Are You Mine

Chapter 9


Saige


“So? Spill it!”

“Spill what?” I say to Myka even though I already know what she wants to know.

“Fox! What the hell’s going on with you two?”

I toy with the idea of not telling her a damn thing, but the bright expression of hope she wears rules that out. “He’s awesome.”

Myka claps like a little kid but earns a few strange looks from the weirdos around us. She clears her throat and asks, “How awesome is he? Have you kissed him?”

I already know my cheeks go pink because all of the sudden my whole face is burning, but I say, “I’m not telling you that.”

“You have. You dirty, dirty little whore.”

I shove her with the heel of my hand, and she bumps into the guy with the crazy Mohawk next to her. He gives a narrowed eyed glance, but she just beams back at him. I think their matching synthetic red hair color works to unify them, and the dude just gives her an incline of his head. I guess that means all is forgiven in cool-freak speak.

“Myka, don’t—”

“Hell, no. I’ve been waiting for this for many years, my dear, sweet Saige. You like Fox, and I’m going to bask in the glory of it.” She lifts her head and holds out her arms, like she is soaking up the best rays of sun ever.

While I want to deny her words, I can’t. It’s like the little piece of me I’ve sewn shut is ripping open. “You know that feeling when you look at another person, and you think he is so cool?”

“You are scared shitless right now, aren’t you?”

I glance back up at the stage and watch as a girl with about fifty tattoos on her arms adjusts the microphone and blows into it to check if it’s working. “How do I stop liking him?” I ask.

“Oh, my God, you don’t. Embrace it, baby. He likes you, and you like him, it can’t be more perfect.”

I shake my head and look at her again. “It’s probably just a summer thing, right? I mean, he’s got some trip planned and I’m going to—”

“Where? Where are you going? Have you made up your mind? NYU or California?”

I sigh. “I don’t know, but either way, it’s not here, right? So there’s no real point in even pursuing this stupid—”

“You’re going to drive me nuts, girl. Why wouldn’t you go after him if you like him? Especially given that he’s totally into you. Don’t let it slide away because you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” I say, but my defense comes out like a child’s voice.

“Please.” She cocks her head to the side and pushes out her lips. “You’re practically peeing in your pants because he likes you, and you have no idea what that means or what you should do.”

She’s right. Of course, she’s right, so I ask, “What should I do?”

“Go with it. It’s not every day a hot dude walks into a woman’s life and wants to make with the sexy times.”

My face is hot again. “There’s no sexy time!” About fifty faces turn to me, and I bury mine in my hands. “Damn, Myka, you’re going to kill me with all of this.”

“Nope. Just make you stronger. So why no sexy times? I guarantee he’s got all the necessary parts, and yours might be a little rusty, but I’m sure he can work it out.”

I double over and hug my legs. It no longer matters that I’m at poetry reading with a hundred other people. I’m going to stay in this tight little ball until the floor opens and swallows me whole.

Myka puts her hand on my back. “Grow up, Saige. Big boys and girls like each other, and when they like each other enough, the boy and the girl—”

I cut off her words by sitting up. “This is already difficult. Stop putting the sex shit into the mix as well.” My words are a harsh whisper, and I’m sure everyone around us can hear them.

“Sex shit?” Myka squeezes my face between her thumb and fingers. I pull my head away. “I think that’s a little too kinky to start off with.”

“Shut up.”

The huge smirk on her face slips into something softer. “You know I’m just joking. Listen, he likes you, you like him. Who cares about anything else? Just do what’s natural.”

“That’s the problem. Nothing’s—”

I stop speaking when someone else starts talking fast into the microphone. Myka and I listen to the poets as they deliver their words with passion, and when it’s her turn, I clap louder than I’m comfortable with.

She is so small up there as she adjusts the microphone. Like all the others, she has no paper, nothing written. Everything’s in her head. She pushes her hip out to one side, places her hand on it, and levels her eyes at the audience. “This is called ‘My Steampunk Valentine.’”

