Chapter 20
FELIX
When I talk to my mom on the phone as I’m driving to work, she can tell I’m distracted.
“It’s nothing,” I say when she asks. “I just have a lot on my mind. With work and—and everything.”
It’s not a complete lie, but I still don’t love the half-truth. I’m not ready to tell my mom about India yet, though, and?—
But my thoughts screech to a halt when I realize what’s just crossed my mind.
I’m not ready to tell my mom about India? What is that supposed to mean? She’s just a friend. Why would I tell my mom anything about India Marigold?
“I’ve got a busy schedule today,” I finally settle on. “Work and then I’m hanging out with a friend afterward. I didn’t sleep great last night either.”
“Why didn’t you sleep well? What’s your mattress like?” my mom says, her voice full of concern. “Is it one of those box spring contraptions? I think some sort of dense foam might be better for your back, honey. Do you have mattress stores in Lucky?”
“No,” I say, suppressing a smile. “There are some in Boulder, I’m sure. But I don’t need a new mattress. I usually sleep fine.”
“Well,” she says, still worried. “If you say so.”
“I need to let you go, Mom,” I say, because she could easily stretch this conversation out for ten more minutes, and I only have so much mental bandwidth I can devote to mattresses and my sleep schedule. “I’m almost at work. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I love you, honey, and think about the mattress, all right?”
I sigh. “I will consider it. Love you.”
For all her quiet timidity, my mom is a problem fixer. I’ve heard jokes about the differences between men and women, one being that men jump in with solutions when women simply want someone to sympathize with them. I can confirm, however, that there is at least one woman out there who doesn’t waste time with sympathy but instead goes straight into problem-solving mode. If she gets even the tiniest whiff of something that’s wrong in my life, my mom is already halfway through finding a solution. That’s just how she is, and I love her for it.
She would make a big deal out of anything I told her about India, though. She always does when it comes to women in my life. And I’m not sure she would understand the idea of hanging out with a woman I have no plans to date. The only reason she doesn’t bug me to ask Poppy out is that I’ve told her Poppy and Cyrus will end up together. Somehow, some way, it will happen. They’re too close to allow room for romance with anyone else.
I sigh as I pull into a parking spot and then get out, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Work is going to be busy today; there’s been a buzz in the office ever since Herb announced the television spot we have coming up. People are excited, and that excitement is palpable.
I’m excited, I guess, but I don’t think I’ve been at the Gazette long enough to fully grasp the opportunity this presents for a paper this tiny.
I just have to make it through today, and then I can go check out that bakery with India. They might have carrot cake—that’s part of why I asked her. Although to be honest, my invitation was out of my mouth before I had time to think it through. It jumped out without my permission. We agreed to meet up on Saturday, and then I realized how far Saturday was, and I remembered how much she loved that carrot cake yesterday, and next thing I knew, I was asking if she wanted to go to the bakery with me.
Like I was possessed by the Spirit of Carrot Cake Past.
Maybe I could tell her it’s for the article? But no. I don’t want to lie.
I shrug as I make my way to my cubicle to drop off my bag; our staff meeting will start soon in the closet-sized room that passes for our conference room. Gradually the rest of us trickle in, and then Herb gets started. We go over the usual stuff, and he reminds us to submit proposals for the program by no later than Wednesday end of day.
Submitting a proposal isn’t mandatory, thankfully. I have no ideas. I’m still trying to get this article done. I’ve got most of it written; I just need to check out our third location as well as take some pictures, after which I’ll need to finalize the layout.
I go back to my desk once we’re done with our meeting. “Did we decide anything for our next spot?” I murmur, flipping through my notebook. I spin back and forth in my chair a bit; it squeaks, but I have a hard time sitting still. “I know we listed a few…ah.” I find the list on one of the first few pages. “That’s right. Hot springs…”
But I trail off as my mind conjures up an image of India and I at the hot springs, both of us in our bathing suits. I reach up and undo the top button of my shirt, loosening my tie. It’s a little warm in here, a little stuffy.
“Maybe not the hot springs.” I’m Cyrus’s best friend. I have no business seeing his little sister in a bathing suit—as much as I can admit I’d enjoy the sight. Even the thought brings an odd little spike to my pulse.
“ Definitely not the hot springs,” I amend. “All right. Movie theater it is, in that case.” I circle that one in my notebook, and I’ve just closed it when someone speaks from behind me.
“Hey, Felix.”
I turn to see Veronda towering over my chair, a friendly smile on her face. Her lips are very red today, and her blonde hair is poofed in a very nineties style, parted deep to one side.
