Me You Us (10 page)

“Oh. Right. Yeah . . .”

“Supposedly they have great margaritas,” I say. I glance at Ms. Solomon. She arches her eyebrows ever so slightly. I have no idea what that means.

“And also awesome fresh guacamole,” I add.

“I love fresh guacamole!” Ms. Solomon exclaims.

I don't know much about women in their twenties, but from what I've seen on TV they usually like margaritas and/or guacamole.

There's another lull in the conversation. I feel like I am boring holes in Mr. Kimbrough's head as I try to convey to him what to say next. Unfortunately, we don't have best friend telepathy like me and Jak.

Mr. K. gasps slightly—the lightbulb goes on; I think he's got it! He turns to Deb.

“If you like guacamole, maybe the two of
us
could go to ­Laredo Grill together and eat some. You know, at night. My treat.”

Ms. Solomon looks at me and then back at Mr. ­Kimbrough. “Like a date?”

Mr. Kimbrough glances at me. I try to imperceptibly but still perceptibly nod my head
yes
.

“Sure,” Mr. Kimbrough says, thankfully taking my cue. “Like a date.”

Ms. Solomon smiles. “That would be great. I'd love to.”

Booyah!

Now Mr. Kimbrough is just standing there with a permagrin on his face. Ms. Solomon checks her watch.

“Oh no!” she says. “I totally lost track of time. I'm late for class. I'll talk to you later, Bob.” She smiles at him. “Nice to meet you, Shane.”

“You too.”

She hurries off. When she closes the door of the teachers' lounge behind her, Mr. Kimbrough has still not stopped smiling.

“It's okay, Bob. She's gone. You did good.”

Mr. Kimbrough suddenly embraces me in a great big bear hug. I'm about an inch off the floor. I go stiff as a board. He finally puts me down. The other teachers are oblivious.

“Shane, thank you! You are the best wingman ever.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Does this mean you'll keep helping me?”

I take a deep breath.

“Yeah, I'll help. As long as you—”

Before I can finish, he embraces me again.

This time I roll with it.

WHEN WE FIRST GOT
to the theater, and the movie we wanted to see was sold out, I thought this date with ­Tristen was gonna be a bust. Then she suggested we go back to her house and watch TV, and I tried to play it cool but also couldn't drive fast enough. Her parents are out for the night, and her younger sister is at a friend's house. The only problem is, Tristen hasn't given me any indication as to when any of them will be home, so there's both excitement and terror in the air.

There are clothes and books and shoes and makeup scattered all over the floor in Tristen's bedroom. You can barely see any carpet. She has a MacBook in a pink case with a Greenpeace sticker on it. We sit on the edge of her bed both because it's in front of the TV and also because
there is literally no place else to sit. Tristen sits to my left and loads the On Demand menu to look for something for us to watch.

“What are you in the mood for?” I ask.

“Something funny,” she says. “Maybe something with Will Ferrell.
Or
, there's this documentary about fracking I've been dying to see.”

These are confusing times. Tristen and I have really hit it off. She's sweet and kooky and opinionated. It's been a while since I allowed myself to
like
like anyone. This could be the real deal. But even though Jak and I have never explicitly discussed it, it does still kind of bother me that Jak doesn't like Tristen. Again, that's not based on any empirical data, just more of a hunch. I know I shouldn't care, but she's my best friend and I can't help it.

Tristen scrolls through the movies on-screen. She's wearing ripped, super-faded jeans. Considering her usual wardrobe, the top she has on is fairly conservative, meaning it's sleeveless and pretty sheer.

If I were advising one of my clients in this situation, I would tell him to be patient. When a girl wants you to make a move, she'll give you the signal.

“So,” Tristen says, “when was the last time you were in a relationship?”

I'm caught off guard.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she says. “Like when was the last time you had a girlfriend?”

Wow, Tristen does not mince words. I respect that.

“It's been a while,” I admit. “A few years.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I've ‘seen' girls here and there. But nothing serious.”

