You and Me and Him Page 6

  “Sure. Go on without me.” Tom waves me away. “I’ll see you there.”

  I hesitate for a minute, but I can’t exactly lurk in the doorway while they talk, so I head to PE wondering which of Nash’s nightmare scenarios is playing out between Tom and Kayla in the biology room.

  I don’t get a chance to find out until Nash and Tom show up at Square Peg after school. There are storm clouds brewing over Nash’s perfectly coiffed hair. I go on high alert when I see his expression.

  He nods at me and heads straight to the Blues corner, as far from Tom as possible.

  “How goes the fight, Quinn?” Tom asks. He seems relaxed, but I know he’s too smart to have missed Nash’s bad mood.

  “Today we have exceeded expectations here at Square Peg,” Quinn says. “How’s that small-town adjustment period going for you?”

  “Not bad,” Tom says. “I think I already have more of a life here than at my last school, and I lived there for six months.”

  “Nice,” Quinn says. “What’s on the social calendar today? I’m sure it can’t get any better than hanging with us listening to vintage vinyl.”

  “I’m actually meeting another friend here.” Tom looks at his phone.

  I glance at Nash as Tom says this; he’s pretending to ignore the conversation. The bell rings and Kayla walks in. A cluster of her friends waits on the sidewalk outside.

  “You ready, Tom?”

  He nods.

  Kayla links elbows with him and draws him to the door. Suddenly she stops like she’s forgotten something. “Oh, Maggie. I was thinking we should have coffee sometime. I’d love to catch up.” She says it like that’s something we do once in a while: catch up over coffee.

  I am stunned into silence. My scalp prickles. Everyone’s eyes are on me, waiting for me to respond. My head bobs up and down like an involuntary spasm, but it must read as a nod to everyone else in the room.

  “Tomorrow? Around six?” she says. The spasm must still be in effect because Kayla and Tom both smile their dazzling smiles like I’ve given the right answer. They wave and shut the door behind them with a jingle and a click.

  “I know I’m several years removed from understanding the intricacies of the social scene at Cedar Ridge High, but that seemed a little weird to me,” Quinn says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Twilight Zone weird.” Quinn and I are both still staring at the door when Nash speaks.

  “What the hell was that, Maggie?”

  I turn and see Nash’s face, flushed and wounded. “What?” I say.

  “That . . . whatever that was just now. With you and Kayla?” he says, sputtering.

  “She’s the one who asked Tom out. Personally I think she’s barking up the wrong tree, but it’s not like we can keep him from making other friends.”

  “Obviously Tom spending time with Kayla is heinous. But I’m not talking about her asking Tom out. I’m talking about her asking you out!”

  “Oh, that. Yeah. That was unexpected.”

  “That was Kayla Hill!” he says. “You just agreed to hang out with Kayla Hill!”

  “I know,” I say. “I choked.”

  “To review: We don’t say yes to coffee dates with evil people who tried to ruin our lives.”

  “Nash, she’s not evil—”

  “Oh, right, she just does evil things.”

  “Nash—”

  “Do we need to take a walk down memory lane and relive Kayla’s past wrongs against you?”

  “No. I’m good. I remember.”

  “Then why?”

  “Maybe she’s changed?” I say it like I’m trying to convince myself.

  Nash shakes his head. “Just be careful, Maggie,” he says. “I don’t trust her. Not with Tom, and definitely not with you.”

  “Nash, I’m sure Tom isn’t really interested in Kayla.”

  “When has that ever stopped her from getting what she wants?”

  “Tom’s way too smart for that.”

  “I thought you were too smart for that too, but here you are, lining up for round two of the Kayla Hill smack-down.” He grabs his book bag and heads out the door.

  “You guys are better than reality TV,” Quinn says, changing the record out. Over the store speakers, the Cure is singing “Boys Don’t Cry,” but I don’t believe that’s true.

