A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(56)

Wendy’s attention is back on me, her eyebrows now raised into her hairline as she waits patiently for an explanation. In fact, glancing around the table, I realize we now have the attention of our entire party. Our friends, who only moments earlier were ignoring us completely in favor of their own conversations, are now riveted to what I’m about to say.

Caleb beats me to it. “We met when Abby was walking by the house one Saturday morning. Then I bumped into her again that day at Wal-Mart, and we started talking.”

Thank you, God. Have I mentioned I’ve never liked him more than I do at this moment?

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mrs. Lockhart asks, relief that maybe I’m not a hussy spreading across her features.

“That’s what she said,” Cubby cackles, slapping his palm against the tabletop.

“That’s what she said,” Shelby repeats, disgusted. “Why do you always say crap like that?” A sneer mars her pretty face.

Cubby snorts. “Der. Because I like it.” He throws a handful of salt packets at her. “Besides, Weston does it too.”

Molly nods. “Yup, he does.”

“That’s what she said is my all-time favorite.” Weston inhales a cheese curd, licking some ranch sauce off his thumb. “That, and pissing off her brother. Oh, and taco dip.”

Cubby smugly turns to Shelby. “See?”

Both Wendy and Rob ignore the bickering. “With these yahoos hanging around, I don’t blame Caleb for keeping you to himself. Although a text telling us about your existence would have been nice.”

Rob looks pointedly at his son but shoots me a grin.

“Not to mention a little reassurance to his folks that our boy here isn’t batting for the other team,” Blaze adds. “Swing batter, batter, swing!” Shelby elbows him in the gut. “Ouch, I’m kidding, like it matters. But trust me, he’s hetero. It doesn’t happen very often, but we’ve all seen Showtime getting his rocks off.”

Shelby nudges him again, the pointy end of her elbow digging into his ribcage.

“Shit, stop,” he says. “I’m kidding.” But the entire time he’s shaking his head and mouthing, I’m not kidding, to the rest of the table.

He’s kind of a dick, pardon my French, but kind of difficult to resist. Under the table, Caleb’s hand finds my knee and gives it a squeeze.

“It’s so nice to know Caleb has such a lovely new friend. He’s always been so shy and focused on sports. We’ve always worried he keeps too much to himself.” Wendy’s smile hasn’t left her face, and she directs her next comment to Caleb. “Honey, do you remember the last person you dated? Oh, what was her name… Sherri? Savannah…” She searches for a name.

“It was Sarah Schroeder,” Mr. Lockhart supplies with a chuckle.

Caleb’s face turns bright red. “How do you remember that? You know what. Never mind.” He looks at him mom, pleading. “Just please stop. That was in eighth grade.”

“Eighth grade, Showtime? Yeesh.” Blaze turns to me. “So do you see now why we wonder about his sexuals?”

Wendy doesn’t stop. “But sweetie, you were traumatized. Remember? When Daddy came to get you from that dance, he had to come inside just to coax you out of the bathroom stall.”

Caleb mumbles angrily under his breath, to the amusement of the entire table, about mean girls and harassment.

“What? Speak up, bud,” his dad says.

“I said I was not. Traumatized. Sarah and her friends were just… overly aggressive.”

Cubby shoots him a look of disdain, two plastic drinking straws dangling out of his mouth like a walrus. They flop around when he speaks. “An overly aggressive eighth grade girl? Is that even a thing?”

“They were pushy, okay?” Caleb practically shouts, crossing his ripped arms defensively over his muscular chest. He takes a few deeps breaths. “Whatever, I’m not going to argue.”

Everyone at the table laughs, and Cubby lets out a loud, obnoxious snort, straws still sticking out of his mouth.

“Cubby, could you just shut the fuc—” Caleb glances at me and his mom, clamping his lips shut and scowling. “Let’s just drop it.”

His mom wipes a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. “Oh, honey, you always were too serious for your own good.”





Caleb

So all things considered, that went well.

It could have been worse. My mom could have told the story about the time I started pee-wee hockey at the tender age of seven and used to cry during practice to the point where it was distracting for the other kids, and Coach had to hold my hand while I skated.

Oh shit. That’s right—she did tell that story.

Fucking. Hilarious.

She also told everyone about the time my childhood buddy Aaron thought it would be an awesome idea to bring ripped-out pages from his dad’s pervy catalog of Hot Naked Russian Teens to school and pass the pictures around on the bus. Of course, he didn’t get caught with them by the bus driver—I did. School called my parents, they thought I was a closeted, masturbating little freak, and in turn—because I was sensitive at that age—I didn’t talk to Aaron for three weeks after he let me take the blame.

Of course, Weston and Blaze spend the rest of dinner with my parents speaking and talking above everyone in these horrible fake Russian accents. Cubby, on the other hand, spends the remainder of dinner doing a made-up Swedish Meatball accent, sounding a lot like Chef from The Muppets—you know, since he’s such a freaking moron.