Kissing Ted Callahan (and Other Guys)(34)

“I don’t need you to be nice, Ri,” he says, and I don’t argue that, even though I feel like Reid needs that more than he needs a lot of things.

“Do you want some pretzels, Reid?” Lucy holds out a little bag of Rold Gold to him.

“No, I don’t want pretzels, and I don’t want to be protected, and I don’t want you to be nice. I’m doing great!”

Lucy and I exchange whoa-he’s-deluded looks. And I take some pretzels if Reid isn’t going to.

“I’m going to talk to Madison,” he says, and gathers all his stuff. He has notebooks and textbooks and a Craig Thompson graphic novel and his iPod out on the table, so the gathering is a pretty extended activity. We all watch like it’s a spectator sport.

After school, I meet Ted by his locker. Reid’s still avoiding me, and that’s fine. I mean, it’s not great, but I don’t have time to dwell on specifically where it falls on the annoyance scale. I am hanging out with Ted Callahan!

“Where do you want to go?” I ask Ted.

“Wherever.” He shrugs as he gets books off of the little blue plastic shelf in his locker. It doesn’t come across with any particular enthusiasm, but I decide that’s just Ted.

“Fred Sixty-Two?” I ask because it’s my default, and so I can get a waffle. Ted agrees, and we’re off. Rain has begun dripping down from the gray sky, and parking is terrible. But Ted has an umbrella with him (!!!) to shelter us. We have to walk close together to use it, and we bump into each other a few times. Unfortunately, nothing sexy like hand-holding happens.

I grab a booth in the back and pretend to browse the menu because maybe Ted won’t think it’s hot that I’m a girl so sure of waffles. Ted’s very intent on his menu, so when he closes it, I’m hopeful we’re going to have some amazing conversation. But Ted is so just… Ted. Despite that we have had Real Significant Moments, he’s quietly glancing down at his place mat and then checking his phone and then all attention back on the place mat once again.

“I like your shirt,” I say because it’s too quiet but also because I do.

Ted smiles before he even looks up. “Thanks. I like yours, too.”

I’m not even wearing a cool T-shirt, so it feels like an extra-nice compliment.

A waiter takes our orders, and even though Ted orders a perfectly reasonable club sandwich, he does not raise his eyebrows at my waffle order. It’s definitely a quality I need in a guy: nonjudgmental of waffles. Also, obviously, good hair and good taste in music. Ted is perfect. Ted, you’re perfect! I am a hopeless case of love. Wait, love? Am I really thinking this is love? It’s Something, and maybe turning into Something More, but love is probably getting ahead of myself.

“Did you do anything last weekend?” I ask Ted, who is drawing a sketch of a robot on his place mat instead of making scintillating conversation with me.

“I worked and helped my mom run some errands.” He adds antennae to the robot’s head. “And did homework. Pretty boring. What about you? See ten secret shows?”

“I wish! Mainly just band stuff. We’re trying to work really hardcore to focus on getting as strong as possible.”

He’s still drawing. “Well, you’re in really good shape already.”

There is no way to pack in how much I love him saying that into one word, but I try anyway. “Thanks.”

Ted adds some text to the robot (I HATE MAGNETS!), and I stare at the words for a few moments. I have seen this handwriting before.

“You made me that mix CD.” It flies out of my mouth like an accusation, so I try to soften my tone. “I mean, you did. Did you?”

Ted looks confused. “The one I gave you on Monday, you mean?”

I’m back to thinking maybe Ted has the best taste in music of anyone I know. Would it be weird to ask him to the Andrew Mothereffing Jackson show tonight? Is that Too Much Riley at Once? “Yeah. Someone left me this awesome CD, and I had no idea who.”

“I put a note on it!” he says. “It wasn’t supposed to be anonymous.”

“The note said, ‘To Riley’! That’s still anonymous!”

Ted laughs. “I meant to sign it. I didn’t intend any mystery.”

“Good, because I solved it pretty quickly.”

“I just wanted to do something nice for you,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. “It’s a really good CD.”

“I did a lot of research,” he says. “On bands that have good drummers. And I checked with my cousin, and he helped me, too.”

Okay, so Ted is no musical genius. Ted’s mix CD required the Internet and his cousin. But that probably took even more effort than if he’d just had perfect taste, and he used all that effort on me. I feel like crawling under the table and joining him on his side of the booth for a big hug and some cuddling and the sharing of our forthcoming food.

I manage to stay put, though. Despite how it feels to have someone good and pure and of course completely hot like Ted do something like that for me.

I haven’t written anything about Ted in the Passenger Manifest. I know I’m not required to, but it was easy with Garrick, and it’s been easy with Milo. And it’s not at all about hurting or not hurting Reid’s feelings. It’s that right now, Ted is just for me.