Shut Out(2)

“Prove it,” I retorted.

Randy stared at me. The corners of his mouth twitched a little, like he was going to spit out a cute answer and then thought better of it. His eyes perked up once before going blank again. He had nothing.

I turned away from him, messing with the dials on his radio again. “Just take me home, okay?”

“Lissa,” he murmured. His hand closed around mine, gently pulling it away from the radio and lifting it to his lips. He kissed my knuckle, whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that jerk ruined our night.”

That wasn’t what I wanted him to apologize for.

“I know you are.”

His hand slid down my wrist and danced its way back up my forearm and shoulder, stopping when it reached my neck. His fingers cupped my cheek and turned me to face him. “I love you,” he said.

“You, too.”

He moved forward, and I let him kiss me this time. Just a quick, light kiss, not the kind I knew he was hoping for.

“You still want me to take you home, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Randy shook his head, half laughing as he reached into the backseat and blindly attempted to locate his own shirt. “You amaze me, Lissa Daniels. Most girls would cave as soon as I gave them the puppy-dog look with these amazing eyes.”

“Sorry. I like boys. Not dogs. You should’ve dated a different girl if you wanted someone to bend to your will.”

“That’s all right,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head and turning to fiddle with the keys, still dangling from the ignition. “I like having a girl who can keep me in line. You’re tough and smart and sexy and—”

“And you’re still taking me home,” I said, giving him a sweet smile.

“Yeah, I figured. But, hey, doesn’t make it any less true.”

I shook my head, unable to hold back a little bit of laughter now. “Oh, just drive me home, you brownnoser.”

And, just like that, the night’s drama was almost forgotten.

Almost, but not entirely.





chapter two


“Dad!” I called out as I walked down the stairs the next night. “Where is Logan? He should be home already.” I paused in the doorway, staring at my father. Or, more accurately, at the big bowl of ice cream in his lap.

“Hey, honey,” he said, trying to conceal the bowl from my line of sight and failing oh so miserably. “I’m sure Logan is—”

“Dad, what are you eating?”

“Um…”

I walked over to him and jerked the bowl out of his hands. “I can’t believe you,” I said, taking it into the kitchen. I could hear the wheels of Dad’s chair squeaking across the carpet, rounding the corner after me as I dumped the remaining chocolate-swirl ice cream into the garbage disposal.

“Oh, come on, Lissa.”

“You heard what Dr. Collins said. You’re supposed to be watching your diet.” I ran the water to rinse out the bowl. “You need to lose some of the weight you’ve put on since the accident or you’re going to have more health problems. Eating this isn’t going to help you with that, Dad.”

“One bowl of ice cream isn’t going to kill me,” he argued.

“You don’t know that.” I reached for a paper towel and turned to face Dad as I dried the bowl. The look on his face tore at me a little. The one that said he knew I was right but didn’t want to hear it.

This wouldn’t have been an issue five years ago, before the accident; his construction job and love of sports kept him in great shape. But it all changed on the January night his car slid on a patch of ice and sent him and my mother careening into the opposite lane. Even after Mom’s funeral, with all the food no one could touch; after he started his new job as a counselor at the elementary school; after he began smiling again—he was still in the wheelchair.

No more biking. No more football. For some paraplegics these things were possible, but we couldn’t afford any sort of special chair or bike that would keep Dad active.

So it was my job to watch out for them. For him and Logan. Without Mom around, they needed someone to take care of them. That was my responsibility now, even if it meant being a little harsh sometimes.

“So why isn’t Logan back?” I asked again, glancing at the clock on the microwave. “He usually gets in right at five thirty-two. He’s almost ten minutes late.”

Dad laughed. My muscles relaxed a little at the sound, even if it was my neurosis he found amusing.

“Lissa, are you really stressing over him being less than ten minutes late?” Dad asked.

“Maybe,” I admitted.

“Well, don’t,” he said, rolling his chair up to the kitchen table. “I’m sure he’ll be home before Randy gets here. Randy is coming over to watch the game, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, turning around to put the bowl back into one of the cabinets above the sink. “He’ll be here at six.”

Randy came to my house every Saturday night. First he’d watch whatever game was on ESPN with Dad, then we’d hang out for a couple hours before he went back home. In the year and a third we’d been together, he’d never missed a date. Even when I was mad at him.

Behind me, I heard the front door open and shut. I turned around and walked past Dad into the living room. “Where have you been?” I demanded as my brother untied his sneakers and tossed them into the pile of shoes next to the door.