Chapter 8
FELIX
“So. While I don’t want to fall in love, you definitely do?”
I don’t know why I’m asking India this question. She clearly didn’t want me to hear the conversation she had with Cyrus earlier.
But I’m intrigued. And it can’t hurt to ask, right? She can shut me down if she wants, and I’ll respect whatever she says.
Even though I keep my eyes on the road, I can feel the look she shoots me in the fading light of the car. It’s suspicious, like she can’t tell if I’m teasing her or not.
“I’m genuinely asking,” I say as I roll to a stop at a stop sign. I glance over at her briefly. The sun is halfway out of the sky, bathing everything in a golden-pink light—her skin, her hair, her dark eyes.
“I don’t know,” she says with a sigh, and I face forward again. “Yeah, I guess.” There’s silence for a couple seconds. “I want to fall in love and get married and have a family.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” I say as traffic starts moving again. I stop my little smile, in case she thinks I’m making fun. “Own it. You’re allowed to want those things. There’s nothing wrong with marriage or family.” I pause and then add, “Have you dated a lot?”
“Not much,” she says, and I can’t decide if I’m surprised or not surprised.
“Why not?” I hesitate only a second before going on, “You’re—attractive.” I keep my voice easy, don’t let myself stumble over my words. “I don’t think you’d have much trouble finding someone interested.”
She gasps, a loud, dramatic sound. “Does the famous Felix Caine think I’m attractive? ”
And good grief. Am I blushing? I can feel the heat in my cheeks.
India doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully. “I’m going to tell Cyrus you said that.”
“Don’t you dare. ”
“Dear Cyrus,” she says, adopting a high-pitched voice and pretending to type on her phone, “your BFF just said I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen?—”
“Whoa, there,” I say. “Let’s not exaggerate?—”
“And that I’m the funniest person he knows?—”
I snort.
“And that he feels hashtag blessed to spend time with me?—”
“All right, you hooligan,” I say, grinning in spite of myself. She’s clearly deflecting. “I’m just saying . You’re fun, you’re cool, you’re pretty normal. If you want to date, you’ll be able to. That’s all.”
She sighs and drops the act. “It’s not that I haven’t been interested, necessarily. I just—” She breaks off, and I glance over, waiting for her to go on.
When she doesn’t, I speak. “All right, answer this. Can you tell me the last time a guy showed interest in you?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her voice unconvinced. “There was a guy at the bookstore a few months ago, but he had a really big wart on his forehead that kind of freaked me out. And warts are fine, but it was just right there ?—”
“Wrong,” I say, holding up one hand to cut off any more talk of forehead warts. “It was twenty minutes ago. The guy at the shop.”
“Sal?” she says incredulously.
“Not him,” I say. “The other guy. Scrawny, working on something at the back of the garage. He stared at you with blatant interest. But you didn’t notice. Not that I can blame you”—I break off, grinning—“because you were with me, a pinnacle of male perfection?—”
She snorts, and I laugh, turning in the direction of the grocery store with a flick of my blinker.
“Still need groceries?” I say.
She straightens up. “Yes.”
I nod. “And I don’t mean to harp on about dating,” I say. “I’ll stop. I just wanted to point out that you’ll be able to find opportunities to meet people. That’s all.”
She still doesn’t look totally convinced, but I don’t say anything else, and we drive the rest of the way in silence.
“So tell me this. Before you make a phone call, do you plan what you’re going to say?”
“What?” she says with a little frown. “No. Where did that come from?”
I shrug. “Just wondering if you plan on ending each call rudely, or if it happens naturally.”
She scoffs, but I spot the fleeting smile she tries to hide.
We stroll down the little freezer aisle, our carts strewn with the random groceries we each need. So far she has two dozen eggs, flour, sugar, milk, and tampons; I have significantly more (minus the tampons), and I’m still adding things.
“And tell me about Betsy,” I say as we walk.
She hums and then says, “What about her?”
I slow to a stop in front of the frozen pizzas. “I bet I could fit three of these in my freezer.”
“You want to know how my motorcycle would feel about the pizzas in your freezer?”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously not.”
She sniggers while I grab three boxes of store-brand meat lover’s pizza and stack them in my cart.
