Date Me, Bryson Keller(27)

“It’s weird,” I say. “This is the most we’ve ever spoken. I mean, we were friendly, but we weren’t friends. Who knew we’d get along so well?”

“I know, right? You’re a pretty cool guy, Kai.” He grins. “It’s weird how we all stay in our groups. Because I play soccer, it means everyone around me does, too.”

“That’s high school,” I say.

“True.” Bryson stops the cart when I tell him to, and I stack the next few books. One of them needs to go on the top shelf, so I stand on my toes to do so.

“Let me?” Bryson holds out his hand and I give him the book. With ease, he places the book in its rightful place. He pauses and whispers, “What’s the point of having a tall boyfriend if you aren’t going to use him?” He adds a wink before returning to his position at the book cart. The absurdity of it makes me smile.

We continue to work, and with Bryson’s help, the books are reshelved in no time.

“You ready to go?” Bryson asks, and I nod.

“I’ve been thinking about our performance. Please let us pick something quick and easy?”

“Scared you’re going to blush?”

    “No, that’s inevitable,” I say.

We fetch my bag and his blazer. I follow him to his Jeep. Even though there are other students around, I don’t feel any of the anxiety I expected to feel. Even though it’s only Tuesday, it surprises me how comfortable I’m starting to become around him. Bryson has a way of doing that.

He starts the car and we drive out of the parking lot. Bryson removes his sunglasses from their storage space and puts them on. Instantly he goes from high school senior to model advertising shades. He faces me, and it’s hard not to stare.

“What?” he asks, and from the hint of a smile that dances at his lips, I know that I have been caught checking him out.

“Nothing,” I lie. I turn my attention forward. As we drive, I squint against the glare of the afternoon sun. At the next stoplight, Bryson reaches across me. He opens the glove compartment and fetches a glasses case.

“Here,” he says as he hands it to me. I open it and find an identical pair of sunglasses. “They’re my spare ones.”

I put them on and turn to look at him. Bryson’s staring at me.

“They look good,” he says.

I laugh. “You really go all in on this boyfriend thing, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“We even have matching sunglasses now.”

Is this what boyfriends do?

I catch myself grinning and decide not to overthink things…for now.





11


We arrive at Bryson’s house too soon. I’m certain that I blinked and missed the trip. Bryson lives in the same neighborhood that Donny does—I know Shannon lives close by, too. It’s a gated community where the über-rich live. The top 1 percent of the student body of Fairvale Academy call each other neighbors.

Bryson’s house has been taken from the pages of some architecture magazine—which makes sense considering that’s what his father does. I only know this because my parents scoured his designs to use for inspiration with our own renovations.

The house is two stories, like mine, but so much bigger. Truthfully, villa is a more apt description for it. It’s got sand-colored walls and white finishes. The windows are large and clean with white shutters. Bryson’s house looks like it belongs somewhere more interesting than Fairvale, California—maybe Spain.

    Even so, this house pales in comparison to the house of Donny Duckworth a few roads away.

“Are we getting out?” Bryson asks. His arms are draped across the steering wheel and his head is resting against them. It seems that we’ve been sitting there for a while already and he’s been staring at me for I don’t know how long.

I blush, and he smiles.

“Oh, uh, right.” I unbuckle my seat belt and climb out.

Bryson follows me as we walk toward the house. Silence greets us when he opens the front door. We enter and pause in the foyer. He seems unsure for a moment, looking at his shoes, the house, and then me.

“My mom kind of has a no-shoe policy in the house.” Bryson points to the slippers in the corner for guests. I smile as I hook my right shoe behind my left and pull it off. I do the same to the other one.

“My dad’s like that, too,” I say. “We grew up wearing different shoes inside and out.”

Relieved, Bryson leads me through the house.

“Wow. This is amazing.” It’s like the family room was ripped from the pages of a magazine, too.

“My mom runs her own interior decorating firm,” Bryson explains. I know this already. There was a profile about her in one of my mom’s magazines once. She’s a designer to the stars. And judging by the space around me, it’s clear that she’s very good at what she does. It is both showstopping and homey.

We don’t enter the family room, though. Instead, Bryson leads me toward the kitchen, which is large with white cupboards and white granite countertops. It’s filled with state-of-the-art appliances. There’s no doubt that this kitchen would be a chef’s dream. Bryson walks over to the large double-door fridge and pulls it open.

    “Do you want anything to drink?” Bryson asks. “We have water, juice, and soda.”