First Comes Love (3 page)

“Dude, it’s great to see you,” he says. I nod but I don’t reciprocate the feeling. The timing sucks. Brandon can’t help who he is—a physical reminder of what my life is and more important what it
isn’t.
I spent so much time carefully packing up my past. Sealing it shut. Storing it away. Seeing Brandon makes that box fall open and all the memories spill out at my feet.

Dylan leans against the building in the shade, next to the blond bombshell. She looks like a shabby street kid standing next to a sparkling celebrity.

“Oh,” Brandon says. “This is my girlfriend, Kim.” I reach out my hand to shake Kim’s, and she looks up from her cell phone long enough to make eye contact. She offers me a limp handshake in return. Her bright white teeth greet me through pink shiny lips, and her blue eyes meet mine under a black coat of mascara. I gawk at her because I’m a guy and it’s what we do when women dress like they’re hoping to be discovered by Victoria’s Secret. Kim is universally beautiful. Platinum blond. Breasts the size of dodge balls, spilling out of a bright blue tube top. A silver hoop is pierced through her tan belly button. She could be a
Playboy
centerfold, but she knows it, which makes her off-limits to the average guy. Brandon used to go for tomboys, or for the quirky, funny girls that made him laugh. He always claimed looks didn’t matter. This girl is proof he sold out.

I look back at Brandon, and even though we haven’t spoken in months, I know his life is the same (other than his new supermodel sidekick). When everything comes easily to you, it never challenges you to change. He was our high school homecoming king, starting shortstop of our state-winning baseball team. Good grades. Charismatic. Worshiped. He even has looks on his side. Rumor has it he’ll be the starting shortstop at ASU as a freshman.

I introduce him to Dylan, and she nods and offers a half-grin but doesn’t extend her hand. She keeps her fingers tucked inside her pockets, and I notice her eyes narrow as they pass between Brandon and me.

Brandon quickly looks her up and down. He glances back at me, skeptically. I don’t blame him. She’s dressed for yard work, and in Phoenix, looks define you. His face turns serious and my stomach buckles.
Oh, no. Please don’t go there. Not right now.

I lean against the brick building and watch the tension
rise between Brandon and Gray. It’s so thick, I could wrap my fingers around the air and wring it out. I’m tempted to try.

The Brooklyn Decker clone next to me adjusts her tube top and sighs. I noticed Gray drooling over Kim when he shook her hand. I can’t really blame him. Kim has the face for a billboard and her body curves like a human hourglass, but I’m not intimidated and here’s why: The first thing I notice about people are their eyes. It gives them away. You can tell how alive they are. How genuine. How deep they feel and how much they wonder. Kim’s eyes are dull and glazed over like they’re empty, like she doesn’t really see people. She just sees herself.

“How’s your family handling things?” Brandon asks, and his question snaps my attention back. I notice Gray’s face instantly harden.

“Fine,” he says, but his throat sounds constricted as if he has to force out the words. “We’re doing fine.”

“Is your mom okay?” Brandon asks.

He nods quickly. “Yeah. I mean, it’s been hard, but she’s dealing.”

“You thinking about playing baseball again?” he asks.

Gray concentrates on the ground and kicks at an imaginary rock.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says.

“I’m playing in town this summer. If you ever want to practice, you should give me a call. We could hang out.”

“That sounds good,” he mumbles. He’s a terrible liar.

“You doing okay?” Brandon asks. I see Gray’s hands clench into fists, and it makes my back straighten up.

“Yeah, considering. Who knows, maybe I’ll be at ASU this year. I can check out a game.”

There’s jealousy on his face, as if Brandon stole a dream he feels entitled to. Or, maybe it’s Brandon’s life in general: college, baseball, aspiring porn star girlfriend.

“Great,” Brandon says. “I can get you front-row seats.”

Gray grinds his teeth together and nods. “Sounds great,” he mumbles.

Right,
I think as I watch his bitter expression.
That sounds
super.

We all stand there silently for a few seconds. Kim blows a bubble with her gum and pops it between her teeth—her one contribution to the conversation. Gray shifts his weight back and forth on his feet as if he wants to run, and without thinking, I step forward and tug on his hand. He turns to me and looks down at our hands with surprise, and I say the first thing that pops into my head.

