Chapter 3 Red - Just some pals hanging out
Shopping isn’t so bad. I’m rather fond of it. I do it all the time. I love perusing and buying all kinds of things. One might even call shopping a hobby of mine. A pastime if you will. Some possibly would tell you I’m highly skilled in the art of shopping.
So there’s absolutely no reason for me to be on the verge of physically combusting while sitting in the passenger seat of Miller Caswell’s extremely practical, safe, and reliable Toyota Camry as he drives us to the closest Target.
I feel bad for setting my expectations so low, but it’s like, really freaking clean in here.
Sure, you can tell a tiny human occupies the backseat based on the stickers scattered across the rear passenger door, some peeling on the corners from age, plopped on there with no rhyme or reason. But it’s otherwise practically spotless.
I turn around to see said tiny human, Penelope, snug as a bug in the five-point harness car seat behind me.
She dons headphones with cat ears on the top over her perfect brown curls.
I’m jealous of those curls. I’d have to sit in front of a mirror with a 1.
5” wand for at least an hour to even hold a candle to them.
She shoots me one of those mega-watt smiles that takes my breath away with how unfiltered and carefree it is as she bops her head along to the music she has playing.
I spent all of my summer vacations in middle and high school—and an occasional as-needed night here or there still to this day—babysitting Merrymount kiddos.
So I’ve spent plenty of time with children of all ages.
I have to tell you, Penelope Caswell is a special fucking kid.
But as I move to face the front again, I remember I’m supposed to be attempting some semblance of normalcy with the man to my left.
The man whose very large hands with veins that just kind of do something for me are wrapped around the steering wheel.
I keep staring at the thin gold pinky ring with a P engraved in the center sitting on his finger, and I don’t know why I’m so irrationally nervous.
Being in Miller’s vicinity makes me jumpy.
The tips of my ears get warm, and my heart does this weird pitter patter thing that has me considering making a cardiologist appointment as soon as possible.
The way he makes sure my eyes are meeting his when he talks to me sends tiny shivers to my toes, and I don’t know where they came from. That terrifies me.
I’m not the brightest bulb in the tanning bed.
I didn’t pay much attention in school. I’ve always known I would only need to know enough to take the cafe over when my parents deemed me fit.
I’m okay with it, and I get by just fine.
But damn, I’ve never felt dumber than when I have to attempt a full conversation with Miller because there are cartoon bluebirds twittering in my brain when he looks at me.
He doesn’t make me feel less than because of it either, and that scares me, too.
I watch Miller glance up at the rearview mirror. His eyes must find the same scene I did because he smiles before focusing back on the road. He’s so pretty it hurts.
And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Quite the opposite, actually.
I think I rather like how entirely different he is from every other guy in this Godforsaken town.
Miller is a little above eye level with me when we’re standing next to each other.
So, if I had to guess, he’s about 6’. He keeps his hair long, and the brown waves stop just before his shoulders.
He has a young face. Like, I’m sure Miller will be carded and look twenty-two for the next twenty years.
But, God. It’s a good face. The green gene is for sure strong with this family because his eyes match Margot’s and Penelope’s perfectly, but his are framed by the darkest, jet black eyelashes that I would pay a shit ton of money for.
I can’t see them underneath his sunglasses, but I have them memorized by now.
Not that I was paying attention or anything.
“You’re telling me all I had to do to get you to look at me was chauffeur you around?”
I jump in my seat at his voice when I realize I was just caught straight up ogling Miller Caswell.
“What? No. You uh, you have something…there.” I wave my hand at absolutely nothing and look out the window.
He doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t even loosen his grip on the wheel to pretend to brush off the nonexistent thing. It’s annoying. It’s hot. No—It’s infuriating.
“Do you need anything in particular here?” Miller asks. He flips the blinker on to turn right into the plaza’s parking lot once the light turns green.
“Not really,” I answer honestly, appreciating the hell out of the subject change. “Maybe some candles? A book if I see one? Target will tell me what I need.”
Miller laughs as he puts the car in park. “Fair enough. You want to meet at the check out in say…” He looks down at the old watch on his wrist. “Half an hour?”
“I’m good to tag along with you guys if that’s alright.”
Penelope answers before Miller has a chance. “Duh!” I turn to see her fling her headphones on the seat next to her and unclick her carseat. “You can help me pick out my first day outfit! Daddy’s not very much help.”
Ouch. I see Miller’s cheeks go red. While he always dresses nice, in my opinion, I don’t remember thinking my dad was the expert at clothing options when I was a kid either. So, I get what she means.
I don’t know where Penelope’s mom is…but I know it’s definitely not Merrymount, and I know she’s not making any effort to fill in the gaps Miller might miss along the way.
I know I don’t know her, but unless there’s a damn good reason she’s absent from their lives, I hate her. I’d say I’m sorry, but I'm not.
“Well, that settles it then, P. Let’s find you the best outfit any first grader has ever seen.”
There are about three or four extra bags of shit we absolutely did not need in the trunk of Miller’s car, and Penelope is currently playing tag with a couple of kids from her class in the baseball field next to the park she convinced us to stop at on the way back to the cafe.
I called Margot when we first got here and successfully managed to get her to ramble for ten minutes until she finally caught on that I was partially using her as a buffer between me and Miller. She hung up without saying goodbye.
So now Miller and I are sitting on a bench, a solid foot of space between us, in silence.
It’s not comfortable. I’m sitting with my back ramrod straight, the pinnacle of perfect posture.
Miller has moved his resting arm off the back of the bench more times than I can count in a very short amount of time.
I try to inconspicuously peer at him and see him smirking.
