He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t leave either. I pull my tennis shoes out of my duffel bag, notice the Rubik’s Cubes, and feel like a fool. He never would have fallen for my ploy. Heat floods my cheeks, and I keep my head down as I tie my shoes.
The air is tense. I don’t want to brush past him, but I can’t stand his eyes on me any longer. With a bored sigh, I stand to leave and toss my duffel bag over my shoulder. Just as I think I’ll make it out, he blocks my progress with his body. He smells like he just showered in the wilderness and dried off with freshly laundered woodland creatures; I detect pine and sandalwood.
His nose is no slouch either. “Are those lemon poppy seed muffins in the kitchen?”
I stare straight ahead, smack dab at his chest. “They’re for book club.”
“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t believe me. I’ve never been a group kind of girl and he knows it. “What are you reading?”
To call his bluff, I tilt my head and lock eyes with him. “A Game of Thrones. You remind me a lot of Joffrey.”
He smirks and I blink to mentally photograph it for later.
Still, he doesn’t let me pass; I’m starting to sweat and I think he knows it. He knows the ball is back in my court, but he still wants to play.
“Make way, Dr. Thatcher.”
His face dips down and his lips nearly brush my cheek. “Have fun at book club, Dr. Bell.”
I shiver and shove past him.
On my way home, I pass a group of kids playing soccer behind an old church. I feel strange pulling up in a car and offering them free treats, but it’s worth it to watch them greedily devour the muffins meant for Lucas. After all, it’s not every day you beat Lucas Thatcher and nourish local youth. I brush my hands together in a job-well-done motion, sending stray poppy seeds cascading to the floorboards.
Chapter Fourteen
Madeleine invites me to her house later that night to make up for the shitty singles night she dragged me to. I accept her offer because even though I would like to stay angry with her, I already know from decades of experience that I will cave in a few days. I don’t possess the willpower for long-term grudges. Besides, it isn’t like my social calendar is exactly bursting at the seams.
I am instructed to dress up a bit because there might be other guests in attendance; I guess she’s scared I’ll wear a matching pajama set and embarrass her in front of her new friends. Who they are, I have no idea. Madeleine and I have been each other’s only real friends for upwards of twenty years. We’re like antisocial butterflies that never made it out of the cocoon.
Except when I arrive at her house on Friday, I am shocked to find not only a few extra guests at “movie night”, but a slew of cars lining her street and blocking her driveway. I park one block over and hoof it back to her house, trying to pinpoint where the heavy bass is coming from. My first instinct is to assume Madeleine’s house has been broken into. The perps, upon arrival, decided to stay and get cozy, make themselves at home, and throw a party. It’s much more likely than Madeleine Thatcher throwing a full-on frat house rager.
I’m halfway up the path with 9-1-1 pre-dialed on my phone when the door opens and my best friend appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a tight blue dress that compliments her slender frame and light brown hair. She is stunning and giggly—I’d even go so far as to say drunk.
“DAISY! You’re here!” She then proceeds to shout over her shoulder, “HEY EVERYONE DAISY IS HERE!”
“Everyone” cheers as if they know who I am, and when I walk through the door, I’m shocked, because they actually do. This is a high school reunion if I’ve ever seen one.
I wave, trying my best smile on for size, and then turn and yank Madeleine into the kitchen.
“You could have warned me!” I hiss.
“What? Why?! You look cute!”
I’m wearing my favorite jeans and a cream sweater. Obviously I look cute; that’s not what I meant.
“You told me this was a movie night.”
She laughs and reaches around me for an open bottle of Fireball. “Movie night schmovie night. This is your real welcome home party! Now here. Toss back a shot with me and loosen that scowl. You’ll get wrinkles.”
I don’t want to accept the whisky from Madeleine because she’s forcing it on me, but I sling back one shot, and then another. If I’m going to go back into that living room and converse with people I haven’t seen since high school, I need to be under the influence. Like an adult.
My buzz sets in quickly since I haven’t had a real dinner yet; I was planning on stuffing my face with popcorn while we watched movies. Clearly, that is no longer an option.