You Can't Catch Me (14 page)

Oliver nods, and we turn to head out. His hand is right by mine as we walk, but he doesn’t reach for it, and there’s no way I’m reaching for his. My guts are not that strong.

Marcus whispers to Tiff behind us, “What’s wrong with my car, babe?” Oliver raises an eyebrow at me as they start to not-so-silently argue. I can’t help but laugh and smile and relax, and suddenly holding his hand doesn’t seem so scary anymore. I don’t do it, but that’s only because we’re already at his truck.

He opens my door. You know, like a date would.

I have to heave myself inside, barely aware of Marcus and Tiff climbing in behind me. Oliver makes sure I don’t have any body parts in danger of getting slammed before he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.

The first time I even think about the Sharpies is when I buckle up. But I’m enjoying myself too much to let them ruin the moment.

***

For owning a bad-A truck, Oliver drives like an old man. It makes me smile, but then again, I’m not sure if there is anything about him that has made me
not
smile. Tiff called this the honeymoon stage when we were getting dressed earlier, but I’m not real comfortable with that term. Can I just call it the Ga-Ga Goggles?

The mini-golf course is inside an arcade/bowling alley, and it’s not extremely crowded for a weekend. Something I’m grateful for because crowds aren’t fun for me, and I’m subjected to them every time my family gets together.

Oliver parks kinda far back, and I don’t blame him. The truck’s girth needs a lot of room, and the spots near the door look a little squishy.

I open my door so Tiff and Marcus can get out the back, but I don’t hop out yet. When I know they can’t hear, I lean across the cab and whisper to Oliver.

“New shirt?”

His hand has stopped on the door handle, his eyebrows pulling down in equal measures of confusion and amusement.

“Yeah actually.” His smile twitches. “Is it obvious or something?”

I suck in a breath, holding it while my heart beats a drum solo and my fingers reach to his ribs. He jerks a little, grin fading as he watches me inch closer to him.

Trying to be smooth about it, I hook a fingernail in the bottom corner of the size sticker, then tug it up. I manage to get it all off in one
swoosh
.

His eyes bug out, and his neck goes sunburnt red. He plucks it off my finger and crumples it in one hand. “And I thought I was doing so well,” he says through a low rumble of laughter.

I grin at him and lean back. “You still are.”

Tiff hops on Marcus piggyback-style as we get out of the truck, and Oliver and I lag behind them somewhat. His neck is still red, and I bite my lip, eyeing his free, swinging hand by my waist. If I uncross my arms, letting my hand fall, it might just graze the back of his.

“You ready to prove your skills?” he asks, winging the subject over to our next activity. Tiff and Marcus fumble through the front door, and Oliver hurries to hold it open for all of us.

“Oh yeah,” I tell him as I pass, trying to ignore the dance my tummy does when I catch his fresh, soapy scent again. “I’m the champion of scoring… goals…”

He lets out a laugh that could make angels jealous.

Tiff hops off Marcus’s back when we step up to the counter. I rest my elbows on the smooth surface, listening to the bowling pins topple over in the background. I wonder if we’ll have time to do that too.

“Four for the eighteen holes,” Oliver says. I swoon on my feet at the fact that he’s paying, and Tiff grins so wide and obvious at me that I nearly smack her to knock that off. Instead, something rams into my right Sharpie.
Hard.
So hard that a sound extremely similar to a dog in pain squeaks from my lips, and my eyes drift up to Oliver, who is staring at me with his mouth open, his hand halfway to his wallet, elbow inches from the point of contact.

“I…” A stifled grin starts spreading over his lips as his face sunburns again. “Oh my… Ginger, I’m sorry.”

It takes me a minute to realize that I’m full-on groping myself to alleviate the pain. Marcus is cracking up behind me, Tiff’s at least trying to contain herself, and I start chuckling, rubbing out the pain while Oliver—with lobster colored ears—pays the guy behind the counter.

Four balls are set up on the counter, and Marcus reaches for the red one before I can even see what other colors there are. Tiff takes the yellow, leaving the pink and the green.

Oliver looks to me. “Which one you want?”

“Green’s my favorite color,” I admit. He grins and takes the pink one, not a single complaint on his lips. He hands me one of the club thingies, and Tiff and Marcus follow behind since Oliver seems to know where he’s going. Funny, since I’ve lived here my whole life, and he just moved here.

I skip a step so I can walk next to him and not behind—not that I don’t enjoy that view—and Oliver swings his club up and lets it slide through his fingers till it nearly hits the floor.