“Why not?”

Yeah, Shane, why not?

“I don't know,” I say. “I guess I haven't found the right person.”

“So you're picky?”

“I wouldn't say that. Maybe I just know what I like?”

I say it like a question because I have no idea if it's true or not.

“Have you ever had your heart broken?”

“Boy, I'm really getting interrogated tonight.”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “You don't have to answer that.”

I think she's definitely flirting with me and will eventually want me to make a move. Yet we've never even hooked up and it seems like she's already sizing up my boyfriend potential. I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth . . . but I also don't want to put the cart before the horse. Basically any proverbs with horses are trouble.

I decide to answer her honestly. “Yes. I have had my heart broken. Once. It was really bad.”

“What happened?”

“I don't really know . . .”

This is partially true. In some respects, I know exactly why Voldemort broke up with me. I lacked the maturity and confidence that girls expect, and I ran afoul of most of the flirting, grooming, and dating faux pas I now counsel my clients to avoid. But even though I'm aware of these things in my brain, in my heart I still want answers. One day Voldemort wanted me, and the next day she didn't. What changed?

“Are you okay?” Tristen asks.

“Huh?”

“You just trailed off and got really quiet.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“It's okay. But I gotta say—the girl who broke your heart, whoever she is, didn't deserve you.”

Tristen is not shy. And she's into me!

“Thanks,” I say. “I've been having a really good time hanging out with you.”

“Me too. I guess we have Anthony and Brooke to thank for that.”

“You mean Hedgehog and Balloon?”

She laughs. “Exactly.”

“By the way, why is Brooke's nickname Balloon? ­Hedgehog I get.”

“Actually, I have no idea,” she says. “Maybe it's better as a mystery.”

Yeah,
I say to myself,
unlike when your parents are coming home.

Tristen reaches the end of the list of On Demand movies.

“Well, that's all of them,” she says. “Nothing I really want to watch.”

“Me neither.”

She smiles and looks me in the eyes, then looks at my lips for a split second, then back to my eyes.
That's the signal!

I put my left hand on her back, between her shoulder blades. Testing the waters. She doesn't flinch. I can feel her bra clasp beneath her shirt.

I lean to my left and move my face toward hers.

She closes her eyes . . . and we kiss!

Her lips are soft and interlock naturally with mine. I reach over and caress her face—her skin is really smooth, and I can feel her two little moles. She darts her tongue tentatively into my mouth and I respond in kind. The sloppiness factor is low; we have good kissing chemistry right off the bat.

The world around us starts to get blurry. The specter of her family coming home, the books and clothing getting trampled beneath our feet, the stress and doubt I feel every day . . . gone.

I trace a line with my hand down her cheek and to her neck. She presses her tongue deeper into my mouth and tenderly bites my lower lip. This has already been the best date ever, and the night could end right now and I would be
thrilled, but I'm feeling bold, so I move my hand from her neck to her chest.

She moans softly and wraps her arms around me.

We continue kissing.

Cherry ChapStick never tasted so good.

I WANDER INTO PERKIN'S BEANERY,
where Tristen and I had our first date, and am immediately surprised to see Adam sitting at a table by himself. He's cleaning his glasses when I walk up to him.

“Yo, man.”

“Hey, Shane.” He looks at me, puzzled, and shakes my hand.

I notice he doesn't have any coffee. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I'm actually meeting Jak,” he says.

“You're kidding.”

“No. I texted her to see if she wanted to get together. I offered to pick her up, but she said just to meet her here
at four.”

“Well that's weird,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because Jak asked me to meet her here too.”

“Huh? She double-booked us by accident?”

Wait. It's all starting to come together.

“Ah. No. I don't think it was an accident,” I say. “She told me to meet at 4:15. I'm just really early. I think she wanted me to show up and check in with her depending on how your date was going.”

This is exactly what Marisol and Rebecca did to Reed.

