Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Bold
Fourteen years ago
desiree
sixteen years old
The transition into high school turned out to be a breeze. Melissa and I stayed in our same school, just moving to a different building on campus. I tagged along with her on every adventure she would set her mind to. We did drama club together, Melissa scoring the lead role in the fall play, as a freshman, no less. Then again for the spring musical, and pretty soon everyone knew the lead roles were always going to go to her. She was a natural on stage, with plans to make it big one day. I was jealous of her talents, I’ll admit. What kid wouldn’t be? She had that remarkable little something that I so clearly lacked, yet my happiness for her always subdued my jealousy. I could shine in her proximity.
I remember the first time I had gone to Melissa’s house, the small bungalow with grimy buildup on the beige siding, which most likely had once been white. The sidewalk leading up to the brown door was cracked, but there were little planters perched along the rail of the small porch. I found it sweet. A small touch of simple beauty.
Melissa lived with a million people. There were her parents, loud and welcoming like her. Then her grandmother, a rotund woman I don’t think I ever saw without an apron on. Her uncle lived there as well, Melissa’s mom’s brother, and when he had his kids for a few days, her cousins lived there too. I had no idea where they all slept, the house was a split level and we mostly hung out downstairs, where her bedroom was, but I liked the chaos of the place. Her family had a way of making you feel special, like every time I entered, it was a day of celebration.
“Desiree, there you are!” her mother would say. This would usually be followed by her shoving a wooden spoon in my mouth of some stew or another brewing on the stove. Her mom was from Puerto Rico, her dad was French, and I loved the richness of her family’s accents. The roll of multiple languages that would pour out of their rambling mouths, a million miles a minute. The Spanish held a dialect beyond the comprehension of my fancy private school education’s language classes, but with their animated ways of expression, you felt like you understood everything being said just fine.
I was more comfortable at Melissa’s house than any place in the world. Sleepovers there became a regular thing, though she would insist we go to my house as often as possible. She loved the spaciousness, the opportunity to ogle over my brother whenever he was home from college. I’d acquiesce now and then, rolling my eyes as she shamelessly flirted with Dylan, saying she watched his latest football game on TV and thought he was magnificent. He’d wink at me and warn me that my best friend was no good. I’d tell him I agreed.
Melissa worked her way through various crappy boyfriends, never lasting more than a few weeks. She was a hopeless romantic, and she made it no secret that her crush on Dylan would “stand the test of time,” saying she and I were destined to be sisters-in-law one day. I’d groan at how I’d rather not have my brother locked up for sleeping with a minor. Secretly, though, I loved the idea.
I, on the other hand, remained painfully single, my crush on Taven never dissipating. Melissa knew of my feelings for him by then, and she and I would commiserate together on our bad romantic luck.
By fall of our sophomore year, I was happy to be back in the Carlisle-Hatson routine again now that summer was over. Evelyn was back at school, and I got Taven all to myself. I started to notice that Taven talked about her less and less as the school year went on. By Christmas, he never mentioned her at all. Seemingly sensing my reluctance to ask about her, he eventually admitted that they had broken up weeks before. He was so upset, but all I could think was this is it. Now is my time.
Melissa wasted no time in zeroing in on the Taven and Desiree love story.
“He likes you too, you do realize that, right?” she asked me one day. We were in school at lunch, and I was picking my way through the salad bar line. Melissa was piling her plate with the oddest concoction of veggies, pickled onions, a pasta salad, two types of dressings (she liked half her salad to be healthy, half to be “fun”).
I spooned some corn chowder into a cardboard bowl and considered how to answer. “Sometimes I think he does,” I confessed, “but other times I think he just feels a really good friendship with a girl that he can talk to differently than he can to guys. That it’s not really an attraction.”
I lifted my tray, and we walked through the hall and out to the courtyard. It was late March and we were getting glimpses of spring weather, that perfect time of year in Ohio when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, pale pink bursting through their buds like they had been there all along.
We settled into our seats and I stretched across the picnic table to steal a bite of Melissa’s salad. I had to admit, the chew of the pasta was a nice compliment to the crunch of leafy greens. “Girl, get your own fun salad next time,” she teased, a smile escaping her perfect lips. I told her it was more fun to steal hers, and we both chewed away in silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying the warmth of the sun penetrating our sweaters.
“He’ll be getting his car soon,” I said. Taven had already turned sixteen back in September, but after a string of some C’s and D’s on his latest report card, his parents were in that mode of rubbing foreheads in frustration with their struggling son. He was forced to hit pause on his beloved sports, a move that caused him to sneak multiple beers one night, calling me and complaining about what assholes his parents were. I listened as he ranted on about how sports had nothing to do with the idiotic teachers that spoke like they were voices hired for putting people to sleep, not meant to inspire young minds. I thought about how much his own private school education was costing his parents, and how sad it was that despite the tuition fees, he was still slipping through the cracks of education.
When his attitude toward his parents was received as a bit too disrespectful, they had “punished” Taven by withholding on the promise of a new car when he got his permit. Instead, they had him do all his driving practices in one of their cars. Once he got his license, he was driving around in his mom’s pearl white Mercedes. I knew he hated it, but his anger seemed to have lost its resolve. He didn’t complain, even when his friends would tease him relentlessly. He’d shrug it off like it was no big deal. It was just a car, at least he was allowed to drive anything at all. It was that type of thing that only made me fall for him even more.