“Hi, Veronda,” I say. How is she so tall? Is it because I’m sitting down? I resist the impulse to stand. “What can I do for you?”
A presumptuous question, maybe, but if she doesn’t need something from me, then she’s here to flirt, and I am very uninterested in flirtation.
“I had a couple questions for you,” she says brightly, and I relax a bit.
“Sure,” I say. “What do you need?”
She peeks her head around the wall of my cubicle and must not find anyone on the other side, because a second later she’s pulling my neighbor’s chair into my space. She sits down, crosses her legs, and then says, “I’ve been thinking about my proposal for the TV spot coming up,” she says.
I nod, and she goes on.
“I heard you on the phone the other day—in the break room,” she says when I frown, trying to remember where she might have heard me. “You were talking to a woman on speaker.”
Oh . My conversation with India. On…speaker.
Something like foreboding zips up my spine, but I clear my throat and say, “I remember.”
Veronda nods, sitting up straighter, and her hair fluffs away from her head a little bit at the ends—like it’s so light that gravity has no effect. “Anyway, I heard you mention the Bicentennial Pageant. That’s what you were talking about, right?”
“Uh…” I say eloquently. I rub the back of my neck as the foreboding prickling at my insides begins to congeal. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”
Her eyes are rapt on me now, her posture eager. I recognize this look: it’s the look of a reporter chasing a scoop. Crap.
“I thought so,” she says. “Thinking about the Pageant spawned a fun idea that I think could be really neat for the program. We could highlight the history of the Gazette, as told by our coverage of historic events.” She beams at me. “What do you think?”
It’s a solid idea; my unbiased mind can admit that.
But then the other shoe drops, the one I’ve been waiting for.
“And the woman you were talking to,” Veronda goes on, her smile faltering just a little. She fixes it back in place and continues, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “You mentioned some sort of mishap at the Pageant. That wouldn’t be…” She leans closer to me, and I startle, rearing back. “That wouldn’t be the infamous wardrobe malfunction during the Peter and the Wolf dance, would it?” she says in a low voice.
Crap. The contents of my stomach churn uncomfortably. “Did you overhear as you passed by the break room, or did you stand outside the door and listen?” I say, and I’m faintly surprised to hear the chill in my voice.
Veronda’s cheeks flush, and she leans back in her chair. “I’m a writer,” she says defensively, giving me what I think is supposed to be a playful swat on the arm. “Listening at doors is how I experience the world.”
“There are better ways,” I say curtly. “And no, that’s not what we were talking about.”
Huh. I guess I am willing to lie after all, if it’s for a good-enough reason.
The padded shoulders of Veronda’s suit coat drop in disappointment; it’s evident on her face as her conspiratorial expression fades into a little frown. “Oh,” she says. “That’s too bad. I thought you might have some insight.”
“No insight here,” I say lightly. “I do have a lot to do, though, so if you’ll just?—”
“One last thing,” she says. “I promise. You covered the Pageant, right?”
“I was one of the people who did, yes,” I say.
She nods eagerly once again. “Did you take any video footage?”
“I don’t remember,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Sorry.”
“Hmm,” she says, a displeased sound. “All right. That’s too bad. I’ll have to check the archives.”
I nod and give her a little wave as she stands up. I can’t bring myself to say anything else, even when she says bye and hurries off in the opposite direction—probably to check the archives, dang it.
There is video footage. I took it, even though I never used it. But I don’t know if it’s still here or if it got thrown out during one of the many purges Herb has likely done over the years. There’s just no space to keep everything every one of us has ever done; the physical archives are little more than a storage room. We don’t have a fancy internal search engine or anything, either.
I bet I could find India in those archives, though. I don’t know if she wrote anything herself while she was here, but I bet I could find her name somewhere. Should I look?
A smile curls over my lips as I imagine the look on India’s face when I tell her I looked her up in the archives. She’ll think I’m ridiculous, she’ll roll her eyes, she’ll laugh and tell me what a weirdo I am.
And I’m halfway out of my chair before realizing that she would be correct. I am a weirdo. I am being ridiculous. Of course I shouldn’t check. I have things to do, and there’s no point in looking anyway. What will I do if I find her? Read what she wrote? Tell her I looked her up? Why would I do that?
Why do I care?
It’s a question I ask with disconcertion, and I don’t have an answer. “Stop thinking about her,” I say to myself. “Just—stop.”
Easy. I frequently go long periods of time without thinking about my female friends.
“Easy,” I say. “Easy peasy.”
