Best Laid Plans

Gabe: Till midnight. Graveyard shift calls my name.





Arden: Can you be here at seven?





Gabe: What should I bring?





Arden: You.





It’s only a text. I can’t read any emotion into it. But I swear the way she writes that one word lights a fire inside me.





30





Arden





Vanessa implores me with Puss-in-Boots eyes as we stand outside Happy Days. “Promise me something, Arden.”

“What is it?”

She grabs my hands, grips my fingers tight. “Whatever I say in there, whatever I do, don’t let me buy anything.”

Laughing, I answer, “I promise.”

She issues a command. “Solemnly swear.”

Letting go of hers, I raise my right hand. “I swear I will hold you back, just as I swear the book is always better than the movie, no matter what.”

“Bless you. You’re a true friend.” She swings open the door to her favorite vintage shop in neighboring Hope Falls, where we’ve slipped away for a quick lunchtime shopping break. “This store has the best stuff. I snagged this dress last week on sale.” She sways her hips, showing off the white swing dress with its peach pattern. The ensemble is capped with sparkly orange shoes.

“Wherever did you get those there’s-no-place-like-home heels?”

“They’re my if-the-Wicked-Witch-of-the-East-liked-orange-instead-of-red ruby slippers.” She gestures to the heels. “Also, I found them online after an hour of bargain hunting for incredible shoes.”

That’s her favorite pastime, and she excels at it.

We head into the shop, and I’m swimming in a sea of retro style. Tea-length dresses, flouncy skirts, twinsets, and so many patterns: light-blue dresses bursting with cherry designs; rockabilly skirts made of pink-and-white gingham; and blouses with flamingo designs, checked prints, and embroidered pineapples.

“Gah, I want it all,” Vanessa whispers, making grabby hands at the clothing treasures.

I clasp her wrists. “Shhh. It’s going to be okay. We mustn’t let you short circuit.”

She wriggles away, her arms shooting out robotically as she walks, trance-like, to a mint-green dress with a typewriter-key pattern across the bodice. Next to it is a skirt with cartoonish images of books on it.

I yank her over to me, spinning her around. “You made me promise to make you resist.”

“Resistance is futile. I can’t do it.” She throws one hand on her forehead as if she’s fainting.

I relent, since I know the trick to keeping her on track. “Fine, get the dress.”

She snaps me a look. “You’re an enabler.”

I gesture to my face. “Then enable me instead.”

She nods crisply, snapping out of it, refocusing on her shopping mission. “You’re right. I’m a personal shopper today,” she says, as if it’s a mantra she needs to remind herself of. Mission accomplished. “Do you want that green skirt?”

I laugh. “It’s adorable, but today we are here for an apron.”

“Right. Let me find you a sexy apron, then.”

We head to a rack near the dressing rooms, where Vanessa sorts through short aprons and cute aprons and boob-boosting aprons.

I touch a satiny red one then the air, making a sizzling sound. “Hot damn.”

“Aprons are the new lingerie.”

“You’re telling me.” I point to one that has a heart-shaped neckline.

“That’s hella sexy.” She quirks an eyebrow. “And I bet looking that sexy will make you feel hella sexy. So how exactly are you going to answer the door like that and not want to make hot fireman babies with him?”

“It’s just practice,” I insist, since I need the reminder. “All we’re doing is practice.”

She hums, seemingly unconvinced. “You know what they say about practice.”

“Practice makes perfect?”

“No. They say practicing answering the door in a sexy apron leads to . . .” She mimes a drumroll. “Sex.”

“I don’t think that’s a saying.”

“But it should be. Especially in your case.” A note of warning sounds in her tone.

“It’ll be fine. We’re committed to friendship first,” I say, trying to stay strong.

But inside, I wonder briefly if she’s right. Each day I do want more and more with Gabe. Every time I see him, the longing grows more intense, the desire stronger. But our friendship matters too much to risk simply for dumb, pesky hormones.

I want to believe it’s merely hormones at play.

Trouble is, I can’t quite buy that line of reasoning anymore. Try as I might, when my logical brain feeds that to me, my heart seems to stick out its tongue at my head then laugh.

Because my heart, my God, it somersaults when he’s near me. It does that shimmy shimmy bang bang, even when I think of him and who he is as a man. The way he takes care of his pops, of the owl, his friends, and all the people he doesn’t know—the strangers he helps every day. How he gives his mom books and makes time for dinner with his parents. They say you can learn all you need to know about a man from how he treats his mom, and Gabe treats Mama Harrison with love, respect, and devotion.

All the chambers in my heart are hammering right now.

And I need to be careful because today is about aprons and research and fantasies. It’s not about silly dreams that can’t come true.

Dreams I don’t entirely understand.

I shove them aside, kicking them to a compartment in the back of my mind.

“Ooh! This one!” Vanessa thrusts a black apron in my direction. The little skirt is covered in tiny white dots, and the neckline sports a soft fuchsia bow. “It’s hot—covers the boobs, and a little bit of leg—and it’s so very you.” She presses it against me. “You’re going to look delectable.”

I turn to the mirror, loving what I see. “It is indeed hella sexy.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “Also, listen. Maybe you should consider whether there’s something more happening between the two of you. Don’t you think?”

“He’s not into me like that.”

She shoots me a steely stare. “But are you? Are you like that? Are you liking this pretend thing?”