“Aren’t you going to tell him the news?” I ask.

“What news?” he asks, wide-eyed, like he fears the response.

I offer Brandon an apologetic smile. “I doubt Gray’s going to be at ASU this fall,” I tell him, and glance over at Gray. “I mean, Duke just accepted you.”

Brandon’s eyebrows fly up. “Really? Out east? That’s awesome.”

Gray blinks back at him.

“And what about Stanford?” I add. “You can’t turn down a full-ride academic scholarship. Besides, there’s a lot more to life than baseball.” I smile victoriously back at Brandon.

“Yeah,” Gray says. “We’ll see.”

“It was great to meet you,” I say, and pull Gray down the street. Brandon waves goodbye to us, his face frozen with surprise. Kim doesn’t look up; she’s busy inspecting her manicure for signs of distress. We’re a block away before I let go of his hand, hot inside mine. He still looks angry, but there’s a hint of relief in his eyes, even a little amusement.

“You know,” he says, “you should come equipped with a warning button that lights up when you’re about to say something ridiculous. That way people can run before absurdity strikes.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile. It’s the first compliment he’s given me, and it’s a good one.

He frowns at my beaming face and informs me that it wasn’t a compliment. “Why did you say that?”

I look away while I decide how to answer this. Saying I was helping him out would only annoy him. Gray doesn’t seem like the type who appreciates emotional charity.

“I think you should know right away that I have a rare medical condition,” I confess.

He doesn’t look at all surprised to hear this. He watches me closely and waits.

“I suffer from freak creative outbursts,” I say, which is true, and his mouth starts to twitch.

“That’s what you call
lying?
”

“No,” I refute. “
Lying
is manipulation. I prefer to call what I did ‘improvisation in times of desperation.’”

“Excuse me?”

I throw my hands up in the air. So much for my rare medical condition. “I was trying to help you out. You were getting ready to punch him,” I say.

He glares at me for making an accurate observation. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Your hands were balled up in fists,” I remind him. “And you were grinding your teeth together. I wouldn’t call that friendly body language.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

I shake my head. “Look, I’m sorry I lied. I was trying to save your knuckles.”

And just like that, Gray smiles. It makes his eyes light up. It changes his entire face. I can see the layers of ice beginning to melt away. Wow, I think. This guy needs to smile more often.

“Duke and Stanford?” he asks, still smiling. “Why not Harvard? Are you trying to lowball my intelligence?”

We start walking and I ask if he’s mad and he shakes his head. He tells me he’s just annoyed that his past caught up with him on Mill Avenue of all places. I nod, but I know what’s really bothering him—that an overly perceptive girl he barely knows was there to witness it.

He looks at me and grins again, and I know it’s his way of saying thanks. We’re both silent as we reach the end of the street, where it dissolves into a city park along the edge of Tempe Town Lake, a shiny jewel of water with a tall bridge built on top of it like a crown. Geckos run around our feet and I walk down the grassy hill to the lake. Gray follows behind me and I turn to see him watching me like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” I ask.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what that was all about?” he asks.

I study him. His mouth looks bolted shut with a dozen locks. “No,” I say simply. “You don’t look like you’re aching to talk about it.” Gray exhales a long breath of relief and shakes his head. I don’t pry any further. I lift my camera and aim it at the calm water, mirroring the sky. The shutter clicks when I take the picture.

“I should take you home,” he says.

I nod, but first, I need to capture a memory. I want to freeze my favorite part of this day. I turn and focus the lens on Gray and take a shot of his profile before he can turn away.

“Hey,” he says, and tries to block the camera with his hand. He tells me he never agreed to a photo shoot, but he’s grinning again and his eyes are lighter. That’s three smiles in five minutes. I feel like I deserve a medal. Sometimes the smallest victories in life are more rewarding than the greatest milestones.

***

Gray drives me home and I point out directions
to a sprawling estate in a gated community in Scottsdale.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks as we drive by homes that look large enough to be hotels. I tell him to turn into a driveway leading to a three-car garage, and he asks me what kind of trust fund I recently inherited.

“Not what you expected?”

