Summer of Supernovas (6 page)

I blow out a breath, finally settled, and brush back a drooping wave. “So, tonight isn’t special?”

“It could be,” he replies, his gaze lowering. “Those are a really nice pair by the way.”

I prickle as I recall the open button of my shirt. I consider tossing my drink on him and then remember I don’t have one.

He inclines his head toward my feet. “Your shoes, I mean.”

“Right, yeah, I knew that.”

“Well, that’s good, because for a second there I thought you were going to slap me. By the way, I’m Seth.”

“Not the Egyptian deity associated with chaos and destruction, I hope?” I ask.

“Hardly,” he chuckles, “but my mom might have occasion to disagree.” He motions to a bartender with ambitious sideburns. “Most people just call me plain Seth—no immortal Egyptian reference. How about you?”

“No. No one calls me Seth.”

“Witty, adorable”—he ticks off on his fingers—“
and
wears stylishly painful shoes. If
only
she had a name.”

I grin. “Wilamena. Most people just call me Wil…except for my grandmother.”

“What does she call you?”

I fold my arms and shrug. “Typically, Mena—unless I’m in trouble. Then there’s a sliding scale of names proportionate to the offense.”

“Wondered if you’d show tonight.” The bartender reappears, setting a glass of amber liquid in front of Seth.

“Warms my heart to know I’d be missed. Thanks, Nico.” He tilts the glass in a toast.

“Anything I can get for you, doll?” Sideburns, er, Nico addresses me. His five-o’clock shadow grows more shadowy awaiting my answer.

“Um, just a ginger ale, please.”

“You can get whatever you want.” Seth gives me a knowing look. “Nico’ll take care of you.”

“Ginger ale is fine,” I repeat. My dabbling with drinking has often led to a vomitous end, and tonight, a clear head is essential.

“Your wish is my command,” Nico replies with a slight bow.

Seth rolls his eyes. “Mothers, hide your daughters. You should know he’s like that with everyone. The flirting thing’s compulsive.”

“I’m guessing it makes for better tips.”

“You’d guess right.” Seth takes a drink and squints. “So, Wil, I have to ask…are you here with someone?”

“My friend Irina, why?”

His face is pensive. “Because that guy’s been checking you out since you sat down.”

“Really? Where?” I crane my neck.

“Other side of the bar. Oh, uh…looks like he’s gone now.”

Nico returns with my drink, eyes lighting on something behind me.

When I reach for my purse, Seth stills my hand. “Don’t worry, I—”

“It’s on the house,” Nico cuts in, giving Seth a funny look.

“Figures,” Seth mutters, setting his jaw.

“What figures?” I ask. But before Seth can answer, my purse starts vibrating along the bar. “Oh, um…that’s probably my friend.” Unsnapping the clutch, I struggle to liberate my cell from the inside pocket. I’ve crammed in so much, it’s a minor miracle I was able to close it the first time.

Seth chuckles. “Can I get you a crowbar or something?”

I grin with a touch of embarrassment. “Maybe. This is what happens when you downsize your purse but not the number of—” Suddenly I catch Iri bobbing up and down and wildly waving her arms. I drop my bulging purse back on the bar. “Seth, can you wait here just a minute?”

He sees Irina impatiently bouncing around as if she’s composed of ninety percent rubber. “Sure.”

I squeeze my way through the crowd, rushing over to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Her red lips curl, the telltale huntress gleam is in her eyes. “Did you get my text?”

“No, I couldn’t get to my—”

“Never mind.” Irina grabs my shoulders, swiveling me slightly to the left. “What do you think of him? Hot, yeah?”

“Of who?” The strobe light flickers on a cluster of guys.

“Him!”
She points to the tallest, Hulkiest figure in the group.

I make a face. “I think I would not date someone who wears a Charlie Brown T-shirt. He’s Sagittarius?”

Irina expels a breath. “Not for you. For me! And it’s not a Charlie Brown T-shirt.”

“
This
is your emergency? Need I remind you of the mission at hand?
Jeez,
Iri,
focus,
would you?” I don’t wait to hear her line of defense.

Returning to my barstool Seth asks, “Everything good?”

“Yeah.” I wave my hand. “False alarm.”

Seth tosses back the rest of his drink, pushing away from the bar. “Listen, Wil, I’m sorry. Something just popped up I gotta take care of, but I hope I see you again. That is, if you’re in the market for chaos.” He winks.

