Kissing Ted Callahan (and Other Guys)(20)

“Hey,” I say, because I feel there are matters to clear up, even though my hands are buried deep in Garrick’s perfectly shaggy and well-conditioned hair while his have settled at the small of my back, under my shirt, on my bare skin. I had no idea it could feel good for someone to touch your back.

“Sorry,” he says, professional and polite, pulling back from me.

I see that he thinks it has something to do with the skin-on-skin contact, and I want to fix that misunderstanding right away, but if I jump right back into kissing him there will still be matters to clear up.

“No,” I say, “it’s just, you know, the whole thing, is all, not you, not your hands, I mean, that’s all.”

Jeez, Riley, five billion vague phrases does not a sentence make.

“Are you okay?” He probably thinks I just had a stroke.

“I don’t smell any burnt toast, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Garrick stares at me as blankly as a boy genius can.

“You know, they say you smell toast if you have a stroke.”

MORE BLANK STARING.

“I didn’t have a stroke is what I’m saying.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up.” He laughs and goes off to get us some sodas. It’s fancy root beer made with real sugar, bottled in Mexico, where all the good sodas come from. “Are you okay?”

“I know about Sydney Jacobs,” I say.

“Oh, right. I guess I figured you would have already known. Anyway, it’s over between us,” he says, the way people talk on television when they’ve had Life Experience. “Were you reading Nick Gossip dot com? I heard that blog said something about Syd not ending things with ‘an old flame.’”

I picture Garrick as a candle in the wind, and I almost laugh, but then my gut registers the intimate Syd.

“I believe you,” I say, “and I wasn’t reading Nick Gossip dot com. Just—she’s famous.”

“Kind of,” he says.

“And I’m not.”

He cocks his head. “So?”

I can’t figure out how to say I’m a nobody without sounding like I want assurance that I’m not.

“Riley,” he says, like my whole name is a sigh.

“Let’s go to a movie,” I say finally.

“Great.” He seems relieved that I changed the subject.

“Sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay.” Garrick is suddenly made of kindness and understanding, in addition to shaggy hair and crazy good lips. “Ready to go?”

“Totally.” We walk over to Hillhurst and then down to the Vista and absolutely no more making out happens, not during the movie, not during the dark walk back to his house later.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN



The Sad Animal Project, Continued, by Reid


I stop by Paws for People “randomly” (Jane had mentioned that her schedule rarely changes) and act like I’m surprised to see her there. I remember to give a lot of attention to the one-eyed dog supposedly meant for me. Jane asks me if I asked my parents about the dog yet, and even though I know I originally did say “parents” I correct her and say “my mom, actually” and tell her how my parents are divorced and my dad lives in Chicago now.

Jane looks really guilty she said it so I’m psyched I’m getting sympathy out of this!

She’s the only one working again, so I hang out with her and help walk dogs, and something really amazing happens. At one point she makes this sad face and I ask her if she’s okay. And she says the greatest thing a girl has ever said about me.

“I was just thinking once you bring home the dog you won’t come in to help me so much!”

So I tell her it might be a while after all before I can adopt the dog, and also maybe after I do I can still come by to help her out, or I’ll at least see her around. I tried to say it all smooth like “seeing you around” means “going out with you” but I’m not sure I did it right. I am not That Guy.

I stay until Paws for People is closed, and I ask Jane if she wants to hang out. She says she can’t because she made plans already. It’s pretty disappointing but I handle it like a pro. Actually I guess if the topic is “having girls make excuses not to hang out with you” I am a pro. But this time I don’t think it’s an excuse, I’m at least 85 percent sure it’s true.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


Once I’m home that night, in my pajamas watching TV in the living room because Mom and Dad think it’s harmful to your brain development or your psyche or your vision to have a TV in your own bedroom, I listen to a new voice mail from Milo.

“Hey, Riley, it’s Milo. Call me. Later.”

It’s late—like, infomercials-are-playing-abundantly-across-multiple-cable-networks late—so I don’t, but after a weird night with Garrick, it’s good to have Milo waiting in the wings.

Wait. The wings? My life is a play with a bunch of dude understudies?

Actually that sounds awesome.

Dad walks downstairs into the room. “What are you still doing up?”

“I’m sixteen,” I say. “And it isn’t that late.”

“I guess not,” he says. “Want some popcorn?”