Just Flirt (12 page)

“That’s bull, you’re plenty good enough, Dee,” Jake says, opening his candy bar and breaking off a piece for me. “Great, even, and you know what? We should go out there, dance up a storm, and show Blaine exactly how great you are.”

“Yeah, right. You don’t dance.”

“What? There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Dee.”

Apparently there are. And the biggest one is that he thinks I’m great.

8
Dee

Never in a million years did I ever think that Jake Bollinger could dance. Fix a leaky faucet? Sure thing. Pop a tent for a novice camper? Piece of cake. Change a tire? One minute, tops. But move so good that I forget why we were out there to begin with—to make Blaine jealous? I didn’t see that coming.

It had started innocently enough: us, walking to the pavilion with my arm linked debutante-style onto his. The next karaoke crusader had just taken the mike, a skinny pale man named Leroy who has a balding head and a love for plaid Bermuda shorts. I feared Leroy would sing some whiny country song, but to my surprise, he started to belt out “Burning Love” with a rich, powerful baritone that would have made Elvis proud.

You go, Leroy.

I pretended to protest with a teasing pout when Jake tried to pull me onto the dance floor. But then I kicked off my flip-flops and joined him, giggling as he spun me in a circle, which, okay, might have been overdoing it, but remember—I was on a mission.

That mission, however, was soon forgotten. Jake played it cool and reserved at first, but after some coaxing from me, he started to move.

Oh my gosh. Jake Bollinger can dance.

Jake Bollinger can
dance
!

And now, I can hardly focus on my own steps. Good Lord, he’s like the guys on those dance shows that Mom and I love to watch. Even Leroy misses a verse when Jake suddenly jumps in the air, landing on his hands and then rolling down on his chest and stomach.

Oh my gosh!

I don’t know whether or not Blaine notices us, and quite frankly, I don’t care. But as the song ends and Jake draws me close, tipping me back into a deep, sultry dip, my gaze falls on Blaine. A dark fury shadows his face as he gulps down the last of his soda and tosses his empty bottle at a nearby trash can, missing it by a few feet. But his reaction is nothing compared to Sabrina’s. Her fists are clenched, as though she’s ready to kill both Blaine
and
me.

And she’s not the only one.

Glaring at me from the lodge porch is Roxanne.

*   *   *

“Where did you learn to dance?” I ask Jake a few moments later, as we sit near the common area where some sweaty kids are arguing over who won their kickball game.

He yells at one of the Cutsons—Lyle, I think—for throwing grass and then says, “The VFW. When I was younger, my mom used to take me to country line dance lessons so she wouldn’t be alone when Dad had to work nights.” Jake strikes a debonair pose. “Why do you ask, did I impress you?”

“Well, maybe just a little.”

He lightly punches me. “Oh, come on, Dee, admit it. You were wrong when you said I don’t dance, weren’t you?”

“Okay, fine. You were right. You’re an excellent dancer,” I admit.

Jake puts a hand behind his ear. “Pardon? Did you say
I
was right?”

I punch him back. “Yeah, and you’ll
never
hear me say that again.”

At the pavilion, the older campers clap with nostalgic appreciation when Natalie starts to sing a Patsy Cline song. Man, she’s got such a beautiful voice. Even the cute guy who’s delivering pizza to Mona stops counting out change long enough to check her out, but Natalie only blushes and turns away.
Nat, Nat, Nat, what am I going to do with you?

And she calls me wussy.

I’m trying to think of a few ways to get my girl to stop being so flirt phobic when Jake leans back on his elbows and stretches out his long, muscular legs.

“What?” Jake asks when he notices me gazing at his thighs.

Oh, shoot. I jerk my head back up. “Nothing. I was just wondering. How’s your go-kart thingy, are you all set for tomorrow’s race?”

Saying the word “thingy” reminds me of how Jake invited Roxanne to his garage, but his dance moves have redeemed him. Jake laughs and throws a handful of grass at me. “First of all, please do not refer to my kart in such a girlie manner. And no, I’m not ready, so I’m going to bail instead. Maybe hang out here or something. You got any plans?”

