Summer of Supernovas (14 page)

B
ackstage is shrinking. The clutter and chatter and bodies, it suddenly feels too stifling.

The blonde murmurs something in Grant’s ear; one of her hands clings to his shoulder. The other hand moves to his chest, her finger tapping as she speaks. He nods.
Nods?
What is he nodding for? My mind flips through a gazillion scandalous scenarios Grant has just consented to. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. When the girl moves over to Tristan, I experience a weird wave of relief, until she gives Grant a suggestive wink when she looks back.

“Is that girl with Grant?” I eye the pretty blonde’s formfitting tank dress. Her body is long and svelte—a dancer’s body—like Irina’s. Which is something mine could never aspire to be.

“Ha! She wishes. That’s Tristan’s sister, Lila.” Manny snaps his fingers in front of my face. “And, news flash, you and Grant don’t look at each other like friends. You should definitely ditch Seth.” He hops down.

“You have an awful lot of opinions. What’s that saying about opinions?”

He takes my hand and kisses the back. “I just call it how I see it. Later,
chica.
” Manny fake-punches Grant in the stomach as he passes.

“Hey,” I say as Grant approaches. “That performance was…
wow.
Really. I was all prepared for some mediocre garage band, but you guys blew me away.” I stand and suddenly don’t know what to do with my arms. They hang at my sides like limp spaghetti. I cross and then uncross them. Do I hug him? I hugged Manny. Would it be more suspicious if I didn’t? This is dumb. I’ll hug him.

“Thanks,” Grant replies, but doesn’t move to embrace or touch me in any way.

Okay, that’s settled. So we are friends who don’t hug. Good to know. I sit back down.

“Walker, what the hell happened to you during the second set?” Tristan asks as he flops on the plaid couch, pulling an adorable brunette with a pixie cut onto his lap. It’s asking a lot of the stitches in his pants, but he looks every bit the part of rock and roller.

The girl giggles and slaps his chest.

“Sorry, man, guess I was a little off tonight,” Grant says.

Wait…did he just look at me? No, he’s turned and is grabbing a bottle from the fridge. I’m hallucinating.
Grant is pollen,
I remind myself.

“Where’s Seth?” Grant asks.

Pollen. Pollen. Pollen…

“Huh? Oh, he went to get jumper cables for someone named Ginger, I think.”

Grant smirks. “Then I’ll say a prayer and make an offering to the gnome on behalf of the car. Seth’s got about as much mechanical skill as Manny. Probably less.”

“I heard that!” An empty Red Bull can whizzes through the air.

Grant ducks and it misses him by inches. “Want company?” he asks me.

“Um, sure. You know, if you were off tonight, it takes a more critical ear than mine to detect it. I was impressed.”

He takes a swig. “You’re sweet, but I screwed up.” Grant gives me a sidelong glance. “You look really pretty tonight.”

I tell myself he’s just being nice. That’s what he does. But my rejoicing heart doesn’t care. “So do you,” I gush, then realize the stupidity of my words. I blush furiously as the comment dangles uncomfortably between us. “I mean—I don’t know why I said that.”

Grant leans forward and bats his eyelashes. “Because—
duh
—I’m pretty.” He primps his messy hair, and we both laugh; the moment miraculously goes from awkward to perfect.

“Well, I’m drawing the line at letting you borrow my lipstick. It’s not cool. I don’t care how avant-garde your artsy musician friends think it is. You can’t pull off Parisian Pout—your skin tone is all wrong.”

“Damn.” He grins. “And here I thought things were about to get interesting.”

I chuckle, feeling more at ease. My desensitization is working! I squint at the back wall. “Dartboard? Seems kinda dangerous given the tight quarters here.”

“Nah.” Grant places his bottle on the floor. “Not as long as you’re up-to-date on all your shots.”

Someone turns up the music. My ears perk at the sound of a remix of the vintage Dinah Washington “Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby?”

There’s a loud whistle. “Grant!” Lila shouts as she sways her hips. “Dance with me?” She rotates for everyone to view her perfectly sculpted, spandex-hugged dancer’s ass.

It’s a miracle my eyes don’t stick in the back of my head, given the velocity of their roll.

“Sorry, Lila, this one”—Grant thumbs in my direction—“already challenged me to a game of darts.” The guys watching Lila salivate enough to raise Carlisle’s water table.

“Aah!” one of the droolers yelps when Tristan opens a can and sprays him.

