Page 5 of Don't Take the Girl
"I know Fisher plans to give him an earful when he returns.They had planned to work out together this summer to better their odds of making the varsity football team this year, and then London ghosted him."
A light flicking on in the front room catches my eyes, and my heart sinks as my adrenaline kicks in. "Caw-caw," I call out to get Mindy's and Skylar's attention.
Their eyes dart to mine, a mix of shock, fear, and excitement. I snap toward the window and start pointing for them to run to the left toward my house, knowing it's their best shot of getting out unseen. They don't hesitate. "Go to the back door," I whisper-yell, and we all jog toward the back of my house.
I'm just past the hedge when my foot catches, but not over a branch, over another foot. Strong arms wrap around my waist, and I'm pulled against the shadows of the house.
"What are you doing?"
My thoughts scramble to process what's happening as his voice reverberates through me. His body pressed against mine is disorienting.
"London," I pant as my fear ebbs, and I attempt to stabilize my racing heart.
"Were you expecting the boogeyman?"
My eyes widen as I moisten my lips and get my bearings. Pounding my fist into his chest, I say, "No, but I wasn't expecting a ghost either."
The smirk that was there fades, and something unrecognizable passes over his expression as his grip on me loosens. He's been gone all summer, and we haven't been as close as we used to be this past year, but I can tell something's different. I just wish he'd tell me what's going on or where he's been. The London two summers ago would have. But since he doesn't, and I'm not sure who's standing in front of me now, I nod to the front. "It's just a prank. I'll?—"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Mr. Hale curses as we hear the front door slam shut. London's hold on my arm tightens as he pulls me closer to the house and closer to him once more. "London!" he calls, "You're cleaning this mess up. I'm sure this is one of your punk friends or rivals, and I have work." London holds his finger to his lips, motioning for me to keep quiet as my pulse storms through my veins, listening to Mr. Hale curse under his breath and pace the front porch in a few long sweeps before the screen door opens, and he returns inside.
When I'm sure the coast is clear, I say, "I'll clean this up tomorrow."
He releases me. "You said it was a prank." He shoves his hands in his pockets as I discreetly take in all the ways he's changed since I saw him last. His hair is longer, and his skin is darker, which tells me he wasn't kept in solitary confinement wherever he's been. But the biggest change has to be his build. He's never been scrawny, but he's definitely filled out. My body is still humming in the areas where his firm chest bumped mine. When my eyes finally drag up to his, there's a hint of amusement, one that reminds me he asked me a question, and I'm standing here, gawking.
I clear my throat. "Yeah, you know how Syd has always been a dancer. Well, she finally convinced me to try out so we could do it together. She spent the entire summer training me, and tryouts ended last Friday. Tonight, we were pulled out of our beds and tasked with TPing one of the football players or a guy we liked, so I'm assuming we made the team with the completion of this task." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and take another step back, realizing my word vomit. "All of that…"—I wave my hand toward the front yard—"is the whole rite of passage, hazing ritual thing they do every year." I rock back on my heels. "So…"
"And you don't know any other guys?"
I can feel my face heat immediately. What kind of question is that? Does he think I can't pull a guy? I swear, sometimes I question why I'm so infatuated with this man.
"You haven't been home all summer. Therefore, your house was the perfect target." Since he was out of town, tonight should have been me TPing a house that a guy from school lived in that would have been none the wiser of my shenanigans, but becausefate seems to want to play jokes here, I am caught red-handed. His eyebrows slightly knit together as he mulls over my words, and I say, "If you're not going to rat me out to your dad tonight"—I chuck my thumb over my shoulder toward my house—"I'll be over first thing in the morning to clean this up."
I turn on my heel to leave, but his words stop me. "You said football player or a guy you liked. I missed tryouts, which means I’m not a football player."
I squeeze my eyes closed but don’t turn back. "Don't worry about it. I interpreted their words according to their basic meaning, not figuratively. They saidliked—that's past tense, not present."
I open my eyes and face him, content that my lie has satisfied his curiosity. When I turn around, prepared to walk the five steps between his house and mine backward, his studied gaze is inexplicable. I can usually read all his expressions, but this one is new.
"So you don't want to marry me anymore?"
His response catches me off guard. Just moments ago, I was convinced he'd indeed forgotten the day I'll never forget and the words we shared. I could shoot my shot, be the badass Sydney dared me to be. I could lay it all at his feet, tell him how mad I am that he started high school last year and forgot about me, or how he left me all summer without so much as a word, and I can tell him how that hurt me because he means something to me, but I don't because a memory isn't a declaration. This isn't him telling me he feels the same way. So instead, I test the waters and save face.
"I'm not ten anymore, London, and you're not looking for the best spot to fish."
The last part of that statement sends my heart racing, and my palms instantly start to get clammy. Those were his words, ones that I always believed were meant for me.
He purses his lips, his back leaves the wall, and he inhales deeply before running his hand through his hair. "Yeah, you're definitely not ten anymore, heartbreaker."
What did he just call me? London has never called me anything but Laney, and now, of all the times to assign me a nickname, he chooses that one. The chosen name hangs in the air between us, and I can't tell if it's an accusation or something akin to admiration—maybe it's both. All I know is, for the first time in five years, it feels like London is seeing me the way I've always seen him, and the realization is dizzying. His gaze lingers as though he knows what he called me was no accident.
"Laney," Sydney's voice whispering my name off the back porch has my head snapping toward the sound.
"I should go. They're looking for me," I say, but when I turn back, he's gone.
I've been outsidefor over an hour and still haven't seen London, but I know he's inside. Last night, after Mindy and Skylar went home, Sydney hung back, and I told her what went down between me and London before I came inside, except the part about him calling me heartbreaker. The nickname felt personal, and I wanted to keep it for myself while I worked through if it was dismissive or intimate. The latter is what felt real at the moment, but the entire night had me off balance, and that's the excuse I'll use when I get around to telling Sydney, because I will eventually tell her.
After the surprise of him being back in town wore off, Sydney filled me in on her ideas for getting him to see me as more than a sister. In her opinion, his words last night meant that part of him, small or not, noticed we weren't kids anymore, and that was half the battle, according to her. So, this morning, when I got out of the shower, I put her plan into action and walked into my room with my curtains wide open, wearing only my towel. Usually, I took a change of clothes to the bathroom, but Sydney advised me to change my routine. London's window is directly across from mine, and I needed to use that view to my advantage and showhim exactly how grown I was and what could be his if he wanted it. Stepping into my room, knowing I was going to cross the room to my dresser in nothing but a towel, past an open window, was intimidating as much as it was exhilarating.
