Maybe This Time(33)

I sucked my lips in, trying not to laugh.

Andrew slowly turned to face her, his expression a mix between anger and humor. “What was that for?”

“Being a snob,” she said.

He picked up a handful of cake himself. Micah shrieked and ran toward Lance, who had just come out of the house. Micah ducked behind him. Lance looked confused until Andrew came barreling around him and smashed his handful of cake right in Micah’s face to her squeals of laughter.

“I am not in this fight,” Lance proclaimed.

Micah blew air between her lips and wiped her face along the back of Lance’s shirt.

“Micah!” Lance tried to shake her off but she continued.

“This cake is nasty,” she said.

I laughed this time; I couldn’t help it. Andrew, Micah, and Lance all looked my way, and I knew I was in trouble.

“No!” I yelled. “I didn’t do anything! And I’m injured. I can’t run!” I limped toward the parking lot.

Andrew caught up with me first, grabbing me around the waist from behind, my feet lifting off the ground. Then Micah and Lance were in front of me and I received an entire face full of cake.

“Not cool!” I wiped my face with my hand. Lance and Micah were now in a mini cake fight, chasing each other around some tables.

“Put me down,” I said.

“Put your feet down,” Andrew said next to my ear.

“Oh. Right.” I lowered my feet and he released me.

I heard the sound of a buzzing phone. Andrew pulled it out of his pocket and swiped on the screen. I watched his jaw tighten again, like it had earlier.

“Who’s texting you?” Micah said, sliding up beside us. She must not have noticed he wasn’t happy about this text.

He put on a smile. “Just my mom,” he said.

His mom. I vaguely remembered him saying that his mom had left when his dad’s career had ended or something along those lines. I had thought he was implying she wasn’t in his life at all, but maybe I was wrong.

“Tell her we say hi,” Micah responded happily.

My eyes went between Micah and Andrew. Micah knew him better than I did. Maybe he and his mom had reconciled or had never had a falling out to begin with. Maybe I was imagining the tense jaw and anger in his eyes. He was smiling, after all.

Andrew met my eyes, as if silently asking if I had anything to add, as if wanting me to say something that gave him permission to drop the fake smile. My mind went back to that day in the van when he admitted that it was hard for him to make friends, to let people in, to bare his soul. He feared getting close to anyone because he always moved. He always left. That was his deal. And I wasn’t the right person to change how he normally dealt with it.

“Yep,” I said. “Say hi to your mom.”

With his smile more firmly in place, he looked back at his phone and started typing.

It was official. I was still a jerk. What was it about Andrew that brought out the worst in me?





CARNATION

A flower with a potent fragrance and distinct shape, mostly known for being the choice of cheapskates. Bring someone a carnation and you may as well have plucked a dandelion out of a crack in the sidewalk. But carnations don’t mind their reputation. They are both hardy and long-lasting. Stubborn little flowers. Long live the carnation!





My fingertips were various shades of blue and red. I’d spent the night before dyeing white carnations with food coloring. It wasn’t hard: Trim the stems under water, then add the dyes. The flowers soak the color right up to produce the cool effect of color-streaked tips. Bundle some red, white, and blue flowers together and you have instant all-American patriotism.

“This is what passes for a lake around here?” Andrew asked, joining me at the picnic table where I had set up shop. “Are there any gators in there?” he added in a horrible attempt at a Southern accent.

“Andrew.” I nodded at him in greeting. “A month away from you almost made me forget how charming you are.”

“My charm is unforgettable,” he said with a grin.

“No gators,” I said, arranging the red, white, and blue carnations in a vase. “They like southern Alabama better.” I gave him a sideways glance. He was wearing a blue polo shirt, its collar turned up, and some plaid shorts that no guy around here would’ve been seen dead in, because they hit him above the knee.

“How cute!” Micah said as she walked up. “You two look like you could take a couple’s picture together.” She set a large glass beverage dispenser on the table.

I glared at her, then looked down at my outfit. I wore a sundress, but she was right; it was almost the same exact plaid as his shorts. “Nice,” I said.

“How’s your foot?” Andrew asked me.

It took me a minute to remember that the last time he’d seen me, I’d cut open my foot at the wedding.

It was summer, so not much had happened since then aside from working at Every Occasion and going to drive-in movies with Micah and on diner runs and lake trips with Gunnar, but it felt like forever ago.

“Fine,” I said. “Healed.” With a killer scar. “How’s … whatever you do when you disappear?”

“Good. I got to get out of this town for several weeks and actually see things and people.”