“Cool off, asswipe. That’s my little sister.”

Grant turns and motions not so subtly to the back of the room.

Oh, that’s my cue. “Darts, yes!” I hop down and follow him to the small open space in front of the dartboard. “Grant, I have to confess I’m not really up-to-date on my inoculations.”

He yanks the red and blue feather-tipped darts from the board. “Don’t worry. I’m a good shot. Question is”—he hands me the red ones—“are you?”

I draw back my shoulders. It doesn’t matter that I’ll likely be destroyed. I will go out in style. I will get my ass kicked with panache…and bluff every step of the way. “Good enough to destroy you.”

He grins crookedly. “Oh, prepare to be slaughtered, little lamb.”

“Hmph,”
I snort. My first dart flies, hitting the bull’s-eye. No one is more surprised than me. I compose myself, camouflaging my shock before turning around.

“Beginner’s luck,” Grant grumbles, adding a slanted tick mark to the chalkboard. “Two more throws. Do you even know how to play Cricket?”

Cricket?
I’m aiming for the center and hoping for the best. Doesn’t that pretty much sum up the game of darts? I lower my arm. “I just need to hit the bull’s-eye, right?”

He shakes his head, stifling a laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

Grant then goes on to explain the specifics of the game—the rules, the numbers I need to hit, the scoring, etc. Sheesh. My version of Cricket is so much easier.

“So be the first to close out all your numbers and bull’s-eye—and you win,” he concludes.

“What do you win?”

Grant shrugs. “Bragging rights. Indentured servitude.” He blows off a piece of cork from the tip of his dart. “Or…whatever.”

“Whatever? That leaves a lot open to interpretation, doesn’t it?” I check my two remaining dart tips, finding them debris-free.

“Then I guess you better not lose.” His crooked smile makes the blood speed faster in my veins. But I don’t let my reaction show.

“Game on, Walker.” My eyes narrow and I throw. It sinks in the eighteen spot. I will count that as lucky and hope to hell the luck will carry me through the remainder of the game.

A half hour passes and I’ve managed to close out almost all my numbers. I only need a seventeen and twenty to win. Grant still needs a nineteen.

He’s taking out his darts from his last throw and catches me checking out his butt.
Oh my God, when did I start looking at his butt? And since when am I a butt ogler?!

Panicked, I lob a conversational grenade. “S-so, why didn’t you want to dance with Lila?” I glance over to see her head thrown back in laughter. She shimmies next to one of her girlfriends. “She’s very pretty and”—I rack my brain for something else nice to say—“she seems to really enjoy music.”

“And attention, and she’s not my type. Your play,” he says.

“Then”—I take aim—“what
is
your type?” I throw and whoop when it hits the seventeen, performing a premature victory dance.

“Well, not Lila. Do you know your tongue sticks out of the corner of your mouth whenever you focus? You’ve been doing it the entire game.”

Of course I know that, but I can’t change a seventeen-year habit right now. “Gets me in the zone. Why, does it bother you?” I line up my shot, zeroing in on the twenty spot.

“Let me think.” I see Grant cross his arms in my periphery. “Does your tongue bother me? Hmm…”

I release my dart as Grant ponders my tongue. The dart veers off, sinking in the outer ring of the six. He botched my throw! And, adding insult to injury, he’s smirking and all self-satisfied over it.

My nostrils flare. “You did that on purpose!”

He bursts out laughing. “Your face is so red right now. Hey, I don’t need to cheat to beat you, so we’ll call that last one a do-over. Fair enough?”

I lift my chin. “Fine, but
no
talking during my turn. It messes with my concentration.”

“I promise to stand quietly and make a mental list of all the things you’ll have to do during your servitude. Beginning with washing and waxing my car, and there’s that dry cleaning I’ve been meaning to pick up…”

I yank the wayward dart from the board. When I spin around, I see Grant’s eyes guiltily flick up from my backside. His face flushes the way it did at the top of the tower. I could point out how red
his
face is now, but that would acknowledge something other than friendship. Which I
won’t
do. I pretend it didn’t happen, and line my toes up with the peeling black-and-yellow caution tape on the floor.

Sucking in my breath, I close one eye and fire the dart.

Direct hit. No. Way. No freaking way!

“No way,” Grant echoes my thoughts. His light-brown eyes are round and wide.