“Is something funny?” I ask him.
“Tell me something.”
“What do you mean?” I finally turn to face him and he runs his hand through his hair. He tugs on the ends before releasing his fingers. He does it a lot, and I track the milliseconds of that move every damn time.
“I want you to tell me something, Red. Anything.”
“Why?” I realize I’m answering every question with a question, but I can’t seem to stop.
“Because one minute you’re trying your hardest to pretend I don’t exist, but then you do things like place a recurring order of my kid’s favorite bagel for the cafe without asking.
I’m not good at reading into things. I want to know that we can be friends, and to do that, we should know each other. At least a little bit.”
Friends.
I don’t think I’ve ever hated an f-word more.
It’s irrational to have such a negative reaction to friendship with Miller.
He’s a good guy and related to my best friend.
I am letting him and that kid of his live in the apartment I own.
In fact, I would love it if they stayed.
It’s nice seeing that place have life in it again.
But I’ve told myself repeatedly that anything more than this is impossible. It’s not in the cards for me.
So why does it suck to hear he just wants to be friends? I’ll dissect this during another late-night swan dive into overthinking. I box up the feelings I’m so desperately trying to keep locked and mentally watch myself chuck said box into a dark, empty corner of my brain.
“What do you want to know?”
Miller pauses, pretending to be lost in thought. I watch him run two fingers down the sharp lines of his jaw. “Where’d the nickname Red come from?”
I laugh because it’s the most ridiculous thing he could have come up with. I guess I should appreciate the softball question. But then I see he’s not laughing with me, and his head has tilted slightly.
I release my hair from the claw clip that was holding it up, letting the heavy bulk of it cascade down my back as I shake my head and ruffle the layers out with my hands. Miller’s pupils dilate to the point where they almost completely swallow the green surrounding them.
“My parents say the doctors handed me to them swaddled in a stark white blanket, and the only pop of color was the full head of fiery hair on the top of my head. They were so shocked by it, the only thing they managed to say was Red. It stuck—for obvious reasons—after that.”
I clock the half second of confusion on Miller’s face and then it disappears. I could have imagined it.
“Hmm, that makes sense.” He doesn’t sound like it makes sense to him at all, actually. “So…What is your legal name?”
“Gwen. Gwendolyn, actually.” I tuck a piece of hair that falls in my face behind my ear.
“Gwendolyn,” Miller repeats like he’s testing it out and committing it to memory. It sounds nice.
“My mom read somewhere that it could bring good luck or something.”
“But she doesn’t call you Gwen or Gwendolyn?”
“No,” I laugh. “Really, no one does. I don’t think people even remember my real name most of the time.”
“Do you not like it?” he asks.
“My real name or my nickname?”
“Both.”
I take a moment to look over at Penelope.
I watch her laughing and running with her friends, all so young with so much ahead of them.
There’s no pressure to be better or live up to anything yet.
They get to just exist. I remember being her age, thinking everyone was going to know Gwendolyn Grace Bozelli’s name some day. Jokes on me with that one.
“I can’t blame people for not remembering my name when I forget it most of the time.
I used to correct people when I was younger, you know?
But everyone saw and heard what they wanted to see and hear.
Merrymount is a very stuck in our ways kind of town.
And there’s nothing inherently bad about being Red. It’s fine. But…” I trail off.
“But?” he coaxes me to continue.
Am I really about to drop some deeply suppressed, hidden secret to Miller Caswell simply because he asked?
“But sometimes when I’m alone, I admit only to myself that Red and Gwen feel like two different people. And sometimes, I don’t feel like either of them.”
Well, good thing that sounded absolutely batshit crazy.
And on another non-sarcastic note, it’s a good thing Penelope is bolting over here, waving like a maniac, to change the subject.
“Daddy! Miss Red! You gotta see this!” she yells.
Miller jumps up from the bench, scanning the area for any signs of something amiss. I bounce up with him, remembering two sets of eyes are better than one when it comes to kids.
Over protective dad Miller is doing something to me.
I’m not admitting what that something is.
“What’s wrong, baby girl?” Miller asks, voice slightly raised with concern. As Penelope reaches us, huffing and puffing, Miller’s hands land on her shoulders, and he does a full assessment of her.
Penelope rolls her eyes so far back I have to stifle a laugh and hope they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. “Daddy, nothing is wrong. Look!” She opens her mouth into a wide smile and pinches her top front tooth with her little fingers, wiggling the tooth back and forth.
The stress melts off Miller, and I’m finally able to get a lung full of air knowing Penelope’s okay. She’s just a tad excited about a new loose tooth.
“Another one?!” Miller exclaims, a smile taking over his face as he bends over to examine it.
“Imgonnaberich!” Penelope garbles while continuing to try to wiggle the tooth free.
“Jeez, kid. You’ve been keeping the Tooth Fairy in business.” Miller twists his head to me. “Third one this year, crazy, right?”
I nod my head, smiling at both of them. “Cutest jack-o-lantern I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m hungry. Is it okay if we go home now?” Penelope asks.
Miller lifts Penelope up onto his shoulders, making it look like the easiest thing in the world. Her giggles, that can be heard probably everywhere, make the perfect last day of summer vacation soundtrack.
“Me too, kid. Let’s go. Gwendolyn.” Miller looks to me, and I do a full halt, eyes probably bugging out of my head. “Pizza sound good to you?”
“I…uh, umm. Sure?”
It’s the only half sentence I can muster up. It does the trick though because Miller and Penelope both smile at me before they start their trot back to the car, Penelope bouncing up in the air.
Cheers to pizza with my friends, Miller and Penelope, I guess.