Make Me Bad(35)

I pop up on my elbows, surprised. “Like physically?”

He smirks. “Sure.”

I’m skeptical. “Why do you want to know?”

He wipes his hands clean of sandwich crumbs and then bends one knee up to his chest so he can prop his arms on it. He’s the poster child for relaxed confidence. “Because if you want me to set you up with someone, I should know what to look out for, don’t you think?”

“Oh, right.”

I lie back down as I think so I can almost pretend he’s not there, listening to me. I can be as honest as I want to be, and right now, the truth seems to want to spill right out of me.

I think of Ben and how to describe what I like about him, how he makes me feel. I can’t just tell him: you. Find someone exactly like you. Find someone who happens to have all the indefinable qualities you have. So, instead, I dig deep and try to think of why I’m so drawn to him.

“I want to feel exhilarated in his presence,” I start. “Like I’m grateful just to be near him.”

He laughs. “That sounds nice, but I need something a little more tangible.”

I close my eyes, imagining him. “Right. Okay, how about this? I’d like him to have brown hair. I’ve always been into guys with brown hair. And tall. Yes, he should be tall.”

“Easy enough.”

“I think I want him to be funny, but not so funny that he always tries to be the center of attention. That could get annoying.”

“Marginally funny, got it.”

“Good dresser. No cargo pants.” I shudder at the thought.

“Does he have to be well-off?”

“Eh, doesn’t matter. I just want him to have a job, any job.”

“What about the teenager who was making our sandwiches earlier? He seemed into you. When you went to the bathroom, he asked me for your number.”

“Hilarious.”

“Okay. Keeping going.”

“He has to enjoy reading.”

“That’s a given.”

“And it’d be nice if he got along with my family.”

He hums then, as if deciding something. “So that rules me out.”

I sit up like I’ve just been zapped back to life. My eyes are wide open. “What do you mean, ‘rules you out’?”

Was he considering himself an option?!

He’s looking away, eyes narrowed as he watches a group of kids playing frisbee. For a second, I think he’s not going to respond to me, but he finally speaks. His profile is all I’ve got, so I stare, wholly absorbed. “Have you ever thought about what could happen between us if we weren’t in this town? If you weren’t the daughter of the police chief and I wasn’t a Rosenberg?”

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, reaching down for an acorn so he can dismantle it and toss away the pieces. “Forget it.”

Forget it?! Yeah right! I want to reach over and yank those thoughts straight out of his head. I want to squeeze those chiseled cheeks between my hands, get within an inch of his face, and demand he tell me the truth, but the tone of his voice and his narrowed gaze warn me off of pushing him on the subject. I don’t think I’ll like the answer, but still, I have to know…

“Can I ask you something?”

Even if we’ll never be anything more than what we are in this moment, I’m curious about one thing.

“What?” he says, tilting his head so the sun catches his eyes. My stomach swoops.

He has that effect on me with just one glance—imagine what it would be like if he got close enough to kiss me. I suppose I’ll never find out.

“I’m just wondering, if we were in that scenario you just mentioned…just two normal people going about our life. Maybe we meet on the streets of New York or in some coffee shop in Seattle.” I’m picking at grass while I speak. “If you weren’t the last man on earth my dad would ever want me to date and I somehow caught your eye, would you find me…attractive?”

He chuckles then and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you even have to ask.”

That’s all he gives me. No affirmation one way or the other, no piercing gaze locked with mine confirming I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on.

I want to demand more, but I don’t get the chance.

“Heads up!” someone shouts from across the grassy field just before a bright yellow frisbee flies into my peripheral vision. I yelp as hard plastic collides with my forehead.





“It’s not so bad,” Mrs. Allen assures me at the library on Monday. “I can hardly see it.”

“That’s because you’re not wearing your glasses.”

“Oh.” She reaches for the beaded lanyard around her neck, positions her glasses in place, and then gasps. “Oh dear! We need to get you to a doctor!” She reaches for the phone. “Let me call 911.”

I hold down the receiver.

“I’ve already been to the doctor, remember? I just told you all about it.”

Ben took me on Saturday even after I insisted I was fine. It was a waste of time. The doctor just confirmed that I knew where I was and then poked and prodded my head a little. It hurt, but I would live. He prescribed ice and rest.