“Oh no,” I say, eyeing his easiness with the club. “I’m about to get my butt handed to me, aren’t I?”

He lifts one shoulder, and I shake my head at the worn carpet beneath our feet. I’m so glad he’s had his dose of embarrassing already, because I’m about to match him in awkwardness.

We pass the arcade and the pool tables and head through a door. Then I almost run into a giant, plastic lighthouse.

“Who’s first?” Marcus asks, kicking his club out with his foot, nearly smacking Tiff in the crotch.

“You,” I say, stepping back to let Marcus through. I’m definitely not going first. I’m not even sure how to set the thing up.

Marcus drops his red ball in the center little tee thing on the floor, then settles the club next to it. He swings back, but not a lot. It’s not going to go very far with that measly swing. I nudge Tiff to make fun of him, but she just raises an eyebrow at me like I’m nuts.

He hits the ball, and okay… it goes farther than I thought it would. But it still doesn't get to the hole.

Tiff goes next, and she swings even less, and the yellow ball goes about a foot in front of her. Marcus and I both laugh as she growls at the ceiling.

Oliver gestures for me to go next. I’m confused because their balls are in my way, but I guess this is how you play. I crouch down, and it takes me three tries to get the ball to stay in that little tee thing. My shaky hands are to blame, and I try to ignore the heat stemming from my cheeks as I line up my shot.

I’m gonna whack this thing. My ball probably won’t go in the hole down there, which is what I’m assuming we’re aiming for, but if I hit it hard enough, maybe it’ll bounce off the back wall.

I pull the club back over my shoulder, just like I’ve seen all the golf people do on TV, and Oliver goes, “Whoa, whoa!”

He grabs onto the club, preventing me from my dedicated swing. The corner of his lip tilts upward, and he steps into me.

“Yeah, we’re not driving here. We’re putting.”

“Driving?” I ask. What does driving have to do with anything?

He laughs. I look to Tiff and Marcus, who are waiting on the far side of the hole, Tiff containing a squeal as Oliver reaches for my hands.

“Here, put your hands like this…” I’m so sweaty and nervous he has to pry them from the rubber on the club. Another laugh tumbles from his very perfect, very beautiful lips, and he shakes my hands to get them to cooperate. “Thumb here,” he says, placing it on the club. “Fingers wrapped like this.” Oh gosh, his palm is cupping the back of my hand. It’s like our hands are hugging. I flick my eyes up, and they meet his, and we have this total movie magic shared glance before he steps back. He hooks a finger around the metal of my club and slowly raises it a few inches off the ground. “Don’t swing back farther than this.”

“You got it,” I say, my voice a little more breathy than I want it to be. And he drops my club before I’m ready, and it taps the ball down the course. It rolls past Tiff’s, past Marcus’s, and settles a few inches from the hole. I turn around and gawk at Oliver. “Do it again.”

He grins at my request. “After my turn,” he promises. I step out of the way and stand next to Tiff. We watch Oliver line up, and she bumps her shoulder into mine.

“You guys are cute,” she says. Normally I’d make a face at her. But you know, I just can’t find it in me.

Oliver gets three holes in one—apparently that’s what it’s called when you only have to hit it once—and obviously whoops all our butts so hard I don’t think I can walk.

I ended with a score of +43, which is really bad. I still claim that high scores are the best, but then Oliver points out that the lower number in running is also the better score, and he wins yet again.

As promised, Oliver does feed me, taking me to the grocery store, and I educate him in gluten. When he finds out I can’t have licorice, he takes my hand in his and pats it, saying he’s dearly sorry for my loss. It’s so cute that I drop my sparkling water, and it cracks open and fizzes all over the floor. We check out pretty quickly after that.

Around nine o’clock, I can tell Marcus has just about had his fill of company for the day, and he starts getting rather handsy with Tiff in the seat behind me on our way back to The Rolling Scones. Tiff is giggling, and I shift, feeling mighty uncomfortable since Oliver and I are just starting to be “weirdoes” together. Oliver just shakes his head and keeps his laughter under control as they grope each other. As soon as he pulls in the lot, I swing open the door and let them out.

“Wait…” Tiff says when she sees that I’m still planted in the front seat. “You not coming home yet?”

I look at Oliver quick, and when he grins at me like he really wants me to stay, I turn back to Tiff and say, “I’ll just get a ride from Oliver.”