“Hey, didn’t you just yell at Lyle for throwing grass?” I’m just about to retaliate with a handful of my own when I realize something. “Oh, man, Jake, you’re not ready because of all the yardwork you did for us today. I’m sorry, I never should have—”

Jake shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. My tires are shot and I need another paycheck before I can buy a new set, so it’d be a waste of race fees if I went. Last weekend, I almost lost my heat because of poor traction at the corners.” He brushes off the sympathetic look I give him and says, “It happens. Racing is not a poor man’s sport.”

I lean back beside him and nudge his elbow. “Hey, you won your heat, right? And didn’t you tell me that you placed second in the race against Danny, who can afford the best with his daddy’s deep pockets? That means you’re
twice
the driver he is, and I’m not just saying that because Danny’s an even bigger jerk than Rex.”

Jake shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. But Danny isn’t all that bad. You’ve just got to get to know him.”

Uh, hello? I know Danny. He’s dating Torrance Jones, a bona fide mean girl straight out of the movies, and he’s the third member of the trio with Blaine and Prescott. But instead of bringing this up, I only say, “Well, you’re still a better driver than him.”

We lock eyes.

My heart jumps.

My heart jumps? What’s wrong with me?
This is Jake for heaven’s sake, who, okay, is being a total sweetie tonight. And sometimes we do have nice conversations without any bickering. Like when we sat on the fishing pier one night talking about his parents’ layoffs and how it made him even more determined to get a drafting and design degree from ITT Tech so he can one day take care of them. But Jake is also the guy who makes me feel like a total moron sometimes.

And I have zero interest in any kind of relationship.

No thanks, I’ve already been down that road with Blaine. That long, miserable, painful road where in the beginning everything is sunshine and butterflies, but by the final turn, I’m a paranoid wreck and the author of
Dear Blaine, please say we’re not breaking up. Why, Blaine? What did I do wrong, or is it what I haven’t done? I told you I wasn’t ready, but I’ll do anything to get you back. Anything.

Never again will I be that stupid.

It’s safer to just flirt.

And NOT with campground employees.

So when I see Mom hustling back and forth from the woodpile with sweat beading at her temples, I use it as an excuse to bolt, reaching her just as she drops the firewood into the pit. She pushes back her bangs, leaving black smudges by her hairline.

“Mom, let me help you.”

She dusts off her hands and then leans over to wipe her face with the bottom of her faded Rolling Stones T-shirt. “No, I’m fine, sweetie, there’s no sense in both of us getting dirty.”

Uh-oh. Something’s wrong, I can tell.

“No, you’re not fine. What’s wrong, did Madeline say something?”

Mom slumps down on one of the four log benches circling the pit and kicks at a stone with her hiking boot. “Oh, let’s see. According to her, I’m a horrible businesswoman for hiring Mona—which, okay, was a huge mistake. And then she grilled me about your dancing with Jake, so I told her he was your boyfriend to get her off my case.”

“What? Why did you do that, Mom?”

“Because I’m stressed out, so forgive a few white lies, okay?” she says, biting down on a fingernail and then cringing when she remembers how dirty they are.

I don’t see what business it is of Madeline’s who I dance with, nor do I believe her lame excuse about wanting to visit us to get away from the Florida heat. I mean, come on, after all the years she’s lived there, she can’t take the heat when it isn’t even July yet? But now is not the time to argue. Now is the time to make Mom smile. “Hey, I have a great idea. How about you start the fire, I’ll take care of the snacks, and we’ll tell the kids scary ghost stories, okay? One of them will be about an evil ex-mother-in-law who angered the wrong campers and was burnt to a crisp in a bonfire.”

“Dee Barton! That’s so inappropriate, young lady.”

But I do see traces of a grin.

Inside the store, I fill the large percolator-style coffee urn with water and then put boxes of hot chocolate, graham crackers, Hershey bars, and marshmallows onto a rolling cart. As I pull the paper cups from the storage closet, the back door opens.

“It’s going to be a while before the water’s hot, Mom,” I say, slapping a pack of hot chocolate against my thigh and tearing it open. “And hey, have you ever wondered what the difference is between hot chocolate and hot cocoa?”

Instead of Mom’s voice, a deep male one answers. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

Blaine. He walks toward me past the display of beaded necklaces.

