The doorbell rings.
“That’s him. Got to go. TTYL.” I blow Kat a kiss, hang up, stuff my phone in my pocket, and dart out of the room and down the stairs. Instead of barreling around the corner into the entryway, I force myself to stop at the bottom stair to pat down my frizz, and it’s a good thing that I do. The voice that drifts around the corner from the front porch is not Grayson’s. It’s Stephen-the-Leaver’s.
“. . . drop it off in case she refuses to come for Christmas again. Can you just stick it under the tree?”
Mom sighs, audibly. “Steve . . . we don’t have the tree up yet. It’s barely even December. And she doesn’t want—”
“Let her make up her own mind about what she wants, for once. Stop brainwashing—” He cuts off, which means Mom’s probably giving him her signature death stare. He blows out a puff of air, like a bull preparing to charge. “Look, just—just stick it under the tree. That’s all I ask.”
There’s a long, stony silence. I press my back against the wall and hold my breath so they can’t hear me. The front door creaks and a gust of winter wind finds its way around the corner and creeps up the bottom of my skinny jeans.
Finally, Mom speaks. “Fine, just—it had better not be another tablet or something like last year.”
“I don’t know why you keep bringing that—I was trying to get her something she’d like.”
“You can’t bribe her to like you. Just be responsible and pay child support for all three of them, instead of only the two.”
“The judge said—look, can we not get into this again? You’ve got plenty of money. You don’t need mine. I’m going to go.” There’s a crunching of boots on snow, then a pause. “Can you put aside your own anger for once and ask Meg to talk to me? She never returns my calls.”
So stop calling, jerk.
“I’m not going to make her call you if she doesn’t want to.”
“Fine, but if we could just—” Stephen-the-Leaver says.
“Good-bye, Steve,” Mom says. Then the door clicks shut.
Mom will walk right past me in just a moment. I hurdle the stairs and dart back into my room. I won’t let him get to me. I won’t let him get to me. I won’t let him get to me. I whirl about and stride out of my room as if I’m leaving it for the first time. The show is unnecessary. Mom doesn’t appear around the corner until I’m almost back down the stairs.
“Oh, Meg,” she says, as if coming out of a daze. She slips a blue gift bag behind her back. “Would you duck downstairs and check on Kenz and Nolan? I haven’t—”
“Sorry, I’m meeting Grayson at the bus stop.” I push past her into the hallway and start pulling on my boots.
“I thought he was meeting you here.”
“Change of plans. I gotta go or we’ll miss the bus.” I glance out the window as I toss my scarf around my neck. Stephen-the-Leaver’s silver car is gone. “Bye!” I give Mom a half wave, then disappear out the door before she can protest. I can’t wait around for Grayson. I have to move, to get out of here. As I rush down the street toward the bus stop, I text him the change of plans.
We end up meeting at the mall, where we tuck ourselves away in a back corner of the bustling food court with a heaping dish of poutine on the not-quite-clean table between us.
“Let’s watch Legs,” I say, as I pick up a fry dripping with gravy and cheese curds. Fabulously soggy.
“Watch what?” He snares a fry with his fork.
“LumberLegs. I told you about him. He plays LotS, remember?” If he doesn’t like Legs, that’s a deal breaker. Except it can’t be a deal breaker because I don’t want him to leave just like everyone else.
I pull out my sparkly green smartphone, plug in my headphones, hand him an earbud, and crank the volume up loud enough to hear over the din of hungry shoppers. His shoulder presses against mine, lightly, like two books side by side on a shelf. His leg, too. I grab a few more fries and stuff them in my mouth before pressing play. I’ve picked the video where Legs fights the horde of filthworms. Grayson had better like it.
I still feel unsettled from stupid Stephen-the-Leaver, so it’s harder to laugh, but when Legs’s sword disappears and he shrieks, a giggle bursts out of me, and I glance at Grayson—and discover he’s looking at me instead of the screen. I scowl at him and jerk my chin toward the screen, and both our gazes drop to see Legs beating the filthworms back with a boot. I giggle again. And force myself not to look at Grayson’s face. I’m sure he’s grinning. No one could watch this and not at least grin.
When the tiny video finishes, I turn to him. “So? What’d you think?” It takes all my concentration to keep from bouncing up and down like a four-year-old.
He studies me for a moment before answering. His nose is less than a foot from my nose, his lips less than a foot from my lips.
“I liked watching you watch it,” Grayson says at last.
“That’s not a real answer,” I say, though my cheeks flush hot.
“No, I mean it. I mean, he’s funny, sure, but your laugh—I could be watching kittens being murdered and if I heard you giggle, I wouldn’t be able to help it—I’d have to laugh too.”
“Oh, shut up. Who talks like that?”
Grayson’s cheekbones color with red. He has nice cheekbones. “Sorry,” he says, “did that make me sound like a psychopath? I don’t enjoy watching kittens get murdered, I promise.”
“No, I thought it was really sweet.” I find his hand and thread my fingers through his.
He leans in and kisses me, just once, gently. His mouth is warm and soft.
I draw back and study his face. His shaggy brown hair falls across his forehead and disappears into his eyebrows. His lips are chapped. I wouldn’t have guessed that from the way they felt.
“You’re never going to leave me, right?” I ask him.
He lets out a little half laugh, half cough, like he’s not sure whether I’m joking. I’m not sure whether I’m joking.
“Well,” he says, “we’ve been dating for, what, almost a month? I am one hundred percent certain that we can double that.”
“Only double?” I put my hands on his knees, turn him toward me, then press my mouth against his, guide his lips with my own, breathe my air into his lungs, and his into mine.
“Okay,” he says between breaths. “Triple it at least.”
I slide my tongue into his mouth. It tastes like gravy. Like potatoes and cheese and gravy and warmth.
“Or forever,” he says at last, when I pull away.
That was effective.