Marcus throws his arms around Tiff’s waist from behind and kisses her cheek. “Come on, babe. Let ‘em say goodnight to each other and crap.”

And crap. So eloquent, our family is.

“
Bye
,” I say, then shut the truck door. Tiff makes a phone call gesture before she’s picked up and swung toward Marcus’s car.

“What time’s your curfew?” Oliver asks. We’re still parked in front of Marcel’s place, and I gaze at the clock on the dash.

“In an hour.”

He turns the key, letting the diesel engine settle, and silence creeps into the cab.

“Feel like going for a walk?”

I nod, and we both unbuckle and hop down from the truck.

The weather is pretty nice for this late, but I still get a chill across my exposed shoulder when the wind picks up. The leaves at our feet start dancing across the sidewalk, and Oliver shrugs his hands into his pockets, blowing out a shaky breath.

“Did I blow this?” he blurts, and I blink up at him to see if he’s kidding. His brows are turned in, concern and anxiousness resting in his hazel eyes. “I know that’s a pretty forward question, but it’s been bugging me, and I wasn’t gonna ask in front of them.” He nods in the direction of where Tiff and Marcus were parked, but they’re long gone now.

I snort. “You far from blew it, Oliver.” Hmm… I like his name on my tongue. I may start finding excuses to say it more often.

“Really? Because I practically punched your boob.”

My head is thrown back as a fit of laughter explodes from my gut. He starts laughing with me, and all of a sudden he’s closing the gap between us as we walk. Good, because I need body heat.

“It was almost as embarrassing as leaving the tag on my shirt.” He smirks.

“But not as embarrassing as not knowing how to golf.” I point out.

“Nah, that was cute.”

My heart shoots to the stars. “So was the tag.”

He groans, running a hand down his face. We turn the corner and find our path heading to our spot in the cemetery. I’ve never been to see Cayenne this late. Cemeteries at night freak me out. So in a moment of pure courageousness, I tuck my arm into his as we pass under the large, iron gate. If anything, it’ll keep me warm, because the small touch alone sends flames all up and down my spine.

“Can I just say, thank
heavens
you do embarrassing things.” I kick a loose rock down the path. “You are my people.”

He grins, eyes flicking to my arm tucked with his. “You like that? I have no shortage of embarrassing stories.”

“Oh yes, do tell me more,” I say in a horrid English accent. His body shakes as he chuckles, giving me the good kind of chills to mask the not-so-fun ones that come with Montana in the fall.

“All right.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “One time, I asked a girl out, and she told me she was gay. I caught her making out with another guy a few days later, and when she saw that
I
saw, she said she just didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

“Ouch,” I hiss through my teeth. If he tells me where I can find her, she better watch out. She’s in danger of some serious stink-eyes.

“Yeah, and if that wasn’t enough, the whole exchange was recorded and put on someone’s YouTube channel they had just to post incriminating videos. Twenty thousand views.” He grins while I taste something very gross on the back of my tongue. “You’re looking at a fifteen-minutes-of-famer.”

My hold on his arm loosens, not because I want to let him go, but because I’m so disgusted that I can barely concentrate on what I’m doing.

“Is the video down?” I ask when I can find words.

“Yeah. Easy to report that stuff when the uploader doesn’t have permission to use your face. And I’m lucky they were too lazy to blur me out.”

Lucky? I scoff at the word, and he raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t ask about it.

“You owe me one now,” he says, turning to walk backward now that I don’t have a hold of him. The dark blue sunset light really makes the blue in his eyes pop. “Embarrassing Ginger moment?”

I could tell him right now about that Instagram account. He could totally help; he’s dealt with this same thing before. But then he’ll see a shot of my bra, and that seems more embarrassing than the picture itself. And because I’m struggling to find something else to share, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I know where you live.”

He stops dead in his tracks. “Huh?”

Oh no
. “I… um… on Friday… you left the school, and I wanted to, I don’t know, see you or something, and so when Coach… your mom… left the school, Tiff and I, well, we followed her home.”

He’s quiet. Oh crap, I’ve blown it. I can see the whole thing exploding between us, the rubble from my admission making me frantic, grasping at any words in my brain to explain myself out of it.

“I just wanted to, you know, see if you lived close. Try to find a route on my jogging path that might go past your house.” I shake my head. Seriously, only making this worse. “Stupid.”

He looks me up and down, and then a small smile cracks his lips. “And I was worried that
I
was the creeper.”