  I text Nash after work, but he doesn’t respond. After my homework, I bake a fresh batch of Nash’s breakfast bars; I think he’s been sharing them with Tom. And I whip up some rosemary lemon shortbread. I glaze the cookies, placing a couple of rosemary sprigs in the icing on each one. They look plain, but it’s amazing how much flavor’s going on in each one. They’re buttery and herbal, not too sweet.

  I wrap the cookies, checking my phone one more time. Cece called, but nothing from Nash. I put one piece of shortbread on a plate, make myself a cup of tea, and sit at the counter. Mom comes in as I take my first bite.

  “Cookies again?” she says, and my jaw clenches.

  I put the cookie down and brush the crumbs off the front of my shirt. “I was out of Nash’s breakfast cookies, and I wanted to use the last of the rosemary from the garden,” I say.

  Mom looks at the cookie, but instead of the usual disapproval, her face relaxes into a wistful smile. “Shortbread.” She sighs. “Your grandma used to make shortbread. She was famous for it. It was always my favorite.”

  I have probably only seen my mom eat a half-dozen cookies in my entire seventeen years, so this is a revelation to me. “Have one.” I grab one of the wrapped cookies from the bag and offer it to her.

  “No, those are for your friends,” she says, stepping back.

  I lean forward, trying to touch her with the cookie. “Take it, Mom. They’re not for anyone in particular. I bake them so I can give them away.”

  But she takes another step back and shakes her head. “No, thank you, honey,” she says. “I’m sure they’re delicious, but I . . . I can’t.” She purses her lips in a tight little line. She thinks I’m the one with food issues?

  I toss the cookie back in the bag. “I’m going to bed. Good night, Mom.” Taking one last swig of my now-cold tea, I leave the mug and my half-eaten shortbread on the counter.

  Chapter 9

  I jump on the bus the next morning and rush down the aisle to Nash. Collapsing onto the seat, I pull out a baggie with a fresh-baked breakfast bar. “Peace offering,” I say, handing it to him. “Sorry.”

  Nash takes the bar and starts eating. “Sorry too,” he says, covering the partially masticated cookie with his free hand. “Let’s chalk it up to low blood sugar.” He indicates the bar.

  Putting my head on his shoulder while he eats, I notice Tom isn’t on the bus. I wait until Nash is done and has neatly folded the empty baggie and placed it in his backpack before I speak.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I have no idea where Tom is in the Nash Taylor–crush life cycle at this point.

  “Well, we have that trip to Seattle on Monday,” Nash says. “And Tom and I are watching some weird Japanese sci-fi movie after school today. He called last night, after he got home from hanging out with you-know-who.”

  “And?”

  “And we talked until after midnight.” Nash sighs. “Even over the phone he makes me swoon.”

  “‘Beware of fainting fits. Beware of swoons.’”

  “Huh?”

  “Mansfield Park.”

  Nash still looks confused.

  “Jane Austen?” I say.

  “I thought you were over your Austen obsession.”

  “Just some friendly advice.” I give Nash a couple more breakfast bars. “So, you sure you want to keep going? Is he worth it?”

  Nash nods, smiling; he’s not ready to let go of this one yet.

  The bell on the door at Square Peg jingles right before six, and I look up, ready to tell whoever it is that we’re closing, but it’s Kayla. My whole body tenses. I wasn’t actually expecting her to show up. I thought the whole coffee invite had been for
Tom’s benefit. Now that she’d had her date with him, I didn’t expect her to keep pretending she wanted to be friends with me. But she strides up to the counter, says hi to Quinn, and turns to me.

  “Maggie? You ready?” she asks.

  I look at Quinn, who nods, and grab my stuff. “Let’s go.”

  Kayla and I settle into a booth at Common Groundz, the café nearest Square Peg. I’m always amazed when people incorporate puns into their business names like that. It seems to be rampant among coffee shops and hair salons. Here in Cedar Ridge we have coffee shops called Bean Me Up, Human Beans, Espresso Yourself, and C U Latte. The salons are even worse: Hair of Coarse, Curl Up and Dye, and my personal favorite, Hairanoya.

  Kayla grasps her caramel latte in two hands and smiles. Her teeth are perfect and white. They look like Chiclets.