She takes a deep breath, then layers her words with excitement and emotion.

“Like a thermal peashooter in the dead of winter,

I drive my thoughts into your head.

You heave your steel throwing knives into my heart,

chasing me deeper into the hot, sweaty river.

Dense, open sky rains down love and admiration,

my lustful, mechanical heart is long twisting.

I’d die a thousand deaths,

if my steam-powered body can’t have you.

You’re a gun slingin’ rock star,

guzzling my love in the dusty railroad saloon.”

I sit and listen in awe, wondering why I can’t be brave like my friend.

***

A text from Fox wakes me up. Why did the cowboy adopt a wiener dog?

The clock tells me it’s just before midnight. I haven’t seen Fox in two days. He worked a double shift both yesterday and today, so instead of pitching a fit because he’s interrupted my sleep, I send him a text back. Why?

He must have pretyped the answer since it comes back in less than a second. He wanted to get a long little doggie.

You have too much time on your hands, I send back, even though of the two of us, I have much more free time than he does. He works two jobs to support himself, even though he still lives at home. I don’t work at all to afford this apartment and all the trappings of my life. That’s what you get when your parents are killed horribly. A life of lonely luxury.

Obvi not since I haven’t seen u in 4ever. Whatcha doin 2morow?

I reply, Sleeping now that you woke me up.

I smile at his next text. Want some company?

Are you a good sleeping companion? I text back before I lose my nerve.

The best. I’ll show u. I’m really warm 2.

A thought pops up about how it is he’s able to text this well with his dyslexia, so I ask him. His reply makes me blush even more than the thought of sleeping with him. Someone else is typing 4 me.

OMG, Fox. Who? If you say your dad I’m going to kill you. Totally kill you.

Totally kill me? Not just kind of kill me? Srsly, not my dad. . .this time.

I text back, I’m still going to kill you. Who is this?

This is Gage, Fox’s super awesome friend.

Super awesome is one way to describe Gage Metz. He was captain of nearly everything when he was at Pechimu High. Another way to describe him is womanizer, a*shole, and douchebag extraordinaire. It’s not like I care or anything, but he made his way through the female student body of my high school and enjoyed making disparaging remarks about the girls he either wasn’t interested in or thought were beneath him.

Well, tell Fox goodnight.

A second after I send it, my phone rings. It’s Fox. “Hello?”

“Saige-e-la, how are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“Better now. Are you pissed because I have someone help me text?”

“Not pissed.”

“But?”

“But I think if you tried harder, you could do it on your own.”

Fox laughs. “Judgmental Saige, how I enjoy you!”

“I wasn’t being judgmental.”

“Okay, next time I text you, I’ll do it myself, but be prepared for nonsense. Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, are we hanging out or will you be tired from your wild night out with Gage?”

He chuckles again. “Not a wild night. He’s drinking beer and being an ass in my basement. I want to hang with you. I have a night shift at the Joint tomorrow, so can we chill in the morning?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Stop it, Fox.”

“Okay. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I repeat.

“Good night, Saige.”

“Night, Fox.”

Tomorrow comes sooner than I would have liked. The buzzer sounds over and over until I stumble out of bed and make for the door. I don’t bother looking out of the peephole because I’m still halfway stuck in my dream of bright beaches and the gorgeous men of California.

“Well, hello, sunshine!”

I can see the outline of Fox just fine; it’s the details and definition of him that are blurred and fuzzy. “Wazzle farm natch.”

His arms fall to the side. “Huh?”

Not even I know what that was, so I just sweep him into the foyer with a grand wave of my hand. I shuffle my bare feet as I go to the kitchen and hit the brew button on my coffeepot. As I stand there, I become aware of the way all of my clothes have twisted during the night. The waist of my leggings has slid down to mid-hip while the ankles have come up my calves. My t-shirt has twisted to mid-belly.