It is not easy peasy. It is not even regular peasy. It is downright impossible. As a result, I think about India more than I should for the rest of the day, even after telling myself I won’t.
I’m not dating this woman. I’m not even considering dating her. She should be crossing my mind only when there’s a specific reason. She should not float in at all hours of the day.
It’s this article we’ve been doing. I’m sure of it. She was right—I shouldn’t have dragged her along. It would mess with anyone’s mind, visiting a bunch of romantic places. And it’s been a while since my last girlfriend; that probably doesn’t help.
I nod, breathing a sigh of relief. Everything is fine.
But by the time I pull up in front of India’s house later that evening, I’m half-excited, half dreading it.
She’s awesome. Unintentionally funny. Totally cool. That’s not someone I should be spending a ton of time with—not if she’s off-limits.
I’m just going to have to try harder to keep her in the Friend Zone, where she belongs. That’s all. It shouldn’t be a problem.
The garage door grinds to life as I get out of my SUV. I’m parked on the street, so I cut through the grass and reach India just as she emerges from inside, motorcycle helmet under her arm, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun.
Does this mean…?
“Hey, Felicia,” she says. She nods over her shoulder at Betsy the Motorcycle, still stationed in the garage. “How do you feel about a change of plans?”
My eyes dart over her—the tight jeans, the loose t-shirt, the leather jacket draped over Betsy’s handlebars—and I swallow.
But I’m allowed to find my friends attractive, right? I’m sure I’ve found Poppy attractive before. Haven’t I?
“What’s the new plan?” I say, strolling past her and into the garage. “Did you take Betsy on a few test runs to see how she felt?”
“Yes,” India says, the word breathless.
“And?” I look at her, waiting for her answer—but I don’t need to hear it. Her expression tells me everything. She looks exhilarated, windswept as though she only got back from a ride a moment ago.
“And it was scary for a few seconds until I remembered ,” she says, her smile growing. “Remembered how it feels, all the things I know, the abilities I have to do this.”
Something warm rises in my chest. “In that case, are you going to take me on a romantic bike ride?”
She snorts and rolls her eyes. “You wish,” she says, and maybe I’m imagining things, but her cheeks flush faintly pink.
What a fascinating color.
“There won’t be anything romantic about it,” she goes on. “But we’ve still got a couple hours of light, and I’ve been feeling a bit restless. So…” She shrugs, looking suddenly self-conscious. “I thought I might ride up to see the aspens in the park. I checked the color reports, and they’re starting to change a bit.”
“Feeling restless, huh?” I say. I fold my arms across my chest and grin at her. “Sure you don’t need to go for another run? Do a quick ten miles or something?”
“I know you’re joking,” she says, “but I did run three miles earlier.”
“Of course you did,” I say, laughing. “So you ran, but you’re still restless? What’s that about?” It’s the question I’m really trying to ask.
“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. Her eyes dart away from mine, and her arm around the helmet tightens. “Just…stuff.”
“Stuff?” I say, and I take one ambling step nearer to her. “Gonna be more specific?”
“No,” she retorts, looking up at me. “You have to earn the answers to any questions you ask. Didn’t you know?”
“Mmm,” I hum as I move closer. “I hadn’t heard, no.”
She nods, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s a new rule that was just instituted. If you want answers, you have to earn them.” She raises one eyebrow at me, her gaze full of challenge. “Think you’re up for it?”
“Depends,” I say, the corners of my lips curling. “What did you have in mind?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Her eyes drop, instead, to my lips.
And something thuds in my chest then, a swoop of heat in my stomach—more than the flash of imagination I had before, the image of us kissing in the back of my car. This is desire, pure and simple, the actual urge to close the space between us and kiss her.
She would taste like sarcasm and laughter and sunshine.
My hands clench into fists, a brief spasm as I rein myself in, and then slowly, deliberately, I take one step backward. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Then I give her an easy smile and a shrug.
“Your call, Sunshine Darling. If you want to go up into the park, let’s do it.” I nod at the helmet still under her arm. “Got another one of those?”
“I do,” she says, her voice hesitant. “If you’re really okay with it?”
“A ride through a national park with my arms around a beautiful woman?” I say with a wink. “I’m more than okay with it.”
She rolls her eyes again, but some of the tension leaks out of her shoulders, and her lips quirk. “And…” She clears her throat, her gaze darting to mine and then away again. “You trust me to drive?” She pauses and then hurries on, “I understand if not, obviously?—”
But I laugh at this. “Of course I trust you. Come on.” I drift over to Betsy and give her a pat. “We’re losing daylight.”