“Fuck that.” He pales.
So that’s how we end up having dinner alone. Sitting across from each other at a table overlooking the gorgeous lake, while the sun dips gracefully below the horizon line. It’s like we’re on a date. I mean, we’re watching the sunset together. This is stupidly romantic.
“Feels like a date,” he says lightly, as if reading my mind.
“Not a date,” I answer, flashing a cheery smile.
That earns me an oddly weary sigh. “You know, you’re just as big of a ballbuster as Michelle.”
I frown at him. “I am not.”
“You are. Would it kill you to say one nice thing to me?” Nick shakes his head, averting his eyes. “I don’t think you have since the day we met.”
“The day we met, you put a frog down my shirt!”
“Yeah, I was twelve.”
“And I was ten. Do you even realize how embarrassing it is to have to rip off your shirt when you’re ten years old, in front of two older boys, one of whom is your brother?” I glower at him.
“Damn, when you put it that way.” Remorse fills his eyes. “I apologize for my twelve-year-old self. If it helps, I wouldn’t do that to a chick now.”
“I would hope not.” I shudder at the memory. “God, I’ll never forget that day. Danny made fun of me for a full year after that. Any time anything even remotely scary happened, like, he’d see a spider or something, he’d shriek and rip off his shirt and whip it against the wall.”
Nick’s mouth twitches as if he’s trying not to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” I grumble. “It was humiliating. Almost as bad as—” I stop talking.
Because we don’t speak of that night. He knows, though. He’s pressing his lips together even tighter, clearly battling another wave of laughter, and now I’m flashing back to another day. Or rather, another night, when I was fourteen years old and Nick was sixteen and at our house for a sleepover. I drank too much water before bed, waking up at three in the morning with my bladder about to burst. I dragged myself out of bed, out into the hall toward the bathroom Danny and I shared. I reached the door at the same time as Nick, who’d just emerged from Danny’s room. He was in boxers and a T-shirt. I was in a tank top and underwear.
White panties with pink cartoon poodles all over them.
And one word written on the front:
POODLE!
I cringe just thinking about it. I’d only recently started doing my own laundry back then, as one of my chores. And I was bad at it, always forgetting to run a load. So that weekend I was down to the last few pairs of panties in my drawer. The gag gifts and ill-fitting pairs, and, of course, the POODLE! underwear my grandmother got me for Christmas, because one time I’d made a passing comment to her that poodles were cute.
“I didn’t think the nickname would stick,” Nick says when he notices my expression. His conveys remorse.
“You made it stick,” I accuse. “You call me that more than anybody!”
“Yeah, but…” His face flushes as he trails off. “I’m sorry,” he finishes.
“Whatever. It’s clear you live to embarrass me,”
“That’s not true. It’s just my way of, you know, dealing.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “Dealing with what?”
“With your total lack of interest.” He offers an awkward shrug. “I gave up on flirting a long time ago.”
The crease in my forehead deepens. “What are you talking about right now?”
Nick stares at me. “I used to flirt with you all the time, Kate. And you’d completely shoot me down.”
I stare back. “I’m sorry—what?”
7
He’s messing with me. I’m ninety-eight percent certain of it. But the two percent that isn’t certain has me frozen in place. I sit there, staring at him, trying not to notice how hot he looks in his faded grey T-shirt that hugs his defined chest. Long fingers curled loosely around his beer bottle. The shadow of stubble dotting his strong jaw.
“You’ve never flirted with me,” I finally say. My voice sounds shaky to my ears.
“Sure I have.” He raises his beer to his lips, taking a quick sip. “I mean, it was awkward because I was sixteen and had no moves. And you were two years younger, so I was trying to be discreet about it.”
“Discreet? You saw me in my underwear and started calling me Poodle.”
“Yeah, that’s how sixteen-year-old boys flirt. You think we have any game?” He groans softly. “It was the first thing that popped out of my dumb mouth, but you went and took it to heart. All my other flirting attempts pretty much went the same way, and then, in senior year, before that graduation party? I came to grab Danny, but he was in that big fight with Michelle, remember? You and I went outside to wait for him, and we were sitting by the pool…”
“Yeah, and?”
“So I tried to kiss you that night.” He looks accusingly at me. “And you ran away.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You never tried to kiss me.” I scan my brain, thinking about the night in question.
I do remember the big fight, because it was a few days after senior prom and Michelle was still pissed at Danny for his epic corsage failure. I remember answering the door while eating an ice cream cone. Letting Nick in. The two of us walking out the back door to the patio, stepping onto the pool deck.
“We sat down and were talking,” I say slowly. “And then you made fun of me and told me I had chocolate all over my face. I was so embarrassed.”
He growls in frustration. “You didn’t have chocolate on your face, dumbass. That was my move.”
“What do you mean, that was your move? What kind of shitty move is that?” I exclaim.
“It worked with other girls!” He rolls his eyes at me, that brash confidence returning. “You find an excuse to touch their mouth or lips and then you kind of lean in, and, you know, go for it. But when I started to lean in, you jumped up and ran off.”
“Because I thought I had chocolate all over my face! Jeez, Nick. I’m sorry my sixteen-year-old self wasn’t well-informed about your little kissing tricks.”
He starts to laugh, and the husky sound makes my pulse race. “God, you’re impossible.”
“And you’re just messing with me.” I stand abruptly. “I don’t believe any of this.”
“Really? You think I’m lying about flirting with you when I was a teenager and trying to kiss you?”
“Yeah, I think you’re lying and I don’t know why. So let’s just forget about this and clean up.” I start gathering up our plates, avoiding his gaze the entire time. On stiff legs, I bring the leftovers inside and wrap everything for Danny and Michelle.
Nick enters the kitchen a couple minutes later. He looks a bit wounded.
“What?” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“Nothing. I’m going upstairs to charge my phone.”
“Are you mad?”
“Nope.” Then he leaves.
As I tidy up, I think about both incidents.
On Poodle night, I remember bumping into him in the hall. His cheeks flushed. Gaze glued to my bare legs and underwear. If he had been flirting, or eyeing me with any sort of interest, I never would’ve noticed. My humiliation had been too great and nothing could have penetrated that haze of shame.