After much tugging, all the appropriate skin is covered. I don’t look at Fox again until I have my empty coffee cup. When I glance up at him, I quickly look away. He’s staring at me with that stupid, happy smile on his face.

“You are like a gift from the gods, aren’t you?” I ask. “Happy and charming, even in the morning.”

“Gift from the gods,” he says, his voice pulling every nuance out of the words. “I like it. Can you write that down on a name tag for me? Hi, my name is gift from the gods.”

“Coffee?” I say as I try my best not to grin at him.

“Yes, please, and to strengthen my gift from the gods status, I bring donuts.”

I groan as I pour his coffee first, then mine.

“What? Don’t like donuts?”

“Yes, I flippin’ like donuts.”

“Then what?” He reaches out for his coffee cup but instead tickles my torso.

“Hey, hot liquids here, Mr. Sunshine.”

“So what’s up with the donut-hate?” he asks after he takes his cup. “You have milk and sugar?”

His thoughts move fast—too fast for the morning haze of mine, but I manage to put them in order and answer the most pressing question first. “Fridge and table. It’s not donut-hate. It’s just that. . .”

“What?”

“You’re perfect.”

He pauses, his arm halfway into the refrigerator and twists around. “I’m what?”

Heat prickles not only on my cheeks but all over my body at his look. I press my lips together, but he stands up tall again and comes closer.

“I’m what?” Fox is going to make me say it again.

“Perfect. You’re freakin’ perfect.”

He brushes his fingertips over my chin, then almost skips back to the refrigerator. “I didn’t even have to bring you flowers or chocolate to rate a perfect? Score.”

As I watch him pour the milk into the cup, something about what he just said sparks a memory. It’s not of him, but of his friend Gage. I remember sitting in the library with my earbuds in, but not listening to any music. Sometimes I use the earbuds as a shield. If people think you’re busy listening to something, they won’t bother you. I don’t remember why all the popular kids were there, but they were sitting at the next table over, making so much noise I almost walked out.

But Fox’s friend, Gage was talking about girls in my class, all younger than him, but not so young that they were off-limits.

“Rate?” I ask. Even though I hate it, I know this simple word may start an argument.

I wait for him stop stirring in the sugar before I let my eyes connect with his. I feel much too cautious to be doing this, but I’m compelled to know. “What do I rate? I mean, you and your friends used to rate girls all the time, right?”

“What?”

“Your friend Gage. He was the king of assigning ratings, wasn’t he? Didn’t he make Ruby McIntyre cry in Phys Ed because he said she was too fat for a regular rating?”

Fox still has a pleasant expression on his face, but I think it’s more because he’s not sure what to do. “Did he?”

“Yeah. He did. And then she stopped eating for three months until she passed out playing volleyball.”

He takes a drink of his coffee after setting the spoon in the sink. Then he just stares at me for a moment. I shift my weight and rub my thumb over the handle of my mug.

After what seems like a long time, he says, “I never took part in his rating system, Saige.”

“But he did. He developed it, right? And he’s your friend.”

“I can’t help what my friends do.”

“What was his rating for me?”

“He didn’t have one.”

I tilt my head to the side. “He rated every girl in school but me?”

“Come on, Saige.”

“Just tell me, and we can move on.”

“He was a stupid teenager.”

“And the girls he subjected to his childish, sexist rating system were just teenagers, too. Teenage girls with feelings.”

“I know. He knows I’ve never liked it. What do you want from me? Not to hang out with him anymore? Because that’s fine. I barely see him as is.”

“I want you to tell me my rating.”

“No,” he says.

“No?”

Fox shakes his head as he leans back against the counter. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re picking a fight that I not only can’t win, I can’t defend. I didn’t do that to any girl. I told him it was a shit thing to do. I’m not going to repeat what he’s called any girl, let alone you, the girl, by the way, I kind of dig.”

“You kind of dig me?” I ask in a loud whisper.

“Not kind of, I do dig you, but if you want to be more accurate, I sort of adore you, even though right now you’re being the biggest pain in the ass after I sprang for chocolate glazed with sprinkles and chocolate iced custard filled donuts.”

