Cinderella Sidelined (12 page)

Blaine stretches his arms over his head as he sighs and stares up at the bright blue sky. I look over at him from the next lounger and smile. He's sprawled out on a towel across his pool chaise, sunglasses on, sunscreen slathered over his smooth, defined bare chest, an easy, lazy smile on his face.
 

 
I look up above me right into the lightly blowing palm tree fronds. This exact spot has always been my most favorite place in the whole yard, especially when small beams of sunlight peak around the palms.
 

It's like being on a permanent vacation, but only having to go thirty feet from home.

"It definitely doesn't suck."
 

"Come cool off with me," he says, hopping off the chair and holding out a hand to me.

I let out a content sigh and put my hand in his, feeling the warmth of his skin as it closes around mine.
 

I won't lie; I've been feeling disconnected from Blaine lately, like our two worlds had suddenly taken on very different orbits, and I need this calm, lovely Sunday afternoon to bring me back down to earth.

He leads me down to the edge of the pool, right next to the small fountain trickling into the water, and sits. I drop his hand and run back to my lounge chair to grab a towel for me to sit on.

"Oh, yeah, forgot about that," Blaine says as I spread the towel on the hot stone path lining the pool.

"We don't need to talk about it again."
 

He's got on swim trunks so he's fine, but I know from not-so-fun experience that my bikini bottoms don't exactly do much to protect me from the scalding stone.
 

But Blaine starts to laugh so I reach out to swat at him.

"Stop!" I exclaim.

"Stop what?" he asks in his fake innocent voice. "I'm not even doing anything. I'm definitely not talking about the time you roasted your butt so bad you couldn't sit down for three weeks straight. That wouldn't be nice. Because it definitely wasn't funny."

I side eye him, trying to decide if I'm really upset or not.
 

On one hand, it hurt like the devil and I had little red heat blisters all over my bum and on the back of my thighs for what felt like months.

On the other, I'm all healed up nice now, and I'd probably laugh if it'd happened to someone else.

"You're mean," I tell him, and he leans over and nudges my shoulder.
 

"But you like me anyway."
 

"Do I? You sure about that, babe?"

"My mistake," he says, looking down at the pool water. "Here I am, hoping my girlfriend thinks I'm an okay guy. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"I've been keeping a running list, if you're interested."
 

He whips his head around to stare at me, his eyes wide in mock horror, mouth hanging open. "Oh, that's not cool. Not cool at all."
 

"Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?"

Without warning, Blaine suddenly leans over and starts tickling underneath my kneecap. The exact spot he knows I can't handle! Damn him.

I screech and squeal and try to wriggle away from him, but he's got dozens of pounds and even more muscle on me, plus he had a head start. He's laughing and before I know it, I'm completely pinned underneath him as he moves his hands over my bikini-clad body, torturing me.

"Blaine!" I squeak out in between breaths even though I'm smiling. "No! No more!"

"You're laughing," he says, sliding his hand from my sides and closer to my stomach.
 

"You're tickling me!"
 

He grins, brings his head down and brushes a light kiss across my lips, then deepens it before he rolls off me and onto the patio.

"Thanks for that," I say, but it's like the smile is superglued onto my face.
 

Yeah. An afternoon like this is exactly what we need to get back to where we belong.

And that's together.

I can't believe I ever even started to wonder if he cares.

"Where have you been lately, Em?" Blaine asks, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head and glancing over at me.
 

I look back at him with raised eyebrows, not sure I understand his question. "What?"

He shrugs, shifting his weight, suddenly seeming uncomfortable, like he'd rather go roast his own butt than be here with me right now. "I don't know. Forget I said anything."
 

"No." I reach out and put a hand on his upper arm. "What are you talking about, Blaine?"

"Em." He shakes his head. "Don't take this the wrong way or anything."
 

"I won't, just tell me what's going on."
 

"It's like you haven't been around at all lately," he says without meeting my eyes. "I mean, we used to grab pizza or whatever after practice everyday and this is the first time we've chilled all week."

"Blaine, I'm not playing -- "

He holds up a hand to stop me. "I know, you're not playing volleyball. That's cool, but it's...I dunno, it's weird, y'know?"
 

I mash my lips together. "Yeah, well, you're not the only one who thinks so. It's kinda weird for me, too."
 

"I know, Emma," he says, struggling to keep the frustration from spilling into his voice, but I've been with him long enough to know what's simmering dangerously close to the surface right now. "I'm just saying. It's a lot of change all at once."
 

I try to take a deep breath, but honestly, hearing Blaine whine about how different life is for him now that I'm not playing volleyball is grating on me.

Like, does he somehow think he's the only one affected by all this?

"I mean, what are you doing after school, anyway?" he goes on, saving me from having to come up with a calm response when I don't think I have one. "Coming home and hanging out with your fam? Meet me for food instead. That way it's not everything that's changing, ya know?"

"Yeah, but see the problem with that is that I'm not just coming straight home after school."
 

Blaine looks up at me sharply.

"Relax," I continue. "I'm doing the play."
 

He furrows his brow. "You're doing plays? Like drawing them up for Coach Morris? That's cool, Em. It's good to stay involved with your team."
 

I try not to roll my eyes because I know it'll just aggravate him more. "No, not plays. The play. The school play. "

"The what? We have those?"
 

Blaine looks genuinely confused, and even though it just irritates me now, I can't get too upset about it because I'd have had the same reaction if I hadn't busted up my wrist.

And, okay, it's probably a lot closer to the reaction I did have when I first stumbled on the play, even if I don't really want to admit that anymore.

"Yes," I say, trying to keep calm. "We do. Two every year, actually."
 

"Oh. Well, cool." Blaine's diplomatic reaction surprises me. "So you're doing what with it? Props or something?"
 