  I chug my glass of ice water and then take a sip of my too-hot americano. I look at Kayla.

  She looks at me.

  I wait.

  She waits.

  “Awkward” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  “Sooo . . .” I begin.

  “I know . . .” she says.

  “You go ahead,” we both say at the same time.

  “Jinx!” we both say at the same time again. We stare at each other a minute, and then burst out laughing. Ice officially broken.

  “So . . . why are we here?” I ask.

  “It’s my favorite coffee shop in town.”

  “No, why are we here together?”

  Kayla looks down at the rosette of white steamed milk and brown coffee crema inscribed on the top of her latte, then somehow takes a sip without destroying the design.

  “I just,” she begins. “I thought it would be nice to get to know you. Again.” She smiles, but she’s less sure now.

  “Seriously, Kayla?” I say. “We’ve known each other forever, but I don’t think you’ve spoken to me for at least four years. Not since . . . well, not in a long time. Why now?”

  Her face morphs through several expressions in a few seconds. I see a flush in her cheeks as her nostrils flare. Her eyebrows scrunch together. She follows this with a smile that doesn’t quite make it to her eyes. Around the eyes there’s something else, something that makes me think of the Kayla I used to be friends with.

  “Look, if you don’t want to do this . . .” She looks down and starts fishing for something in her bag.

  I don’t want to be mean, and I’m beginning to think, even hope, maybe there’s more to Kayla’s invitation than a power play to get near Tom. “No, wait,” I say, putting my hand on her arm. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to do this. But you have to admit: it’s a little out of the blue. I’m just trying to figure out the motivation.”

  She looks at her coffee cup. “I guess,” she starts. “I guess I look around at my friends sometimes and get a little bored. And then I see other people, like you.” She glances up. “People who have been around but background noise, you know? And I begin to think I’m missing out.”

  “Background noise? That’s flattering.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .” She starts to apologize, but then she sets her mouth in a tight little line. “Isn’t that what my friends and I are to you and Nash? Background noise? You don’t know anything more about me or my life than I do about you and yours.”

  I start pushing at the skin around my cuticles, then rip off a hangnail on my thumb. It starts to ooze blood, so I put it in my mouth and suck on it, tasting the sour tang. Kayla’s still waiting for an answer. “Okay,” I say, taking the thumb out of my mouth. “Fair enough. Things have changed for both of us since elementary school.”

  She stares into her coffee like it’s some kind of crystal ball. “But we did have some fun back then, didn’t we?”

  “We did,” I say. “At least I did.”

  “I did too. Sometimes I feel like those last couple years of grade school were as good as life gets. Before things got . . . complicated.”

  “But we’re not eleven anymore. It can’t all be about Barbies and board games.”

  “I know. But when we ended up in a couple classes this year, I remembered . . . Well, I thought maybe we could, you know, be friends. Again.” She picks at a flaw in the glaze of her cup.

  Sitting there, I remember what it was like to be Kayla’s friend, remember what it was like before things like perfect teeth and plus-size jeans mattered. She laughed at my jokes. She listened.

  “So,” I say. “Where do you see this relationship going?”

  She laughs.

  “Too soon?”

  “Too soon,” she says. “No agenda. Let’s talk, and if we bond, we’ll go from there. If there’s no bonding, we’ve at least removed a little bit of the background noise.”

  So we talk. For about an hour: the basics, what Nash would call first-date material. I’m surprised she had a horseback-riding phase in middle school, although I remember that she used to have a collection of those Breyer Horses (me too).

  She’s surprised I watch documentaries and hate strawberry ice cream (her favorite). We are still going strong when I plead homework and have to go home.

  “Thanks for this,” Kayla says, and I think she means it.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m a little low on female interaction in my life.”

  “Yeah, it seems like most of your friends are guys, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Yep. Mostly guys. And I keep adding to the club.”

  “Some girls would love to be surrounded by guys all the time.” Kayla fidgets with her cup, turning it in circles. “I noticed you were getting pretty tight with Tom.”

