21. Kate
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
Malcolm stifles his laugh behind his fist when I glare at his reflection in the mirror. He has draped himself across the bed in the most effortless, I don’t care that you’re going on a date, posture I have ever seen. Maybe a little too effortless. Ever since this afternoon, he’s been a little forceful with his, ‘It’ll be great,’ chit-chat. And if there is one thing I know about Malcolm, it’s his inability to lie. Anytime he’s caught in the thick of some scheme or dishonest venture, he becomes this overly cheerful, sunshiny person, asking you how the weather is or how your cat is. Last summer, when I forced him to lie to Uncle Jerry about who really smashed his back window out with a football (me), Malcolm was so cheerful that Jerry invited him on a family cruise—the yearly family cruise I have yet to be invited to. According to Benny, the lie continued for the entire vacation. Malcolm was in so deep he ended up doing karaoke, charades, and a belly flop competition.
He was instantly the family favorite.
All because I made him tell Jerry it was him who decided to kick a football in high heels in the middle of the night after three margaritas.
“What’s wrong with it?” I smooth out the pink blouse I’ve tucked into a pair of black jeans. My pink Converse, with a tiny speck of turf stain on the outside of the left foot, ties the outfit together.
“It seems a little casual, don’t you think?” Stretching himself across the bed, his shirt rides up and reveals a faint diagonal line of muscle that travels along his waistband. It peeks out like a road map for your eyes.
I force my eyes back up to my face in the mirror and roll on a layer of Chapstick. “We’re going to some hole-in-the-wall pizza place.” I shrug, content with what I’ve put together. “Plus, it’s camp. I didn’t really pack for a date this week.”
“Right, because why would you?” He winks at me, leaning back farther until his upper body is against the headboard. The motion jostles the entire bed, sending a tingling awareness down the front of my body. His arms flex as he rests them on top of his head, that line near his waist taunting me even more. My heart flutters into my throat, and I have to turn away from the mirror to rid myself of the distraction behind me.
Hyperfixating on his outfit comment, I look down and re-evaluate my entire wardrobe in a matter of milliseconds. “Do I look alright, though?” I ask, fixing my gaze on the turf stain.
The bed squeaks and ruffles as Malcolm rolls out of it ungracefully. A thud sounds when his feet hit the floor. “You look fine,” he says, leaning against the bed in front of me. He’s within arm’s reach, and for a moment, I want him to wrap me up and tell me it will be okay. That what I’m doing is okay.
“Just fine?” I huff out a laugh.
“Kate, you look great. You always do.” The smile he gives is sincere, and it’s all I need.
Tousling my hair one final time, I grab my purse and stand up straighter. Confident. Confident that this is the right thing to do. The universe wants me to do this, to go on this date, or I wouldn’t keep running into Eric, right?
Right?
I gulp, swallowing the doubt trying to creep up my throat, and squeeze my fists around the strap of my purse. “Great, then let’s do this.”
Malcolm’s neck tightens, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he pins his eyes on my crazy curls. The humid air has made it pointless to bother straightening them, so all week they have been a wild mess atop my head, ringlets every which way. Pain is etched on his face as he stares at them, like what he sees offends him.
“I can’t get them to calm down, okay?” I whimper, trying to smooth down the top of my hair. “This weather is the bane of my existence,” I whine some more, erratically trying to flatten curls, licking my fingers and running them through the strands. “Maybe I should tie it back?” I try to pull my hair back, but he stops me by gripping my elbows.
“Do. Not.” His words come out forced, one syllable at a time. The pain on his face is still there, but his eyes soften as he pulls my arms down. “Your hair is perfect.”
The familiar stoney look on his face finally registers when I feel a twitch on my arms, resistance fighting at his fingertips. It’s the same look he has when I tempt him with mint-chocolate-chip ice cream—his greatest weakness.
My greatest weakness is cream cheese, which is a problem for a vegan, both physically and ethically.
I dip my eyes to the slope of Malcolm’s bicep and clock a light-blue vein stretching up the inside of his arm. I can’t resist the urge to graze my fingers down the line of it, feeling the pulsing of his blood under my touch. It’s quite possible his arms are becoming one of my weaknesses. “Thank you.”
We both watch as I trail my fingers up and down his arm, like I’m committing it to memory or something. Malcolm clears his throat and whispers, “You’re gonna be late.” He keeps watching my fingers, my sparkly nail polish flickering with the motion. Lowering his arms away from mine, he gives me one last double squeeze. “Have fun.” His forced smile wavers as his voice cracks ever so slightly.
“Are you sure you—”
“Kate,” he stops me before I can finish. “Quit.”
In a moment, my life flashes before my eyes. Dramatic? Maybe. But when Malcolm reaches up, brushing the sides of my neck with his knuckles and drawing small lines along the edge of my jaw with his thumb, the only thing to do is think dramatically.
