Playing the Player(27)

She raised a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “He? Do tell.”

“It’s not like that,” I said defensively.

Her penetrating gaze stayed pinned on me. I frowned when I saw her speculative half smile.

“It’s not!” I insisted. “We’re just…” What were we? Not friends. Not yet. Probably not ever. “Partners,” I said. “Just partners.”

“Mm-hmm.” She took a long drink, but kept her eyes on me. “And your partner is challenging you how, exactly?”

“He’s…unpredictable. But the kids love him. We don’t agree on anything. Yesterday he quit, but then he came back. And then I almost quit.”

Sharon folded her arms over the necklaces tangled across her blouse. “That’s a lot of drama for one day.”

I laughed softly. “Yeah, it was.”

“Sounds like emotions are running high between you two. Could be something else is going on.” This time she arched both eyebrows.

“Nothing else is going on,” I said. “Other than we sort of hate each other.”

That wasn’t entirely true. We’d ended on a good note yesterday, after the ice cream. He’d been really…decent. Thoughtful, even. I bit my lip, remembering how he’d held my car door open when we’d said good-bye. How he’d told me not to drive angry, imitating Bill Murray in that silly Groundhog Day movie my mom watched every Christmas.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmured.

“What?” I almost barked. “You thought what?”

“I see it on your face, sweetie. I don’t think you hate this boy. Not at all.”

Air escaped me like she’d popped the Trina balloon. “Okay, so I don’t hate him. But I don’t really like him, either.” I fiddled with the Flintstone salt and pepper shakers on the table. “I can’t figure him out.”

She snorted. “Welcome to the club, honey. You ever figure out the male brain, you let me know.”

“I’ll be the last person to do that.”

She smiled at me as she scooted her chair away from the table. “Well, you’ve got all summer to work on it.” She stood up. “Come on. I’ve got a ton of clothes to sort through.”

I followed her down to the basement, grateful for a task to keep my mind off the impossible problem of deciphering the male brain.

My phone pinged as I pulled another T-shirt from an overstuffed trash bag. Whoever had donated these had been obsessed with Star Wars. So far I’d found three Darth Vader shirts, two Yoda shirts, and two Luke Skywalker shirts.

Climbing wall. Indoor sky diving. Alligator wrestling. Two out of three are actual possibilities.

I tried to ignore the giddiness that shot through me at Slade’s text. I sent back: No way. Max will be too scared. Gilly will hurt herself trying to outdo all the other kids.

My phone pinged again. What ya got, then, BB? Besides a documentary.

BB? Still with the nickname, right to my face?

Not to your face, exactly. More like to your screen. Then he sent a bunch of smiley faces.

Before I could chicken out, I dialed his number. He answered on the first ring.

“It’s like when Alex and his gay friends call one another queer,” he said, before I could say anything. “It’s about embracing something meant to hurt, then claiming it as your own.”

“I think maybe I have the wrong number,” I said.

“Bird Brain was a stupid nickname,” he said. “I’m sorry I ever gave it to you.” I didn’t hear any laughter in his voice. “But maybe BB is just as bad. Another one of my failed attempts at humor.”

I was quiet for a few seconds. “No,” I said, “BB is cool. I can live with that.”

“Yeah?” he sounded surprised.

“Yeah,” I said.

We were both quiet. I wasn’t used to talking to guys on the phone. “So, uh, your ideas. They might work for you and Gilly, but I don’t know about Max.”

“What about you? Are you philosophically opposed to dangerous activities?”

I tugged at my hair. I had to be honest, or at least partially so. My body shivered at the thought of the secrets I was still keeping from him.

“I’m not much of a risk taker,” I said.

“Hmm.” His voice hummed in my ear, making me bite my lip. “Are you open to the possibility of becoming a risk taker?”

My heart sped up a little. “I prefer to stay on the ground.” I coughed nervously. “How about bowling? Or Putt-Putt golf?”

He chuckled. “I can see we’re going to have work up to zip-lining.”

I wished he could see me rolling my eyes.

“Putt-Putt golf could work,” he said. “We can take them to a movie after that.” He paused. “And by that I mean an actual movie with a plot, not a documentary.” I heard the smirk in his voice.

“That sounds great,” I said, relieved.

“So let’s meet at Gilly’s on Monday,” he said.

“It’s a date.” I immediately wanted to grab the words back.

“Sounds good,” he said, apparently unfazed by my faux pas. “Oh, and Trina? I read the binder. In its entirety.”

“You did?” My voice was a whisper.