Arizona Heat (3 page)

We pull into the parking lot of a small ice cream joint around the corner from the school. I can smell the scent of fresh waffle cones as I step out of the truck and my stomach grumbles.
Damn you stomach, you just had dinner.
The Lewis clan piles out of a truck next to us and Paul starts singing the lyrics to Reagan’s song.

“Hey Paul, who sings that song?
”
I ask.

“Reagan,
”
he says, confused as he points in Reagan’s direction.

“Let him sing it.
”
Ha! Classic joke. I don’t know if Paul is old enough to get it but a laugh comes from the older crowd around us. Paul’s cheeks get red and I know he must hate me. I have the hardest time not ripping on people who think they’re too cool for everything. Yes, that includes small children.

I turn to look at Reagan who appears to be amused. He surprises everyone by opening his mouth to sing.

“And I just want you to know, you’re making me, driving me crazy.
”
His voice echoes against the night air. He looks directly into my eyes as he recites the words. I look away quickly so he doesn't see my jaw hit the floor. His words flow right to an area of my body that I don’t care to mention. I realize I’m nervously twirling a piece of my hair so I cross my arms to keep from fidgeting. Thankfully the line is short so I can distract myself with my order.

“Can I have vanilla in a waffle cone with rainbow sprinkles?”

“Rainbow sprinkles? How old are you again?
”
Reagan asks, leaning against the shop next to me.

“Two years younger than you,
”
I say, careful not to look at him for fear of freezing up. Of course, after about ten-seconds, I cave and find myself making lingering eye contact with his inhumanly stunning face. I take my ice cream from the girl at the counter and make a deliberate step to the side. He eyes me curiously as I take a big lick off the cone.

“Mm, classic,
”
I say, brushing past him on my way to an empty table. If my hair had been down it would have flown in his face and been epic.

“Haven’t changed your order?” my dad asks, eyeing my cone.

“Not now, not ever,
”
I say firmly.

“Did you enjoy the play?
”
he asks as everyone starts taking a seat around us.

“It was awesome. Tina made an amazing Tinker Bell and Paul, you were a very funny Lost Boy.
”
Tina looks proud and Paul just shrugs. I look over at Mr. Lewis
’
nephew who was Peter Pan and smile as I come up with the best idea. “I also noticed that we are in the presence of a celebrity,
”
I say, glancing over at Reagan who furrows his brow. “Jonathan, your performance as Peter Pan was superb.
”
Everyone bursts into laughter, except Paul, who storms off in the direction of the bathroom.

“Thanks,
”
Jonathan says with a shy smile.

I excuse myself to follow Paul around the corner of the building. He sits on a patch of gravel next to a dumpster and I notice his ice cream scattered across the dirt. Paul looks up at me and shakes his head, waving me away. As I come closer, I notice the tears running down his face.

“Paul, wha
t’
s wrong?
”
I ask, kneeling down so we are face to face.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?
”
he spats.

“I don’t even know what I did.”

“He can’t even remember his lines,
”
Paul sighs.

“Ah, you wanted to be Peter?
”
I ask, sitting down next to him.

“I mean, yeah, everyone wanted to be Peter. They could have at least let me be Captain Hook, but a
Lost Boy
?
”
he says, like it’s a dirty word.

“You were, like, the head of the Lost Boys,
”
I offer.

“Peter is the head of the lost boys,
”
he scoffs.

“Did you ever consider they casted the way they did because you’re funnier than Jonathan?
”
I ask.

“Peter Pan
is
funny.”

“Is Peter Pan funny? Or are the people around him funny, making him
appear
to be funny?
”
Paul looks at me curiously as he considers this. “Think about it. Tinker Bell, his Shadow, the Lost Boys, even Wendy. I don’t think Peter is actually funny at all. The people around him are much funnier than he is. In fact, I think Peter Pan is kind of annoying.
”
Paul looks down but I see a smile form on his lips before Holly walks around the corner to see if we’re okay.

“Yeah, we’re good,
”
Paul grins.

“What happened over there?
”
she asks, pointing toward the mess of melted ice cream on the ground.

“We ran into each other and it went flying,
”
I lie, not wanting Paul to get in trouble for wasting his paren
t’
s money. I turn to shoot him a wink and he gives me a knowing smile. We walk back around the building to find everyone waiting for us by the cars.

“Josie, what do you have planned for your trip so far?
”
Mr. Lewis asks.

“Tomorrow dad and I were going to take a trip up to the Grand Canyon,
”
I say.

“What a funny coincidence,
”
Mr. Lewis says. “Reagan was just talking about how he hasn't been back there in years.”

“Oh and I forgot, something came up and I can’t go with you tomorrow,
”
my dad chimes in.

What are they doing?

“Reagan, why don't you take Josie up to the Grand Canyon?
”
Mr. Lewis suggests.

“I’ll wait to go on a day when you can come with me dad,
”
I say, not sure how to politely decline without sounding like a jerk.

“Nonsense, I think that is a great idea,
”
he says with a smirk.

C’mon Reagan, help me out.

“You were saying you’re looking for some inspiration,
”
Mr. Lewis says, turning to Reagan.