“So, like, as an excuse in case she wanted to bail?” Adam says.

“Nah. More like just a friendly face in case she panics. I wouldn't worry too much. You'll be fine.”

“Ah. Okay. Thanks. So . . . I guess you might as well sit down, then.”

“Yeah, sure. I can't wait to see the look on Jak's face.”

I take the seat across from Adam. He's arranging and rearranging the napkin dispenser and container of stirrers on the table. Clearly nervous.

I look around to make sure that Jak hasn't arrived yet. “So I have to ask,” I say. “Why didn't you tell me that Jak was the girl you had a crush on?”

Adam grimaces. “I'm sorry. I feel really bad about that. Are you pissed?”

“No, I'm not pissed at all.” At least I don't think I am.

“It's just that,” he continues, “you made that whole speech about how I should just do it on my own and I didn't need you anymore.”

“Totally. I get it. But Jak
is
my best friend. I might have been able to help.”

“I know. But I was afraid that if I started talking about it, I would lose my nerve. You know how I am. I think too much and freak out.”

“Oh, I know.”

“I feel bad. Are you sure you're not mad?”

“I'm sure. I'm just surprised it's Jak.”

“You told me I needed to move on. And I've always kind of had a thing for her.”

“Okay. Well, listen, just treat her right.”

“Absolutely. Of course. Thanks for being so cool about it.”

Adam wipes a nonexistent smudge from the face of his watch and rearranges the napkin dispenser once more.

Maybe I am a little peeved that Adam didn't tell me about Jak. I mean, in a way I'm proud that he was able to approach her like that in school without my help. But a little heads-up would have been nice. Then again, now that Tristen and I are an item—not boyfriend and girlfriend, but definitely an item—maybe I should start taking my nose out of other ­people's business and focus on my own.

“She's coming!” Adam says in a loud whisper.

We observe Jak entering the coffee shop, absentmindedly
playing with her Fitbit. Her hair is out of control. I feel like it's close to brushing against the door frame as she passes. She's wearing a thrift store Led Zeppelin T-shirt. I guarantee you she has no idea what Led Zeppelin is.

She notices me and Adam sitting together and does a similar double take to the one she did when she ran into me and Tristen at the mall:
what?
followed by
uh oh
followed by
the hell with it.

Adam starts to fidget even more as Jak approaches.

“Don't worry,” I say. “I won't stay long.”

We both stand up.

“Shane,” Jak says, trying to act surprised. “What are you doing here?” She is a terrible liar.

“Really?” I say. “That's the route you decided to take? Pretending not to know I was coming?”

“I don't know. I was making it up as I went along. You're early.”

I shrug. We high-five.

She turns to Adam. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says.

“So, yeah,” Jak says, “I kinda invited Shane, too, but I thought he was gonna come later, and, I don't know. I'm not good at this stuff.”

“Don't worry about it at all,” Adam says. “We just had a chance to catch up.”

“Yeah, I'm gonna take off in a minute,”
I say. Just long enough to make sure Jak is okay. And I figure it doesn't hurt to see if they have any chemistry.

“Can I get you something?” Adam asks Jak.

“Thanks. Yeah. I just need to think about what I want for a second.”

Adam pulls out a chair for Jak and the three of us sit down.

It's quiet and a little awkward. I lob anything out there to break the silence.

“Jak, are our moms still fighting?”

I keep Adam in the loop: “Our moms are best friends. My mom forgot her mom's birthday. It's a whole thing.”

“I think they made up,” Jak says.

“Good,” I say.

“Are you close with your mom?” Adam asks Jak.

“Pretty close. She's a little crazy.”

I eye Jak.

“I know,” she says instantly. “I'm a little crazy too.”

“Hey, I didn't say a word,” I add.

Adam emits one of those fake giggles you do when you're feeling left out of the conversation. I don't really want to go, but I realize I'm stepping all over his game. When Jak and I are together, we tend to drown everybody else out.