Summer of Supernovas (15 page)

Grant stretches across the front seat to manually unlock the passenger side.

I slide in. The interior is pretty clean, except for the guitar picks I find scattered about the floor, and sheet music and a couple of amps that look like they’ve seen better days littering the back. Those must be the relic amps that were supposed to be replaced.

“I know. Not a fancy Lexus like Seth’s.” He cranks the engine. “But she’s my first and I bought her with my own money. Took a whole summer of bagging at World of Food.”

“That’s a lot of groceries. You
should
be proud.”

We turn onto the main road. “Music?” Grant’s hand hovers at a metal spoke once covered by a plastic knob.

“Quiet might be nice. Unless you’d rather—”

“No! No. Quiet is good.”

Our arms rest side by side on the seat. We aren’t touching, but it feels like his skin is on mine. Like invisible fingers tickle my flesh. I glance down and see the solid ten-inch gap between us.

I decide to play it safe anyway, tucking my arm back into my lap. “Thanks again for the lift. I worry I’m becoming the needy friend you keep bailing out.”

My attention’s drawn to the jangling key chain as we bounce over a series of potholes. The key chain is a military-style dog tag with a stamped message that I’m able to read once it stops wildly swinging from the ignition. It says:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, G!
With the date
FEBRUARY 23
inscribed beneath it. Which is proof positive of what I always knew.

Grant is unequivocally a Pisces.

I experience a strange wave of melancholy. Like a microscopic part of me had hoped I was wrong. Had thought that maybe—

“Well, don’t.” His eyes veer from the road. “Worry, I mean. I don’t do things unless I want to, and I’m sure if you had a sweet green ride like mine, you’d have done the same.”

“In a heartbeat.”

He flashes a crooked grin. “You have fun tonight? I mean, other than the sudden end.”

“Yeah, it’s been great. And, hey, now I officially know how to play Cricket so…” I glance out the passenger window as we pass an SUV full of kids. Five of them are wedged in the backseat, singing at the top of their lungs. “I loved hearing you guys play. You’re really talented, you know. I’m a sucker for music genre mash-ups—a little rock, a little folk, a little punk.”

I hesitate to say anything about my
actual
date, because I don’t know how much of my time with his brother I should share. There’s an undercurrent of awkward when it comes to that.

“Glad you enjoyed it.” The soft glow of the dash lights Grant’s features. His brow is wrinkled, jaw muscles tensed, as his fingers tap the side of the steering wheel. “You know, I think Seth likes you—a lot.”

I can feel his eyes on me as I occupy my restless hands with the string hanging from my hem. I’m shallow-breathing, and the longer I’m quiet, the more it spotlights my nervousness. Which again, I have
no
reason to be. “He…he’s been really sweet. Even tolerated me bogarting the dumplings at dinner.”

“Now I
know
he really likes you.”

“He, um, also surprised me with a hot-air balloon ride. It was pretty amazing.”

Grant chuckles to himself, making the tension hold less tightly on my body. “Yeah, Seth’s a fan of grand gestures, always has been. Classic example, when he was in fifth grade, he was desperately crushing on this seventh grader—Morgan Mitchell.”

“Pretty big age gap for then.”

“Oh, for sure, it was scandalous. So Valentine’s Day rolls around—”

“Wait, wait, let me guess. He got her an industrial pallet of those candy hearts?”

“Close. He had a dozen roses delivered to her classroom.”

“Aw, that’s so cute!”

“Every hour on the hour.” Grant stops at a light and laughs at my bug-eyed expression. “I know, that’s, like, five dozen, and each delivery had a single-word message. Until it pieced together the question: Will-you-be-my-Valentine?” He shakes his head. “Course she said yes.”

“Whoa,” I breathe, “and that was only fifth grade?” Although, knowing Seth, it wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. “But how does a ten-year-old get that kind of coin?”

Grant makes a hammering motion with his fist. “Slaughtered his piggy bank. He’d been saving up for a rare comic or something. Guess they cost a pretty penny.”