“Yeah, but…
”
he mutters, looking annoyed. Does the idea of going somewhere with me sound that painful?

“See? He doesn't want to go,
”
I huff.

“It’s not that,
”
Reagan says a little too quickly. He and his dad exchange a peculiar look and I tilt my head to the side. “Okay, I’ll go with you. If that’s all right.”

“Really?
”
Oh shit, did I say that out loud
?
“I mean, okay, sounds good.”

“Then it’s settled, you can borrow my car.
”
Mr. Lewis claps his hands with a wide smile.

“Not necessary,
”
I say. “I have a rental car.”

“Josie, you can’t drive that rust bucket all the way to the Grand Canyon,
”
my dad gasps.

“If Mr. Lewis needs to go somewhere then he’ll need his car. We’ll be fine in my rental car.
”
I look at him in a way he knows I’m not playing around. “Please,
”
I add.

“Fine,
”
he says, shaking his head as he climbs into the driver’s seat of his truck. Mr. Lewis follows suit, leaving Reagan and I alone. I kick some dirt around before getting enough confidence to look into his eyes.

“Um,
”
I shrug, unsure of what I’m supposed to say.

“So you want to pick me up at around ten?
”
he asks, looking annoyed by my nervousness.

“Sure,
”
I answer simply.

“You need the address?”

“Nope. I remember where it is, just past the general store on Abbot Ridge Road.
”
That was really creepy. Why didn't I just say no?

“Yep,
”
he says looking moderately frightened.

“I used to be friends with Sara Carlton, she lived across the street from you,
”
I try to explain so I don’t sound like a stalker.

“Got it,
”
he says. Okay, time to leave.

“See you tomorrow,
”
I say quickly, climbing into the truck before I have to look at him again.

“Got everything figured out for tomorrow?
”
my dad asks, his voice full of amusement.

“I’m not talking to you right now,
”
I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“What did you do?
”
Holly swats him on the arm.

“It would appear he is trying to…
”
I pause, not sure how to put it. “Set me up with Reagan.”

“He’s a nice boy,
”
my dad shrugs.

“I have a fianc
é
or did you forget about Simon?”

He just grumbles and I roll my eyes. My dad has always had a problem with Simon that I could never quite figure out. I’ll admit his first impression wasn't a good one. Simon had a few too many beers at my college graduation party and may have barfed on my dress. Dad was not amused. Ever since, he has tried to convince me that I could do better. I haven't even told him about Simon’s newfound laziness. He would flip at the knowledge that his little girl isn't being treated well. I love him for that. I’m definitely not going to tell him now that he has the idea in his head that Reagan would be the right man for me. He must not know me at all.

I pull up to the Lewis household a few minutes before ten and knock on the door. It looks about how I remember it from when Sara Carlton and I used to stare out her bedroom window, trying to catch a glimpse of Reagan and his friends. We were young and trying to reveal the hidden secrets of the male universe. What a waste of time that was.

I have to shade my eyes from the already steaming morning sun as I gaze up at the one story stucco. I admire the burnt sienna siding as Mr. Lewis answers the door.

“Come on inside Josie. You’ll boil out there.”

“Thanks Mr. Lewis,
”
I say with a small smile.

“Reagan is in the back, should be out soon. Want somethin
’
to drink?”

“A glass of water would be great,
”
I say, taking a seat at the dining room table. He walks around the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it from the water dispenser. He fixes a cup of coffee for himself and sits across from me.

I notice a large portrait on the mantel in the living room. Mr. Lewis is much younger, with a classic nineties mustache, and an unfamiliar woman stands by his side. She has long black hair with the most beautiful brown eyes. Reagan is the spitting image of her and I know this woman must be his mother.

“She’s gorgeous,
”
I comment, staring intently at the photo.

“Yes, Adriana, my wife. Reagan got all his looks from her,
”
he says with a sad smile.

“Where is she now?
”
I ask.

“With the good Lord,
”
he says, abruptly getting up from the table.

“I’m so sorry,
”
I offer, unsure of what to say.

“It’s okay. She left us long ago, while Reagan was small.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Really?
”
he asks, turning to me with an astonished expression.

“I want to know,
”
I say, offering him an encouraging smile.

“Well, where do I begin?
”
He scratches his chin as he sits back down at the table. “Adriana was born in Mexico but her parents came to the states while she was still a baby so she grew up here. She and her parents were livin
’
with her grandma and we met one summer in town. I was sellin
’
knick knacks to the tourists and she was waitressing at the smokehouse across the street. I spent my afternoons watching her from the shop. She knew I was lookin
’
at her and one day she dropped her tray and came haulin
’
toward me. Do you know what she said?”

I nod excitedly, pretty sure the question was rhetorical.

“She said, ‘you gonna stare at me all day or are you gonna ask me out?
’
I knew right there that she was the love of my life. We went on a few dates and it took some convincin
’
but her mama warmed up to me. Not a year later we were married and Adriana was pregnant with Reagan.”

“That’s so romantic.”