All the air leaves my body, and I feel like I’m floating as his fingers rest against my face, like I’m a balloon, and he’s the one tethering me to the ground. Again, dramatic, but our faces are so close. His grip is a tender control that sends an ache down to my core.
“Quit doubting me. Quit doubting yourself. Go, eat your weight in pizza, and come back here to tell me all about it.” The line of silver that circles the bright blue of his eyes flickers once, growing larger the longer he stares at me.
I simply nod, and he releases my face.
He releases the balloon.
I still feel like I’m floating when I walk up to the address Eric sent me for dinner. The outside of the building is not what I saw online. Rod iron sconces sit on each side of a rather large, antique door, which opens as I approach, and a short gentleman wearing all black waves me in. The walkway of the restaurant is dimly lit with deep maroon walls and an antique couch sitting perpendicular to the host stand. Sounds of Europe play in a soft symphony overhead. A couple waiting to be seated is wearing what I would call church attire, the man’s button-up jacket matching the woman’s dark-blue floor-length dress. My mouth goes dry as my underdressed self follows the host to our table.
The tables have place settings with small candles sitting in the center and fancy glass decanters of water. Eric is waiting for me, wearing a button-up that is oddly similar to the man at the front, his eyes widening at the rips over my knees and the bright-pink Converse squeaking across the tile floor as I approach.
“You look nice.” He gestures to me, clearly sarcastic and proud of this little mishap.
“You said Tony’s Pizza,” I snip at him then smile gracefully at the host as he pulls my chair out for me. “Not Rome, Italy.”
“Antonio’s Pizzeria,” he corrects. “Tony’s Pizza is on South Main. This is North Main.” Laughing, he drapes a cloth napkin in his lap and begins pouring us water.
I gape at him then quickly snap my jaw shut and glare. He continues to snicker as he hands me a menu, getting a kick out of my blunder. Hilarious. “At least I made it.” I snatch the menu from his hand and flip it open.
We go about the usual dinner steps—ordering an appetizer, then our meal, discussing how the day went, etc. It’s pleasant, but I feel distracted and uninterested. A pair of blue eyes and bulging biceps force their way into my vision every few minutes. I start to think I’m hallucinating when I mistake someone for Malcolm sitting in the back corner of the restaurant. I realize it can’t be him when the man has a pair of orange-tinted creeper glasses on, a fedora, and tinsel strands entwined in his beard. He’s also hunched over a plate of lettuce, eating with leather gloves on. Definitely not Malcolm.
I finish my part of the appetizer and notice the guy is staring at me. Weirdo.
The waiter brings our orders, and Eric excuses himself to the restroom. In a rare moment of bravery, I shift in my seat and stare at the creeper, stating with my eyes, Got a problem, pal? He cowers further down into his bowl of lettuce, pinning his eyes on the dessert menu.
Quiet laughter grows louder behind me.
A partition in the center of the seating area with lush greenery separates one side of the room from the other. The dim lighting makes it difficult to make out faces, but a head of spiky black hair catches my attention. Glancing back at the creeper for a moment, at ease when I see he’s more focused on ordering his dessert than me, I slide out of my chair and walk over in a crouch to the partition, catching a few concerned glances along the way.
The laughter fizzles, followed by whispers that sound all too familiar the closer I get.
Reaching up to the top of the partition, I stay bent over as I grip the edges of the fake ferns. Shoving the greenery to the side, I jump up and yell, “Aha!” Five familiar faces stare at me in terror as I stand on my tiptoes to scold them over the partition. “Not very sneaky, are we, boys?” I catalog each person in attendance: Garrett Connors, Devon Johnson, Travis Van, Charlie Henders, and—I gasp in betrayal. “Sarah?”
She cowers down and pulls the furry hat she thought was a good disguise farther down in front of her face. “They made me come,” she says behind Garrett’s shoulder.
“What gave us away?” Devon asks, pushing his ridiculous disguise glasses to the top of his head.
“Travis’s hair.” I shrug and rest my arms on the partition, my calves aching as I stay firmly on my toes.
The table groans, throwing their napkins and swatting at Travis. Charlie tries to flatten the spikes down, but Travis waves him off, smoothing the edges and tips with his fingers.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask the table.
Excuses erupt simultaneously, all different from the other.
“We wanted Italian.”
“Sarah’s mom is paying.”
“We went to the wrong place!”
Devon tosses the glasses off his head in defeat. “We were spying, alright?” He’s the first to cave under pressure. He was never the best at keeping secrets, especially under my penetrating stare. Naomi, his mom, helped me master it my first year of teaching. “We heard you were going on a date and wanted to scope it out.” He throws his hands up in surrender. The glasses, a brown wired pair with orange-tinted bifocal lenses, clink as they topple to the center of the table. They look exactly like Creepy Fedora”s glasses.
I gasp, whipping around to see Malcolm watching me, wide-eyed, in the corner, an equal mix of terror and embarrassment in his eyes as he bolts for the front door.
“Hey!” I yell, startling a few people in the middle of their meal, and race after him.