“That’s devotion,” I marvel. “Okay, so what about you, how did you win over your Valentine?”

“Huh. I don’t remember that year. But I remember in fourth grade, I had some pretty wicked skills on the jungle gym. I was the tallest kid in class, and my playground prowess was second to none. And red rover? Forget it. I was an unstoppable force.”

“Oh man,” I giggle, “I can see it now, you wooing the girls on the monkey bars.”

“In the end, it was probably my pocket full of warm gummy worms that won Amanda over.”

“Warm? Oh, ick.” I shake my head. “Gummy anything is bad enough, but warmed to a balmy ninety-eight point six?”

He grins. “Hey, they were in a bag. It’s not like they were covered with pocket fuzz or anything.”

“Don’t care. My position on gummy is absolute.” The message alert chimes on my phone as we take the downtown exit off the highway. I quickly read it. “Seth and Ryan just got back to Absinthe.”

“What took them so long?”

“Uh-oh…They reversed the jumper cables. Ended up frying Ginger’s battery
and
her alternator. Plus Seth’s on-board computer is toast. So they had to wait for two tow trucks.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I’m psychic.”

No kidding. He’s a Pisces. That alone warrants extrasensory perceptions. I reply to Seth, explaining my hasty departure and suggesting a movie tomorrow night. My phone chirps. “Bummer,” I mutter.

“What?”

“Oh, just, Seth has inventory in the morning and will be out of town the rest of the weekend.” I slouch in my seat. “Now I feel really bad about having to leave.”

“That’s right.” Grant nods. “I think he’s ca-brewing with our cousin Jonah and some buddies up north in Lannister.”

“Ca-brewing?”

He chuckles. “I take it you’ve never been?” I shake my head. “Ca-brewing is canoeing—plus a lot of beer.”

“Ah. Got it.” My cell chimes again. Seth’s last text perks me up. And it’s definitely
not
one I can share with Grant. Because it involves a lot of—

“He’s disappointed he didn’t get to take you home, huh?” Grant’s tone is teasing, at odds with the tightness that’s resumed in the set of his mouth.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Because I would’ve been.” He quickly averts his eyes. “I mean, in general, as far as dates go. That’s when you usually…” Grant clears his throat. “You know.”

My heart thuds in my chest. I
do
know. And so does Seth, which is why he’s extra disappointed we didn’t get any time alone before I left. No goodnight kiss. And now Grant knows it, and we’re all thinking about the kiss that wasn’t.

We turn onto my tree-lined street. Old Victorians sit shoulder to shoulder on narrow lots disproportionate to their girth. “Which house?”

My blood feels fizzy as if carbonated. Relentless bubbles bounce around my veins. “Five fifty-two. The…the second to the last on the right.” Gram hasn’t left the porch light on. Maybe it’s a sign she’s still not feeling well. Or maybe she feels just fine and is wearing night-vision goggles.

Grant pulls into our driveway, and before he puts the car in park, I’m frantically unbuckling my belt. I have to get out of here.
Now.
I can’t be having thoughts of kissing while alone in a dark car with Grant. In my rush, I knock my purse to the floor—keys, lipstick, some cash—everything spills across the floor.

“Shoot!” I hiss, blindly feeling around the scratchy floor mats for my things. When I find the most embarrassing of my whatnots, I breathe a teensy bit easier. Tucking the tampon back in my purse, I continue my search.

“Here, lemme help.” Grant leans, groping around the floor. “I’d turn on the interior light, but something’s wrong with the wiring. It’s been on my list of things to—”

Our hands touch in the darkness. The shock of the contact ripples through me. We are both stock-still. I can hear him breathing. I shouldn’t be aware of Grant’s breath or the subtle way I imagine it’s accelerating. But I am. God help me, I am.

“Interesting necklace,” Grant says softly. “Isn’t that the key I gave you?”

I look down and notice the silver key dangling alongside my amethyst. The stream of light filtering in from the streetlamp catches and reflects on its metallic surface. My pulse rate quadruples.