“It was,
”
he nods, happy to be talking about his late wife. “She got sick a few years after Reagan was born and–”

“Ready?
”
Our conversation is interrupted by Reagan appearing around the corner with a duffel bag and guitar case in hand. His hair is pushed out of his face, still wet from a shower, and his soulful eyes look up and down my physique. A wave of nervousness ripples through my spine as I start absentmindedly picking at the fibers of my white t-shirt.

“Josie?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m ready.
”
My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand and head toward the front door. Mr. Lewis walks us to the car, taking Reagan’s bags and throwing them into the trunk.

“What’s with all the luggage?
”
I tease as Reagan slides into the passenger seat.

“I don’t go anywhere without my guitar,
”
he shrugs.

“And the duffel?
”
I ask, with a raised eyebrow.

“Stuff,
”
he mutters and turns toward the window.
Okay.
I guess that is it for talking. This should be fun. I wave goodbye to Mr. Lewis as I pull out onto the dirt road.

“Soooooo,
”
I say, unable to handle the silence for longer than a few minutes.

“Yeah,
”
he says, his voice monotone. Alrighty then. He might be a super good-looking rock star and this might be the closest I ever come to hanging out with a celebrity, but I don’t need to talk that bad. I turn the radio on and start flipping through the stations. It’s been a while since
I’
ve lived in the area but I remember which stations are which. I flip from the rock station to the country station and stop when I hear the Rascal Flatts. Reagan scoffs and flips back to the rock station. I shoot him a glare and change it back to country. His hand reaches out to turn it again but I swat it away.

“What was wrong with the rock station?
”
he asks.

“I hate that song,
”
I say, rolling my eyes for emphasis and he bursts into laughter.
Oh, shit, shit, shit.
I flip it back and realize that I just insulted his band, his music. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,
”
I say, holding a hand to my mouth.

“It’s okay,
”
he laughs. “Why don’t you like my music?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it per se, I just like other music better, I guess.
”
I glance over at him to gage his reaction and am relieved to see he looks amused.

“It’s cool if you think the Rascal Flatts are better than me and my band,
”
he jokes.

“Sorry if I hurt your feelings,
”
I offer and he sneers.

“I don’t care,
”
he says, crossing his arms.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, letting the songs come one after the other. I let the rock station play, tapping along on the steering wheel.

“What about it don’t you like?
”
he asks, breaking the silence.

“Um.
”
He wants me to explain to his face why I don’t listen to his music? I can feel him looking at me but I don’t know what to say. “What kind of music
do
you like then?
”
he asks, trying to change the question while technically asking the same thing.

“I listened to a lot of Green Day and My Chemical Romance when I was younger and now I’m into, like, Imagine Dragons and 30 Seconds to Mars, I guess.”

“How is my music any different from theirs?
”
he asks.

“I don’t know it’s softer.
”
I shrug, trying to not insult him and apparently failing.

He huffs and shakes his head. I can’t help but laugh at him a little. His body language tells me he’s brooding about something and I feel a little bad about having caused it. “My friend Francesca really likes your band,
”
I offer. Reagan nods and continues to sulk in silence.
Jeez, not everyone is going to like you dude.

He flips the station back to country and we sit for the remainder of the car ride in a moderately comfortable silence. As we approach the parking lot for the canyon I notice the winds pick up and Rebecca starts to sway. Once the car is in park, I kill the engine and leap out to escape the suffocating air brewing between us. Reagan seems unfazed by my outburst as he walks over to the driver’s side to pop the trunk. I watch his biceps flex as he lifts his guitar case and slides on a pair of wayfarers. I was internally scoffing at his choice of jeans but after standing around in 90 degrees all morning, 65 feels a little chilly now that we are at a higher elevation. Goose bumps cover my legs and my arms as I watch Reagan pull a zip up over his shoulders. Damn him for being prepared.
You live in New York now, 65 degrees is more than reasonable.

We walk next to each other down the short pathway toward a clearing in the trees. I can already hear the “ooos
”
and “ahhs
”
coming from nearby tourists. When we make it to the brim, I gaze over the canyon and am in awe like it’s the first time. The view could never be tiresome and I hold my breath as the beauty overwhelms me. I look up at Reagan who removes his sunglasses and squints. Without warning he begins walking down the path, passing tourist after tourist. He glances into the canyon as if looking for something in particular. I follow behind him, struggling to catch up until he abruptly stops and I nearly run right into him.

“What are you doing?
”
I huff. He doesn't respond. Instead he walks out onto a rock, uncomfortably close to the edge, and sits down. He pulls his guitar out of its case and swings a leg over the edge. I gawk at his bravery, or stupidity, I haven't decided which it is yet.

“Are you going to stand there all day?
”
he asks, lightly strumming the strings of his acoustic. I
really
don’t want to sit that close to the edge. Reagan looks back at me and I shift from side to side. He shakes his head and continues to strum.

Oh hell, fine
.

I walk timidly onto the rock and sit next to him with my legs crossed. I gaze out at the canyon ridges and admire the lines in the rocks, telling stories of the past. The afternoon light shines on Reagan’s tan skin and I watch as his brain works in overtime as he surveys the view. It occurs to me that there are thousands of people who would kill to be in my shoes right now. For a second, I feel lucky.