“I just meant—when did you start riding? Did you wake up one morning and think ‘You know, I’d like to be a sexy biker chick’?” Since I’ve determined it’s probably best to be my normal self around India instead of worrying what she thinks, I don’t let myself hesitate after this question. I don’t let myself stumble over calling her a sexy biker chick. I just open my mouth and clarify, “Where did that life choice come from?”
“Why?” she says as we continue down the aisle. When we reach the end, we both automatically weave our way into the next. India shoots a look at me. “Are you wondering where you can find other women like me? A motorcycle rider who’s more your type ?”
For some reason, this makes me faintly uncomfortable—ashamed, almost, even though I’m not sure there’s any reason to be. It’s a creeping feeling in my gut, faint but unpleasant.
“No,” I say. “And that wasn’t—” I clear my throat. “I never meant that as an insult.”
“I know you didn’t,” she says easily. “You never do. But intent doesn’t necessarily dictate effect, you know?”
That uncomfortable feeling grows in the pit of my stomach. Her tone is casual, not at all hurt or offended, but the words themselves aren’t flattering.
“Oh”—her gaze catches on something over my shoulder—“bagels. Ours are gone.”
I step aside, and she slips past me to grab a bag of blueberry bagels. When she speaks again, it has nothing to do with types or women, and because I’m a coward—because I don’t know what to say—I’m relieved.
“As for Betsy…” She trails off and then shrugs, tossing the bagels carelessly into her cart. Her gaze doesn’t quite meet mine when she goes on, “I don’t know. I just needed a change. I’d always been interested in motorcycles and scooters and other modes of transportation, so I decided to dive in.”
I nod slowly, my earlier discomfort replaced by something bright and amused. It sounds like she really might have just woken up one day and decided to ride a motorcycle because hey, why not?
“For real, though. Why the questions, Felicia?” she says as we keep moving, her eyes scanning the shelves.
And I don’t know how to describe it to her, the kind of person I can be. Like a child entranced by pretty lights, or a dog for whom every single day is the best day of his life. I want to know things and see things, always. I want to meet new people and learn new things and play and be delighted. Life is exciting to me.
But it’s a trait I’ve had to learn how to navigate, because there are negative aspects. I can’t go through life never satisfied, never content, constantly searching for my next sparkly object or flashing light. That’s not healthy, it’s not smart, and it’s not sustainable. So over the years I’ve practiced contentment—and I’ve practiced letting myself be bored, so that I’m not in constant need of stimulation or distraction.
It’s a fine line. I guess all I can do is walk it the best I can. I’m a lot better than I used to be, thankfully—because I used to be exactly the kind of person Cyrus still thinks I am. He knows I’ve never been scum, but these days I try to be less flippant with peoples’ feelings.
These aren’t things I feel like sharing with India, though—or, rather, I’m not sure I would know how. So I simplify. “I like learning about people. I find them fascinating. So I ask questions.”
“Do I get to ask questions too, then?”
“Of course,” I say immediately. “I’m an open book.”
“Eh,” she says, and I’m actually disappointed when she turns her attention to the small selection of salad dressings. “I don’t really have any questions.”
“Rude.”
A surprised laugh escapes her lips. “Fine,” she says, looking at me. “Tell me your favorite color.”
“Green,” I answer.
“Favorite…food?”
“Hmm. Probably barbecue.”
We exchange trivial facts about ourselves for the rest of our shopping trip, and on the way home, too; it’s only when we finally reach her neighborhood and then pull into her driveway that she sighs, slumping tiredly.
“Well, thanks, Felicia.”
“I’ll see you this weekend?” I say.
“Do I have a choice?” she shoots back as she unbuckles. “Be honest—would you really tell people about the pageant?”
Of course I wouldn’t. But…
“Front page of the Four-Leaf Gazette,” I say blithely, my insides squirming at the blatant lie. “Mystery girl uncovered, the identity of Lucky’s very own?—”
“You’re the worst,” she cuts me off, but she’s fighting a smile—I can see it at the corners of her lips.
“Would you leave me to traipse all over town on my own if I said I’d take your secret to my grave?” I say, cocking a brow at her.
She narrows her eyes, and I nod.
“That’s what I thought. You’re stuck with me, Sunshine,” I say with a grin. “But don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your time. I’ll drive you wherever you need to go—maybe hunt down some eligible bachelors for you to marry while I’m at it. We’ll knock your bucket list out of the park.”