"I'm the star."

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, and Blaine chokes back a laugh.
 

"Is that so?" he asks.

I shrug nonchalantly, like that will somehow let me take them back. "Maybe. I'm one of them, anyway."
 

He's struggling to hide his smile. "Okay, Emma," he says at last. "Well, that's...great, I guess. You'll have to let me know when the play is so I can come check out my soon-to-be Academy Award-winning girlfriend."
 

I don't like the way he says this, like he's just humoring me or something. I've always loved the way Blaine and I could joke back and forth with each other and neither of us took ourselves too seriously, but this feels wrong.

Like maybe he doesn't mean it or doesn't care or something, I don't know.

I get to my feet, gather up the towel and walk back over to the lounger to relax. He follows a few seconds later, much like I thought he would.
 

Predictable, easy, routine.

I used to crave it.

But now?

Now I'm not so sure.

Maybe there's something to be said for embracing something new.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I drum my fingers against the wooden bench, glance around the parking lot for any sign of him one more time, and let out a sigh, sure I've made a huge mistake.
 

Russ asked to meet me out here this morning after yesterday's horrible play practice with Mary. She'd specifically chewed me out in front of the entire group, and I'd left rehearsal wondering if I should quit the play all together. Russ claims the fresh, clean air and spectacular views of the valley will help clear my head and get me in the right frame of mind.

Me? I'm not so sure.

Mostly because I've never been one for hiking. But Russ says he does it all the time and he was actually kind of persuasive, obviously, because here I am, ready to go in my black tank top and bright purple running shorts, armed with a giant water bottle and supersize bottle of sunscreen.

The only problem (besides my general dislike for hiking at all)?
 

Russ isn't here.

And it's fifteen minutes past when he said he'd meet me.
 

I'm in the middle of texting my mom to ask her to come get me when I hear a rumbling sound in the distance. I stop texting and look up at the sky, expecting to see a low-flying plane or helicopter or something.

But a minute later, the source of the horrible noise becomes obvious.
 

Russ.

I'd recognize that barely running pile of scrap metal anywhere.

His car comes screaming into the parking lot so fast I'm surprised he doesn't get up on two wheels when he swings into the parking spot right in front of me.

I jump to my feet and take a few steps back, sure his car is going to somehow climb the curb and plow me over, and I'm relieved when the engine cuts and he gets out, laughing.

"You look like you just saw a ghost, Em," he says. He moves the driver's seat forward and rummages around for something I can't see in the backseat.
 

"You drive like a friggin' maniac."

He keeps laughing and the next thing I know, a giant ball of fur comes barreling out of his car.

"Ahh!" I scream, jumping up onto the bench. "What is that thing?"

Russ looks at me like I've gone totally nutso. "Uh, Emma?"
 

"What is it?" I demand.

"That's Wilbur," Russ says slowly in the same kind of voice you'd use to talk to a toddler you're about five seconds away from putting into timeout. "He's a dog."
 

"Why is he here?" My breathing is slowly starting to come back to normal but I have no plans to leave the top of the bench anytime soon.
 

Or at least until Russ puts this thing back in his car.
 

"Um, Em? Something you want to tell me here?"

I shake my head quickly. "No, I just -- I -- wasn't expecting a dog."
 

"You don't like dogs." It's not a question and the way his face falls when he says is makes me feel guilty, like I'm doing something wrong by telling him how I feel.

"I -- Russ, it's not like I don't like dogs, but -- "

"No, it's okay," he says, choosing to look at Wilbur instead of at me. "You don't have to explain yourself. It's my fault. I shouldn't have brought Wilbur. I just forgot I told the shelter I'd day foster him last week when I asked you to go hiking and I thought I could pull it off with both of you. Sorry. I'll take him back to the shelter and we can do a sunset hike or something."
 

I stare at him, then look down at the panting, slobbery Wilbur who's sitting patiently next to Russ, and feel like my insides are being split in two.

"The shelter?" I ask at last.

He nods. "Wilbur was picked up as a stray near the hockey stadium a couple weeks ago. His owners never came for him and he's up for adoption, but the dogs get kind of fussy. I volunteer to take them out for the day and then I clean out the cages every Thursday."
 

"Why?"

Russ shrugs. "Because it's a good thing to do? We take a lot of pictures and make up a card to stick on their kennels. I like to think it helps them find a new home."
 

I bite down on my lower lip. "That's...that's hard to argue with."
 

He offers me a small smile. "I know. That's why I do it."
 

"I guess he's...kinda cute," I say, taking a step toward the edge of the bench.
 

"He's a lover," Russ says, getting down to his knees, and as if on cue, Wilbur gets up and starts planting big, slobbery kisses all over his face. It doesn't take long for the eighty-pound furball to knock Russ back onto his butt and smother him in tongue.
 

"He doesn't look like the world's most polite date."
 

"And you haven't even seen his table manners," Russ replies, finally getting control of Wilbur and staggering to his feet.

I giggle despite myself.
 

"Do you want to meet him?" Russ asks, and I freeze.
 

"Oh," I say, trying to stall and buy some time. "Um."
 

"You don't have to," he says. "But I promise he'll love you."
 

I climb down off the bench and take a few unsteady steps toward Wilbur and Russ, my eyes never leaving Wilbur the whole time. He doesn't move while I cautiously approach.

I'm maybe ten feet away from Russ and the dog, and it feels like my heart rate kicks up with every step I take. Is it wrong that I really sort of hate Russ right now for doing this to me?

"Stop," Russ says quietly. "Stay there. I'll bring him over to you."
 

I kneel down on the hard pavement already warming under the strong Arizona morning sun. Russ wraps the dog's leash a few more times around his left hand then slowly walks him closer to me.