But the Carlisle plan worked. Taven dug his heels in and ground out the studying necessary to raise his GPA, and as a reward, he would finally be getting the vehicle of his choice. Some sporty-like car, but the make was a Dodge. It would be fully loaded, I’m sure, but still, I found it to be a surprising choice. I had teased him that he should be getting a Bentley or something, and he joked that then I wouldn’t ever be allowed to drive it.
I loved how we could talk to each other like that. Both of our families had money, but it was clear that his family had money , money. Whereas everyone else at that level could seem like snobby shows-offs (and make no mistake, I found his parents scary as hell), Taven never struck me as someone needing to flaunt it.
Melissa dropped her fork and looked at me. “Getting his car soon?” I looked at her raised eyebrow.
“Yeah.”
She tilted her chin toward me. “Ten bucks says he lets you pick the color.”
I dropped my fork then too, rifled through my bag and took out my wallet. “Do you have change for a twenty?”
“Inferno Red, Dazzle? That’s what you went for?” Taven said as we wandered out of the Dodge sales office and to the open area.
“Yup. Inferno Red.” I dragged out those two words as slowly as I possibly could, incredibly proud of myself for being able to say them with a straight face. You should have seen me when I told the sales lady that was the color I suggested for Taven’s new baby. You’d have been proud. Something about saying “inferno” felt a bit naughty. He was getting a Dodge Challenger, and when I saw the name of the color as one of the options, I couldn’t help but giggle.
He shook his head, running his hand through his hair and to the back of his neck. “Fuck me, this was a bad idea. I should have never told you you could pick the color.”
“You could always rescind the offer, you know. If you don’t want to have to say ‘inferno’ every time someone asks what exact kind of red it is.” I sang out the proposition, knowing the rebel in him wouldn’t back down .
We were walking around the showroom, five cars neatly on display with paint jobs so shiny, I felt like I was staring at an image from a fake cartoon. Or something a computer generated. I didn’t know about Taven, but I was feeling very grown-up as the salespeople fawned all over us. “Waters?” they had asked us. “Sodas or coffee? Our coffee here isn’t very good, but I could send someone to Starbucks for you.” My cheeks flamed in embarrassment at the clear All-Hands-On-Deck for the rich people display, but Taven maneuvered through like he himself was the man behind the money, not some sixteen-year-old kid. Mr. Carlisle had made some calls and let them know his son would be coming in to finalize the details of his car to be ordered, customized for him. Everyone there must have been thinking how spoiled this kid was. It made me uncomfortable, but I was determined to keep my chin held high and not be overly giggly.
I paused in front of a sensible black sedan. “You know that Melissa called it?”
Taven was one car over from me, examining the price sheet on a large SUV. “Called what?”
“This,” I said, waving to the space around us. “She said you’d let me pick the color. Bet me ten bucks on it, not even realizing you already had.”
“Why would she say that?” he asked, his tone surprisingly quiet.
I studied him across the glare of light reflecting from the hood of the car in front of me, squinting as I tried to read his expression. My heart rate picked up speed, and I realized how badly I wanted to broach the subject. What subject was that, even? A subject of an “us,” a declaration of my crush, something .
He stepped away from the SUV and started walking toward me, slowly, staring down at the glittering white tiles of the showroom floor. I followed his gaze down, stepping closer, pausing just in front of him. I stared down to the black leather of his boots, then to the pale blue polish of my toenails peeking through the strap of my sandals. Say it, say something , I begged myself .
Finally, I let the words slip out in a croak. “Because she thinks you like me. Like—more than a friend.”
Two and a half years of memories of our friendship came swooshing through me. The moments playing video games in his bedroom, or hanging out poolside by the club. The Bingo cards we did that first year, then again our freshman year of high school, then again this past year.
I looked up at him. “Does that count as saying something uncomfortable to someone I care about?” I asked him, referring to one of this year’s squares.
He met my gaze and pointed to his chest with a smile. “I’m someone you care about?”
“Yes.”
“And that was uncomfortable for you to say? That I might like you?” His eyes were shining, and I felt the tiniest bit of hope. “As more than a friend?”
“Yes,” I breathed out.
He nodded once. “Then it counts.”
We stood there like that, frozen in our spots as if the glitters in the tile had somehow seeped out and turned to glue. I didn’t know what to say next. Wasn’t it on him now to fill in the giant emotional blank laid out before him? I scanned over his face, the cupid’s bow of his lips, wondering what they tasted like. Wondering if he ever thought about kissing mine. When I looked back up, his brown eyes were even darker than usual, wolfish. He smirked at me like he knew exactly what I had just been thinking. I licked my lips, and he let out the slightest low rumble of a hum, mouth twisting up into an appreciative grin. My stomach flipped at what I hoped was passing between us.
Our moment was interrupted when the saleslady came up to us.
“Alright, Mr. Carlisle?” Her heels clacked as she walked up to him, a stack of papers and brochures in her hand. “You’re in luck. Inferno Red with all of your specifications is available to order, at the price your father negotiated. Should be ready in less than four weeks.”
He pulled his eyes away from mine and faced her. “Oh, yeah? Great. Thanks.”
She looked over at me. “Your girlfriend has good taste.”
Taven didn’t correct her.