“I won? I won! I won!” I squeal and clap before shaking his arm. “I destroyed you! I win!”

His jaw twitches. “Destroy is an exaggeration; you eked out a win. You won’t be so lucky in a rematch.”

“So
you
say. I just hope your delicate male ego can handle getting crushed twice in one night.” I fish my cell from my purse while Grant erases the board. Iri’s texted that she and the Suit won’t be coming and that I shouldn’t do anything she wouldn’t do. I smirk, trying to wrap my gray matter around what that might be.

I notice there’s also a voice mail from a number I don’t recognize. Plugging my finger in my other ear, I try to block out the commotion and home in on the garbled voice. My smile falters.

“Wil? What is it?” Grant asks.

“Uh…” I distractedly hang up. “It’s my grandma. Mrs. Kessler—one of the ladies from her bridge club—was just letting me know she had a dizzy spell tonight. Almost fell.” Grant’s thick brows draw together in concern. “She’s fine,” I add quickly, as much to Grant as to myself. “I think Mrs. Kessler just assumed Gram wouldn’t tell me. Which is…probably true.”

I frown.
What if there’s more Gram isn’t telling me? What if there’s something else wro—

“Do you need to leave?”

I consult the rusted Coca-Cola clock on the wall.
Yikes!
I didn’t realize it was approaching my curfew, too. “Yeah. I should probably check in on her. I’m sure she’s fine but…” The seed of doubt has already been planted and will likely blossom into full-blown anxiety if I don’t go now.

I stand on my toes, surveying backstage. “I wonder what’s keeping Seth so long?”

Grant pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call him and make sure he hasn’t blown anything up.” Seth’s phone rings. Unfortunately, I can hear it because he’s left it in the pocket of his jacket, which was tossed on the gangster skeleton’s shoulder.

Grant stows his phone and takes out his keys. “Seth’ll understand.” He tilts his head in the direction of the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Grant. If this were anything else but my gran—”

His hand rests at my low back, stirring up memories of our time on the dance floor. “You don’t have to apologize or explain, Wil. Let’s just get you home.” Grant nudges me ahead.

“Hey, where you two going?” Tristan asks, twisting open another beer. “Party’s just getting started. Besides”—he points at me with his bottle—“I thought that was Seth’s girl.”

His sister, Lila, has stopped dancing. Her bottom lip puffs out in disappointment at Grant’s early departure. The pout rapidly transforms into a snarl as she processes that Grant’s not just leaving—he’s leaving with me. I want to tell her she’s wasting a perfectly good snarl, because my only objective is getting home. I don’t care who takes me.

“Yeah, well, Seth’s still off helping Ryan and Ginger, and Wil’s gotta leave now. I’ll catch you guys later.”

“Bye,” I say to anyone listening.

Tristan does the hair flick again. “You
are
coming to my party next weekend, aren’t you, Cinderella?” His voice manages to pierce through the noise.

Cinderella?
I turn back. “Sure, sounds fun.”

“Great.” Tristan’s mouth tips up in a sly grin. “That’ll give you a week to come up with a way to stay out past midnight. Everyone knows that’s when all the fun happens.”

“Right,” I reply, wondering how on earth I’ll convince Gram to ease up on her curfew manifesto.

Manny shoves the drumsticks he’s spinning into his back pocket. “See you soon, Wil.” He squeezes me goodbye. “And think about what I said earlier. Deal?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, no deals.” Explaining the cosmos and how much it influences our lives was often an uphill battle, a battle I had little time for tonight. “Bye, Manny.”

I follow Grant’s brisk pace through Absinthe’s underbelly, passing ancient boilers and water heaters along the way. My heels bang extra loudly with my haste, echoing against the concrete. The red glow of an exit sign lies ahead.

“You’re central, right? Historic district?” he asks, twirling his keys around his finger.

“Uh-huh, Turner Street.”

Pushing through the heavy back door, we emerge in the parking lot. It’s still packed with cars, but I don’t spot Seth’s among them.

“Should be able to skate through town no problem. Not much traffic at this hour. This one’s mine,” Grant says as we come to the last car in a line of reserved parking spots. He unlocks the door.

It’s the station wagon from the water tower. Now, I have never been one to care what a person drives. Cars to me have always been simply a way to get from point A to point B. I mean, jeez, I should be so lucky to have a vehicle of any kind, even if it’s the color of pickles. Still, I’m surprised.