I drop the drink envelope, dusting my feet with a light brown powder. Blaine picks up the wrapper and tosses it into the trash. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” I straighten the cracker boxes even though they were already perfectly aligned. “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting.” Blaine leans against the countertop, propping his elbow on the polished wood before motioning to my cart. “Still doing the Saturday night special: double servings of hot chocolate and s’mores for two dollars?”

“Three,” I snap. “Things have changed.”

I’ve
changed. I am no longer interested in casual visits with Blaine, so I push the cart toward the door and say, “Now, if you will excuse me—”

“What’s your deal with Jake Bollinger?” he asks abruptly.

I almost crash the cart. How dare he ask me about Jake? How dare he ask
anything
, after what I went through? Our breakup. Sabrina passing out my letter like it was free candy. Guys mocking me. Girls from the softball team who I thought were my friends saying stuff like “Seriously, who would be stupid enough to put that in
writing
?” I should leave. Right now. But a part of me wants so badly to take advantage of this moment.

I deserve it.

And getting a little revenge on Sabrina would be a bonus. So I do what I do best.

Flirt.

I coyly let my hair fall forward, exposing a bare neck that Blaine used to love to kiss. My posture changes from employee to enchantress as I lean against the counter and say, “Why are you asking about Jake, hmm?”

Blaine studies the small mole on my collarbone. “No reason. Are you, like, dating him or something?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I reach out to smooth an imaginary wrinkle on his designer shirt, letting my fingernails graze his chest. With my voice dropped to a near whisper, I say, “You’re not jealous, are you?” while looking at him dead in the eyes.

One … two … three.

I expect Blaine to deny it. I expect him to say something snide about Jake being a grease monkey before he goes on his merry way back to Sabrina-ville. But instead, he leans closer. “Yeah, maybe I am. I—I miss you, Dee.”

Gotcha?

Oh my gosh. I swallow hard, trying to digest this knowledge as he reaches for my hand. “I mean it, Dee-Dee. I miss you.”

For one brief moment, I feel that familiar pull, that weakness in my knees that came whenever he was close. But this is Blaine—conceited, egotistical Blaine, the one who could weave a tapestry with his words. I pull away and turn. “Well, I don’t miss you.”

“Dee, wait. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Blaine holds my hand again, this time more gingerly, sending chills up my spine. “It’s just that seeing you tonight—I’ve never seen you so confident, so …
different.
”

How many times after our breakup have I prayed for this? And here he is, standing in front of me, and the more his brown eyes drive into mine, the more I remember how it felt to have strong arms wrapped around me and the security it brought. I want that security, that feeling of safety, the same one I used to get from my father. I miss it so much.

So damn much.

Blaine misreads my hesitation and steps forward. “Man, you’re so hot tonight.”

Hot? Did he say hot?

I’m such a fool. Such a stupid fool. Blaine doesn’t miss me. He never did. I just look good to him right now, like an old sweater thrown in the back of a closet might look if it gets cold enough. Only now, my old sweater days are long gone.

“Leave me alone, Blaine. Go back to Sabrina. You two deserve each other.”

I back away from the cart and run outside, trying to catch my breath. I don’t want to be there when he comes out, so I bolt past Roxanne, of all people, who is sitting on the porch swing, and take the steps two at a time to the recreation room. The second floor is thankfully empty, so no one can see me slump against the wall, my heart pounding.

One minute later, the door creaks open.

“Why are you following me?”

Blaine shuts the door behind him. “Hey, forgive me but I thought we made a connection downstairs, Dee. I thought maybe we could talk.”

“No, I told you to leave me alone, remember? But okay, you want to talk? Fine. Then tell me how Sabrina got my letter.”

My question knocks him off guard. “W-what?”

I step closer. “Don’t play stupid, Blaine. I wrote you that letter because I was hurt and confused and you never even bothered to respond to it. Instead, you got yourself a new girlfriend who made it her duty to show it to everyone else.”

Stupid tears start to brim in my eyes. I blink them away, refusing to cry. Blaine studies his feet as though they can help him come up with a good answer before saying, “Dee, I never showed it to Sabrina. She found it when she went through my things, and after it got out, I was sick to my stomach.”