I sit up and shove the key back under the neckline of my dress, pressing a hand hard against my racing heart. “I…I lose things sometimes.” It’s true. It’s totally true. This would be the very sort of thing I would misplace. And it is my golden ticket into Absinthe.

“Well”—he moves slowly back to his seat—“I guess as long as you don’t go losing your heart, you’ll always know where to find it.”

Seconds span what feels like hours. Oh God, this is worse than flashing my thong. The key has betrayed me, hinting at things that it shouldn’t, posing as something illicit and meaningful. So it will be removed from the necklace tonight.

But if it weren’t for the fact I was dating Seth, or that the constellations had arranged themselves in such a dangerous way on the day of Grant’s birth—this might have been
our
date. I find myself wondering what we would have done. Definitely not the hot-air ballooning. But we would have had fun. We would have laughed. I bet he would have kissed me right here in the green station wagon with the crescent of moon as our only witness. And I would’ve asked him the meaning behind the tattoos on his arm.

Because secretly, I am dying to know.

While I feel the loss of what could’ve been, there’s the certainty of what is. What is meant to be.
Seth.

Grant’s hands curl around the steering wheel, ten and two. He stares at our blue three-story Victorian with its loose shingles in dire need of replacement. “I hope your grandma’s feeling better. Goodnight, Wil.”

The dismissal brings me back. I fumble with the handle, recalling my desperation to get out. “Yes. I…g’night, Grant.”

I race up the porch steps without a backward glance. I don’t want him to see how shaken I am. Once inside, I lock the door and slump against it, tossing my clutch to the bench.

The house comforts me with the sugar and vanilla baked into its walls. Walking down the hall to Gram’s bedroom, I find her snoring softly beneath the patchwork quilt made by her mother’s hand. The quilt rises and falls, marking the steadiness of her breath, the certainty of another.

I release a ragged breath of my own before bending to kiss her temple. “You’re okay,” I whisper. But it took seeing it with my own eyes to truly feel it.

Returning to the entryway, I realize I still haven’t checked to make sure I got everything back in my purse. So I do a quick inventory.

That’s when I see it.

Right there, nestled in among my keys, cell, and Parisian Pout.

A guitar pick.

It glows, like a little piece of Grant, lost and waiting to be found. I count seven
ticktock
s of the clock before I’m mobilized again.

“This has to stop.” I gaze to the ceiling and visualize the starry sky that stretches beyond layers of plaster and wood. “I won’t let you down.”

Then I shut off the light and head upstairs.

T
he message alert chimes on my phone—my daily horoscope. Excellent.

State your intentions in current relationships and discover happy revelations.

Talk about divine timing. This is precisely the affirmation I want for what I’m about to do. The traffic light turns green as I chuck my phone back in my bag.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m the only animated thing in the warehouse district. Downtown is buzzing with activity as people set up for tomorrow’s farmers’ market and artisan fair—but here, it’s a graveyard. Building after building, dilapidated cement structures hunker like rows of headstones made drearier under the blanket of gray. I flick on the wipers to clear the sheen of mist.

Absinthe stands at the end of the street, a little taller and prouder than the other warehouses, as if sensing a grander purpose than housing surplus tires or cheap textiles.

I creep over the speed bump and steady the coffees on the passenger seat. I want to catch Seth before he leaves for his camping adventure to apologize in person for my disappearance last night. And nothing says
I’m in like with you
like one of Gram’s humongous cinnamon rolls washed down with a large coffee.

Coffee with a splash of guilt.

Capricorn’s beard,
nothing happened
! Grant’s fingers touched mine. Big whoop. So his guitar pick is a screaming banshee in my bag. Once I’ve exorcised that, I’m totally in the clear.

Today I will state my intentions to Seth. My horoscope’s dead-on with that prediction.

As I pull up to the front of the building, the clouds go from misting the city to pelting it with chubby raindrops. While I’d had the sense to pull on my favorite red galoshes, I’ve forgotten the umbrella to go with them. Fabulous.