat parties, either.”

“Come on,” she says. “I
let you share your culture with me by going to that skating competition with
you, now let me share my culture with you by coming to this party with me.”

“Fine,” I tell her, “but
if I find a way to get to Midwest Championships, you’re going with me.”

“I don’t know what that
means, so I’m going to say okay now and try to get out of it later,” she says.
“Are you coming or what?”

“Well, at least I can
appreciate your honesty,” I tell her. “Where are you?”

Abs gives me the
directions, but I wait a few more minutes before I give up all hope of Ian
showing up to get some work done.

I try not to notice when
the older couple that came in shortly after me exchanges money. I try not to
focus on how pathetic I must be that an old woman would actually put money on
my being stood up.

I try a lot of things,
but none of them seem to be working at the moment, so I just get in my car and
leave.

Abs sucks with
directions, but I eventually come close enough to the site of the party that I
can hear the stereo that’s going to have the cops on the doorstep before too
long.

This so isn’t my scene.

I have to park down the
block a ways, but that gives me a chance to call up Abs and have her meet me
out front.

“You made it,” she says.

“I told you I was
coming,” I tell her. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” she says, “is
to get plowed and then get plowed.”

“I’m assuming one of
those is drinking, and I’m also assuming that you decided to go ahead and get
started on that,” I answer with a nervous laugh.