  “I’ve only known him a little over a week, but he’s a decent addition to the Cedar Ridge universe, I think.”

  “We had fun last night,” Kayla says. “There were a bunch of us for dinner, but everyone else had homework, so it was just me and Tom for the movie.”

  That almost sounds like a real date. I don’t really want to know if Tom’s the kind of guy who would rather hang out with Kayla and her friends than Nash and me.

  “I got pretty nervous on the way home,” she says. “He’s kind of adorable.”

  “Yep, pretty cute,” I say, smiling.

  “And I thought I was good at flirting? Tom is a master.”

  “I’ve noticed he has some pretty potent skills in that area.” I think about the hike and the drive home afterward. I think about Tom’s low laugh and the electric current when he touched my hand in the car. But then I think of Nash, and I remember who I’m talking to. “I don’t mean he was flirting with me. It seems like he’s like that with everyone. He and I are just friends. Obviously.”

  “Why ‘obviously’?”

  Irritation tightens the skin around my eyes. She has to know that Tom plus Maggie does not compute.

  “That’s how it is. Me being who I am, him being who he is.”

  Kayla looks at me, waiting.

  “Well, anyway, he’s nice. And he’s new. You should get to know him better.”

  “That’s the plan,” she says.

  “Sure,” I say. “He’s going to need more friends than just Nash and me.” Did I just encourage one of the most beautiful and popular girls at Cedar Ridge to pursue Tom? But Kayla didn’t seem to need much encouragement. Whatever. Hanging out with Kayla has been nice, but I’ve had my quota of female bonding for now.

  “I gotta go, Kayla. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I turn and go through the door and out into the brisk fall night. Being with Kayla was easier, more familiar, than I expected. And it was nice to talk to a girl for a change. There has been entirely too much testosterone in my life lately.

  Chapter 10

  Since Tom hasn’t actually spent any time in Seattle, Nash is planning a dawn-until-dark sort of excursion. All the pieces of Nash’s itinerary are falling into place. As chauffeur, I have no say in where we go, but I don’t mind. We are finalizing plans at lunch on Friday when Cece comes by.

  She rests her lunch box on the table but
seems unsure about actually sitting down. “So, what are you all doing for the long weekend?”

  I look sideways at Nash and Tom. Monday is their deal, so I know I can’t invite Cece.

  “The usual—you know.” Nash fidgets, eyes on his sandwich. “How about you?”

  “Mostly homework,” she says. Cece’s the one fidgeting now. “But I have tickets to the modernist exhibit at the art museum in Seattle. I was wondering if you’d like to go with me on Monday, Nash?” Cece pushes this last bit out of her mouth in one quick rush, so quickly in fact that it takes us a few seconds to catch up with her. Cece’s whole face flushes bright red as she waits for his answer.

  I marvel at her courage and blind persistence. Tom and I both look at Nash.

  “You have tickets for that? I have been dying to go,” Nash says.

  “My mom got them for me.” Cece still isn’t meeting Nash’s eyes. “I figured you’d be the perfect person to go with. You know so much about art.”

  “There’s supposed to be a Warhol and a Pollock. I would do anything to see that.”

  Cece’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Great. We can go early and—”

  “But I can’t Monday.”

  Cece’s features fall back into a disappointment that’s hard for me to look at.

  Tom catches my eye, and I can see he feels the same way.

  “Oh, okay,” she says. “I’ll . . . that’s fine. Thanks.” She turns to walk away.

  “Eat lunch with us,” Nash says, throwing her a bone.

  She turns toward us. Her smile is back, although not as wide as it was a moment before. She slides into a seat next to Tom, and we spend the rest of lunch talking about what animals our teachers would be if they were animals, smoothing over Cece’s hurt feelings. Just before the bell rings, Nash presents Cece with a sketch he did while we were talking. It’s Cece, arm outstretched, with a snowy owl perched on her arm.

  “You’d be an owl,” Nash says. “Get it? Because you’re so smart.”

  Cece takes the sketch, holding it like he’s just presented her with a diamond. “Thank you, Nash. It’s beautiful.”