I feel a worry line crease my forehead. “Did I just blow this?”

He shakes his head. “You far from blew it.” His brows pull down. “I am a little concerned about your social life, though. Didn’t you have anything better to do on a Friday night?”

I wrinkle my nose at him. “Well, didn’t you? During my judgment brain fart, I saw you going out with your mom.”

“Uh huh.”

I love that he doesn’t think it’s unusual. But I’m still curious, and since I doubt the subject will be breached again, I go for it. “Is she… I mean, she seemed upset. Is she okay?”

He nods, his eyes drifting a little to his left at the headstones there. “She had last second cancelled dinner plans. Nothing major.” He looks over at me. “You really care? Or just trying to have small talk here?”

“I thought we got the small talk out of the way already.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he takes a deep breath. He looks at me with that look, like he’s not sure if he can trust me with the information he’s about to give. I don’t drop his gaze, letting him know that he can share or not, whatever he feels like doing. I mean, I do that with him.

“My mom’s date cancelled on her once he saw her profile picture.”

“
What
?” I go from nonchalant to fuming in .02 seconds. “What a jerk-monkey,” I say, using Tiff’s choice of words.

“I wish I could say it was the first time.”

I straighten my stance. “Point me in the direction of this butthole, and I shall punch
him
in the boob.”

Oliver chuckles, giving me a look that I have yet to see from a guy. It sinks down to my very core, creating giggling butterflies and warm waterfalls under my skin. He looks at me like I’m the only girl on the planet, and I’m the queen of this new world we’re in.

Oh. My. Gosh.
That’s
what Tiff was talking about.

“As much as I’d appreciate that, my mom is more of the peacemaker. It’d only make her feel worse.”

“Your mom
is
a peacemaker,” I tell him. “I bet she smiles during a rainstorm.”

He laughs. “You’re correct in that assumption. She loves the rain.”

“Friday would’ve been the perfect time to be around her,” I say, remembering the remnants of rain on the windshield as Tiff and I staked out Oliver’s house. “What’s wrong with people?” I shake my head at the ground, ignoring the fact that I can’t see my feet anymore without bending forward. How come it’s so much easier to see the awesome in other people, but when it comes to yourself, all you can see is what you hate?

I picture Coach pulling into her drive, the whole scene different now that it’s not masked by confusion. She’s doing her not-cry in the car, the McDonald’s bag sitting next to her. She’s probably cursing herself for giving in and buying it in the first place, but she’s also comforted by the scent of the fries and the lure of the large Coke in her cup holder. She’s telling herself over and over that he wasn’t worth it; if he can’t give her a chance because of how she looks, then screw him. But there’s also that doubt that creeps to the surface of her mind, telling her that if she was more in shape, she’d be treated differently.

And I don’t know this because that’s how I see her or how I assume that’s what it’s like to be a bigger person. I know it because I’m right there with her, thinking things about myself that when other people say out loud, it just validates every evil thing that’s run through my mind. Every time I look down, every time I run, every time I have to acknowledge the existence of the Sharpies, I hate myself a little bit more.

I can’t help but feel that everyone else hates me, too.

My eyes drift up to Oliver, and I see him going out to his mom’s car, taking the food into the house, and then coming back out…

“You took her to dinner, didn’t you?” I ask, and his eyes widen. “When I was in total stalker mode, I saw you. She came home, and you took her somewhere.”

“Wow,” he says with a teasing smile. “Do I need to call the cops? Or are you already on the force?”

Before I even know what I’m doing, I barrel into him. My torso slams up against his, closing even the most minute gaps between us. I can’t quite get my arms around him, so I run my hands up his back and hold onto his massive shoulders. I’m there for much longer than two Mississippis, tucking into his warmth, never knowing how much I needed to hug someone so
good
. He stands stiff and immobile, probably at a total loss at why I’ve clung onto him.
I’m
a little confused at my sudden desire to show affection. I just wanted to show him that I know he’s truly a good person, that I appreciate it, and that maybe… I really, really like him.

But since he’s not really responding, I start to jerk back, an apology on my lips in case I’ve overstepped. I don’t get three inches before he’s pulling me back in, his arms wrapping around my waist. I push up on my tiptoes to circle my arms around his neck.

And I explode into a billion tiny cut-out hearts.

“Sorry,” he says next to my very warm cheek. “I’m not ready to let go just yet.”

I have to bite my smile away before it reaches the sky.

“That is fine by me.”