This Is Falling(57)

“Don’t be silly,” I say, opening the door to lead her inside. “Everybody knows shootouts only happen at dawn.”

I never would have expected it, but the square-dancing nights at Sally’s are actually pretty happening. Granted, Rowe and I are the youngest people in the building by about forty years, but everyone thinks we are so sweet that they teach us new formations, buy us drinks and appetizers, and even make a special crown for Rowe to be named queen. We leave after two full hours of dancing, and I actually worked up enough of a sweat to have to lose the jacket and undo the tie.

Rowe kicks her shoes off in the car, and I pull her feet onto my lap to rub them. It’s all I can do to keep my hands from running completely up her leg to the small, white panties I keep catching a glimpse of, and if she weren’t looking at me with those eyes, making that face, I probably would.

“Thank you,” she says softly, letting her face fall to the side along the headrest of the car.

“For what?” I say, my fingers pressing into the arch of her feet.

“For caring about me so much,” she says, and her words cut into my heart completely.

“Rowe,” I say, carefully setting her feet down on the floor and sliding myself closer to her so I can touch her face. “I would do…anything.”

She leaves her eyes on mine for a long time, and I just keep stroking the side of her face as we pull back onto the main road to campus. “Anything?” she says, finally.

“Name it.”

“Hold me again tonight?”

“Done.”





Chapter 21





Rowe





Nate’s dad came through with the ticket hook-up, and when I called his business associate, the man turned out to be a huge McConnell baseball fan, and he gave me the pair of third-row seats for free.

When I gave them to Nate after our prom experience, he was thrilled. There isn’t much in the way of professional sports in Oklahoma, and the Thunder has a huge fan base, so good seats are tough to come by. Now, I just need to work up the mental stamina to be able to sit in a full arena for three hours—without having a panic attack. And I have six more hours to do it before tipoff.

“Hey, he’s talking to you,” a voice behind me whispers and jolts me back to attention.

“Huh, oh…sorry,” I say, startled to have someone talk to me during art history, or in any class. My circle of friends hasn’t really expanded beyond my dorm floor, and I haven’t really made an effort to be social in class. I look up to see the professor tapping his pen on the side of his podium, waiting for me. Crap! I have no idea what the question was, and judging from the look on his face, he’s been waiting for my answer for a while. I swallow hard and shift my posture in my seat, pretending to work to get a better look at the slide showing on the screen.

“He wants to know why yellow was the dominant color,” the voice behind me whispers. I owe that voice!

“The artist was trying to depict the ugliness in human nature. He used yellow to signify greed and arrogance. And the lone figure, painted in blue, is there for hope—that humans can redeem themselves,” I say, my voice coming through a little unsurely. I read this chapter last night, knowing I zoned out during the last lecture. I just hope I remembered things correctly—and I hope like hell that’s really what the professor asked. If not, then the voice behind me might just be trying to make me look stupid.

“Perfection,” Professor Gooding says, flipping to the next slide and picking on someone else now. I sink down into my seat, relieved.

“You’re welcome,” the voice whispers again.

“Thanks, I owe you!” I whisper back. Just then, an arm leans over my shoulder and shows me thumbs up, which makes me laugh silently and smile big.

As soon as class is over, I slide my notebook and textbook into my backpack, swinging it over my shoulder before heading to the main exit.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m a big Diet Coke drinker. Forty-four-ouncer sounds mighty nice right about now.” It’s the voice, the one from behind me. I was so much less intimidated when I thought it belonged to the thin, awkward, geeky guy who usually sits there. I’ve seen this guy before, because, well, I’m not blind. He’s not Nate, but he’s pretty damn good looking. Blond hair, broad shoulders, and now I know he has green eyes to go along with the complete package. He always wears tight Tshirts, and I’m pretty sure he does nothing but lift weights—because I can see every ab muscle through the cotton of his shirt.

“You don’t really have to buy me a drink, you know. I was happy to help,” he says, leaning in toward me with a wink. His eyes run down my body once, but quickly. I don’t think he wanted me to notice, but I did, and it makes me feel a mixture of heat and uneasiness all at once.

“Well, I was just heading home, but if you don’t mind stopping at the snack stand on my way, I’d love to treat,” I say, instantly wondering if this is flirting. I don’t want to flirt. But he’s cute, and he did something nice for me, and I am pretty sure I seem like I’m flirting. This is not flirting!

He smiles at me sideways while we walk toward the center of campus, squinting slightly when the sun cuts through the line of trees on either side of us. “All right, I’ll take you up on it,” he says, the unmistakable grin on his face confirming that yes, this is in fact flirting.