How can I stay angry with him? “Are there powdered in there?”

“Are there powdered donuts in there?” he repeats, indignant. “What do you take me for? I’m hurt that you’d think so low of me to not purchase a staple of American breakfast! And before you insult me by asking, of course, I got just plain glazed, too.” Fox tilts his head back, pushing his nose up into the air. “Well, I never!”

Now it’s really hard to be upset about something his jerk of a friend did a few years ago, so I poke him in the stomach. “Bring your donuts,” I say as I walk to the living room.

He follows me in, sets down his coffee cup and the box of donuts, and goes over to the music dock. Sure enough, The Avett Brothers come on. “Why do you—”

“Eat some donuts and just accept the fact that when you’re with me, nine times out of ten, we’re going to listen to them. You might as well just learn to love them.”

I flip open the box and grab a powdered donut. He sits down on the couch and reclaims his coffee. “I do like them,” I say before taking the daintiest bite I’ve ever taken. I don’t know why I think acting more ladylike or not eating freely will affect how he feels about me. “But just out of curiosity, why do you like them so much?”

Fox devours an entire donut in two bites, licks his fingers, then grabs another one before washing down the first with coffee. “They’re just so honest and respectful and gentlemanly. I want to be like them.”

It’s a timely answer given the discussion in the kitchen. From experience, I know Fox is a gentleman, so regardless of what his friend may have done, I don’t believe he was a part of it. While it burns my ass that he won’t tell me what was said about me, I guess I should just trust that it’s not something I’d want to hear.

And it might not be something a gentleman would want to say.

“And they’re like epic romantics. Their songs are just amazing. They write about love and pain and sorrow and remorse.”

“So is that you? Are you an epic romantic?” I can’t believe I’m asking it, but Myka told me to go with this, so I’m going. I think he’s interested in me, and even if he isn’t, he’s still a good guy who’ll be a friend if nothing else.

He’s got a slight blush on his face and the tips of his ears are red, like I’ve tapped into a truth about him. He is a romantic. But I already knew that. When I step back and look at them, all of his actions have been romantic.

Plus, that kiss in the woods was incredible. Even I swooned.

“I do believe in romance, I know it makes me a girl, but there you go.”

“It makes you a girl to like romance? What? Do you sit at home reading cheesy 1980s—” I realize why I shouldn’t finish the sentence. I doubt he sits at home reading much of anything. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s cool.”

“Well, if you’re a girl because you like romance, I’m a guy because I don’t.”

“You don’t?” he asks in an incredulous voice. “That’s just because no one’s romanced you right.”

While his words are probably true, I don’t tell him this. This whole topic has me jittery, so I busy myself with my fluffy, white donut and coffee, but I can feel him still watching me. “Tell me a joke.”

No hesitation. “A neutron walks into a bar and asks how much for a beer? The bartender says, for you? No charge.”

It’s not the first time and it probably won’t be the last time, but I’m struck with just how smart he is. I know he could be reciting a joke he heard, but I don’t think so. I think he knows what a neutron is, and I feel like shit for having gone through high school thinking he was stupid. “That was funny.”

“Mrs. Baker told me that in my second ninth grade.”

“You took Mrs. Baker’s chemistry in ninth grade?”

“Yeah,” he says, then finishes another donut. “That’s the tradeoff for being held back. You look stupid, all your friends graduate before you, but since you did well in a lot of subjects where writing and reading wasn’t the main component, you can take more subjects.”

“There was tons of reading in chemistry.”

“Yeah, but the school got some audiobooks for me so I could sit down at night and listen to the chapters instead of reading them.”

As I fix my eyes on my bookshelf, I chew the inside of my lip. There’s always so much to ask him, but I never know how.

“What?”

I shake my head.

“What?”

“I wish you could read better because I do my best communicating through the written word.”