“I only need one bachelor, thank you very much,” she says. “Multiple isn’t my style—and this isn’t that kind of book.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “All right, just one.” I jerk my chin at her little house, lit up in the growing dark with cheerfully bright windows. “Go inside, Sunshine. I’ll talk to you later.”
Sunshine
Cyrus, Felix and I have some important news, and we want you to be the first to hear it
Cyrus
?
Me
Don’t do this to me, Sunshine.
Sunshine
The truth is, Cy, that Felix and I can no longer contain our feelings for each other. We spent this evening together and we’re now madly in love.
Me
I hate you.
Sunshine
Save it for couples’ therapy, Felicia.
Cy, we plan on ending things in a messy and drawn-out breakup, during which we will both pressure you to take sides.
Cyrus
I’m disowning you both
Sunshine
Sad. We’ll cry about it in each others’ arms.
Me
Did I mention I hate you?
“Why are you calling me?”
It’s the first thing India says the next day when she answers the phone.
I swivel in my chair, absently stirring the rice in my Tupperware. The first bite I took burned my tongue; the second bite was cold.
Workplace microwaves, man.
“I’m calling because I’m on my lunch break and I want to nail down our plans for this weekend.” I pause. “Do you not have lunch break?”
“I do,” she says, “but not right now. Right now you’re on speaker as I sanitize the dog kennels.”
“I see,” I say slowly. “And you work…?”
“At the Pampered Pup,” she says. “It’s a pet groomer and boarding place here in Lucky.”
Huh. “Did you study something with animals in college?” I say. Now that I think about it, I have no idea what she went to school for.
“Ha,” she says, but the sound is forced. A faint clatter sounds, and then her voice returns. “No.”
“What, then?”
“Communications,” she says, and I blink in surprise.
“Really?” I say. “That’s what I studied.”
“Did you?” she says, and I’m definitely not imagining things—she sounds downright uncomfortable. “Small world. Well, I don’t use it at all, obviously.”
Interesting. “But you like your job?”
“I love it,” she says, the words easier now. “I like being up and moving, and I really love animals.”
“Sounds like a good fit, then.”
“It is.” A faint clank of metal somewhere on her end, and then an out-of-breath question: “So wait, why didn’t we nail down weekend plans yesterday?”
“Because I had to double-check my work schedule for Friday, which I now have done.”
“Ah.”
She seems distracted, distant, so I speak quickly. “Does Friday evening work for checking out the lookout spot you mentioned? Crow Point? Or maybe the bookstore?” I’m skeptical of a bookstore’s capacity to be romantic, personally, but who am I to argue with a local book lover like India?
“Ooh, the bookstore! That should be fun,” she says, still sounding like she’s only half paying attention. “On Saturday, though. I have something planned for Friday already.”
“Sure,” I say. “Saturday is fine.” I pause, debating, and then go on. “Do you need any help for your list? Is that what you’re doing Friday?”
“Yes, but I don’t know that I’ll need you. In fact—” She breaks off, and I can picture the little furrow in her brow when she speaks again. “I sort of regret asking for help. I don’t really need any.”
“Sure you do,” I say quickly. “You’re scratching my back, so I’ll scratch yours. Not to mention, I desperately want to know what’s on India Marigold’s bucket list. I’m serious,” I add when she snorts with clear skepticism. “Call me intrigued.”
“I’m sure,” she says, all sarcasm.
I shake my head. “You can’t uninvite me now, Sunshine. I’ll let you off the hook for Friday, but after that, I’m your back-scratcher-slash-chauffeur extraordinaire. Got it?”
“Meh.”
“I’ll see you on Saturday,” I go on. “Morning? Afternoon? Evening?”
“Evening,” she says. “I have a shift in the afternoon.”
“Evening it is,” I say. “We can go to the bookstore and then you can tell me all about the rest of your list. If nothing else, I’ll be a pretty sight for you to look at while you’re accomplishing things.”
Another snort, but she doesn’t shut me down, which I’m counting as a real win.
“Do you have anything else to say?” she says, her voice still dry. “Or can I hang up now?”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat. “You can hang up now. Good job checking.”
“I’m nothing if not a fast learner. Bye, Felicia,” she says. And then the line clicks, and she’s gone.
I put down my phone, reach for my rice, and make myself finish the whole thing, a smile pulling at my lips the entire time.