He stares down at my baggy, faded jeans. “You dress like you should be pitching a tent in a state park.” He cuts himself off as if worried he’s offended me. “You just don’t seem… I don’t know. Materialistic.”

“I’m not, but my aunt got a nice divorce settlement. Plastic surgeons must do pretty well in Phoenix.” Gray smirks and we look at the house, which appears to be three homes glued together, perfect for a family of twenty. He notices the beat-up orange Volvo station wagon parked next to us. The bumpers are covered with rust and the paint is warped and peeling.

“Looks like her car could use a face-lift,” he says.

“That’s my beast. His name’s Pickle.”

He wrinkles his eyebrows at the orange car.

“I see the resemblance,” he says, and points to my Wisconsin license plate. “You’re a long way from home.”

I nod. “That’s the idea.” I open the door but I stall before getting out—one foot’s on the driveway and the other’s still lingering in his car like it doesn’t want to move. “Can we do this again tomorrow?” I ask easily, as if we’re already friends. Because I feel like we are. From Gray’s stunned expression, he doesn’t agree.

“Do what?”

“Explore the city.” I tell him maybe we can avoid Mill Avenue. “I’m glad I got to see it, but those people take themselves way too seriously. I feel like you need to be on a guest list just to walk into some of those stores.”

“Welcome to Phoenix,” he says. He stares back at me with stubborn eyes, like I picked the wrong local if I’m looking for excitement, but I return the look because I think he’s wrong. He has a venturous side, I can sense it, but for some reason it’s buried.

“Listen, Dylan, I don’t do a whole lot. I don’t think I’m the guy for you.”

I smile at him. “Of course you are,” I say, and hop out before he can argue. “See you tomorrow.”

I take long, confident strides toward the giant, shiny oak door, past manicured trees and shrubs and a lawn that manages to be lush with thick green grass in the dry desert heat. In my baggy jeans and messy hair, I know I don’t fit into this plastic palace. But I don’t want to fit in. That’s when no one notices you. You leave a longer impression when you’re brave enough to stand out.

I walk out the front doors
of the English building the next afternoon and there she is, sitting on a bench in the courtyard, her camera adorning her neck, quick to access, like she’s a paparazzo waiting to snag a photo of a celebrity student. She’s wearing her usual black tennis shoes, but today she has on green hiking shorts with gray socks pulled up to her knees. When she sees me, she jumps up and sprints to my side before I even reach the sidewalk. I blink at her, still half asleep from class. Her presence jolts me awake like an alarm clock, and I’m not exactly happy about it.

“Normal people slow down when it’s this hot,” I inform her.

“Do you have plans today?” she asks, her eyes wild. Before I can formulate an excuse, she nods. “That’s what I thought.”

She grabs my hand in hers and swings them back and forth as if we’re childhood best friends. She pulls me toward her car and informs me that she took over the job of itinerary coordinator because I lack the necessary enthusiasm. Then she announces we’re going on a hike. I yank my hand out of hers and tell her she’s nuts.

“It’s eight hundred degrees out,” I say. “Have you ever heard of heat stroke?” She smiles and informs me that we’ll be fine, that she brought sunscreen. I decide there’s no point in talking common sense to this girl. She doesn’t speak the language.

She unlocks the door of her rusted jalopy wagon.

“Live a little,” she tells me. “You’re never going to experience anything if you wait around for perfect conditions. Look at the sky, Gray. It’s gorgeous. It’s perfect right now, and you’re miss- ing it.”

I squint up at the stark blue sky. There isn’t a trace of a cloud, just a deep blue abyss spread above us.

“And it’s only a hundred and five degrees,” she adds. I reluctantly sit down in the trapped heat of her car. We pull out of the parking lot and the pedals squeak when Dylan presses down on the clutch. The black leather gearshift is worn smooth, and the car rattles defiantly as if the engine is going to explode when we accelerate onto the highway.

“Pickle doesn’t like going over fifty-five,” Dylan explains. I stare at her and raise my eyebrows. She informs me Pickle’s favorite music is oldies, he gets along best with Ford makes and models and he prefers to brake rather than accelerate. She lightly presses her foot on the brake and Pickle immediately hums in response. “See?” she says with a knowing smile.