He sets his cup down on the coaster, then stretches his arms above him. I peek at his solid chest stretching his orange shirt through the corner of my eye. “Why don’t you feel comfortable just asking or saying stuff?”

“Because my thoughts, opinions, and comments have gotten me in trouble in the past. Apparently the filter everyone else was born with wasn’t a part of my package.”

“Didn’t we already cover that I don’t think you could offend me? Or was that just in my head that I had that conversation with you? Just say it.”

“Well, we’ve already had this conversation, too, I think. It doesn’t matter, and if I say it again, you’re going to think I’m—”

“Say it, Saigey-Over-the-Ocean.”

“These nicknames have to stop. They’re—”

“Cute? Make you smile? Add a certain depth to our interactions? You’re right on all three, Saigeypoo.”

I blatantly roll my eyes.

“Now just say what you wanted to say a million minutes ago.” Fox tilts his head to one side. “I think you’re trying to take advantage of my distraction level.”

“No, I’m not.”

“So say it.”

I exhale a long breath. “I guess I just wonder if you tried harder, if reading wouldn’t get easier.”

Fox is quiet and my gut starts to hurt because I’m sure this is going to lead to some kind of clash between us. Just when I feel like the tension has risen to a new high, he speaks, and I realize that I’m the only one holding the tension.

“I spent years trying to get better. My dad paid all this money to a couple different places to help me, but after a while, I just realized I didn’t want to put that much effort into it. I mean, I don’t want to write or read for a career. I can read and write well enough to get me through life, but I’m an artist. I work in a visual space. I’ll never be a poet; I’ll never be a sports columnist; I’ll never be a businessman putting together major reports for important people, and it’s okay. I don’t want that.”

“But maybe if—”

“It’s not fair that it takes me two hours to read something my dad can read in twenty minutes. I don’t want to waste time for stuff that’s not going to fulfill my goals. It’s the same reason I don’t bother taking guitar lessons because I’m not a musician.” Fox takes my hands and scratches at my nails. “I mean, don’t you have goals you’re working toward? Don’t you put aside the stuff that’s not going to help you reach them?”

He’s got me. “I don’t have many goals. I mean, I want to be a writer in California. Go to school at NYU, I guess.”

“So you want to go to college, then move to California?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

I shrug, drain the rest of my coffee, then set the cup on the table. “I guess. I mean, maybe not in that order. I don’t know. Living on the beaches of California sounds so much better than college in New York for the next four years.”

“What washes up on tiny beaches?”

I raise my eyebrows in question.

“Microwaves.” He pinches my leg. I look down and realize I’m still in my PJs. “If you don’t go to college and get a great job, how can you afford to live on the beach? I think it’s expensive out there.”

“Look around you, Fox,” I say, and he does. “I do nothing to afford this.” I point to the chair he usually sits in. “That cost ten thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I own a ten thousand dollar piece of furniture to put your ass on.”

I point to the abstract painting behind us. “That was twenty grand. I don’t even know what the hell it is or who the hell painted it. I liked it, so I bought it. Trust me, affording a place on the beach will not be a problem.”

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out as he runs a hand through his hair. Fox looks disturbed. Like honest-to-God troubled.

“What’s wrong?”

“How do you get so much money?” he asks.

It’s a legitimate question from someone who keeps two jobs and lives in a house that’s fifty years old and falling apart. “My mom was killed.” I say it fast, thinking it would explain everything, but I can see on his face he still doesn’t understand. “My dad and I got money. Her life insurance and money from the compensation fund. When my dad was killed, all the money was mine. My grandma and I don’t get along, so I petitioned to get access to the money earlier. I had good lawyers, and it worked, but it doesn’t matter because since I’m eighteen, it would’ve been mine now anyway.”

Even though I can tell he wants to talk more, I don’t. It’s nice to have this money, but I hate what happened to make it mine. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Sounds hot and wet.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

Charm drips off him as he says, “It was an innocent comment about the water in a shower. Get your mind out of the gutter, young lady.”