Well, when he puts it like that…

“Wait, Seth.” I catch his arm. He stares where my hand rests. I quickly let go. “B-before you leave, can I ask you a question? It’s important.” I bite my lip. I’ve asked the question an absurd number of times and
now
I’m nervous? I should just make an educated guess and be done with this.

His demeanor warms. “Ask me anything. No promises I’ll answer.”

“Okay…what’s your sign?” I blurt.

Seth starts to grin, blocking the full smile with his hand. “That has got to be the lamest line
ever.
And I’m here a lot, so I’ve heard ’em all.”

I hold my chin high. “I’m
serious.
”

“You are, aren’t you?” His grin falters. “Uh, I dunno.” He pulls out his cell and taps at the screen. Guys rarely know their sign, so I assume he’s looking it up. Which is my mistake. I should’ve just asked for his birth date. But after a few moments, he answers. “Sagittarius.”

A shock wave ripples through my body.
Of course.

Seth leans close enough for me to smell a faint hint of his cologne. “But if what you really want to know is whether or not I’m interested…the answer’s definitely yes.”

Yes.
The word holds the heat of his exhalation in my ear. More than the yes, I cling to the other word.

Sagittarius.

My preordained match.

I smile. Everything is coming together.

“Y
ou must get tired of that,” says a familiar voice. “Every Tom, Dick, and Seth hitting on you when you least expect it.” Grant wedges into the space Seth left moments ago. “Glad you got the card,” he adds, “and that you’re conscious.”

“Oh, hey!” I brighten. My breath catches. Must be a by-product of the napkin. The napkin with the hastily scribbled digits Seth has given me. I fold the napkin and cram it in my clutch.

As the lights from the dance floor pan Grant’s face, I realize another reason his smile warms me. It’s the ever-so-slight overlap of his two front teeth. Why I’d find snuggling teeth endearing is a mystery, but I do. It’s possible I’m smiling back like an idiot.

What is my deal?

I stare up at the hanging green lights, hoping to divine some conversational brilliance. He watches me and it’s unsettling. “This place is incredible!” Not brilliance. Okay, move on. “Uh, so thanks for the ticket. You really didn’t have to.”

He shrugs off the gratitude. “I’m just glad you’re in one piece. How are you feeling?” Tiny wrinkles crowd the center of his forehead.

“Good, good. Really good.” I take a drink of ginger ale.

“Any more emphasis on the word ‘good’ and I’m taking you back to the hospital.”

I grin. “Oh, you know, residual bruise on my knee but no permanent damage. How’d you fare? When I came around, there was nothing but distorted recollections and your note on a business card.”

“Yikes, you make it sound so skeevy.” Grant pushes up his sleeve, revealing little black tattoos that wrap around his forearm. Music notes? His other arm is bare, save for a distressed-leather cuff at his wrist. “Guess I didn’t think your next of kin would take kindly to the person responsible for almost killing you. But I’m fine. Most of my bruises were to my ego. What?” He eyes the amused twist of my mouth. “You think it was lost on me that it was my idea to save you in the first place? If I hadn’t intervened with—”

“Then I wouldn’t be here right now. And we might never have met. Everything happens for a reason—cosmic forces and whatnot. Right?” I swirl the ice around my glass.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, the small wrinkles have once again taken up residence between his brows. He flags Nico for a drink before resting his gaze back on me.

I lean forward, drawing the straw to my mouth. It’s the intensity, the deliberateness in the way he watches me that’s so unsettling. My pulse is doing that funny fluttering again. The heat in the pit of my stomach migrates to my cheeks. I swallow. “So, um, are you from the area?”

“Born and raised, east side. But don’t hold it against me.”

“I wouldn’t.” Though between the tattoos, nondesigner clothes, and imperfect teeth, I wouldn’t have pegged him an eastsider either. Irina claims eastsider blood runs green from all their money, and that the sticks up their asses are actually dinosaur bones they convert into oil. She reasons this is how they stay rich. But loathing a group of people because of financial plentitude isn’t Irina’s style. Actually, I’m not sure why she hates them.

“Then you must go to Hartford,” I say.

“Went,” Grant corrects, resting his forearms on the bar. “Just graduated.” There he goes again, studying me in that way he does that makes me fidget. And I’m not a fidgeter. “What about you?”

“I, whew, it’s warm in here.” I press my hands, chilled by the glass, to the sides of my face. “I’m from here, too. Being a Carlisle means I practically sprouted from the soil. I live over in the historic district and go to—”

“Alexander?”

I smile. “Yep.”

Grant rubs his hand along his jaw. “Do I even want to ask how old you are?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

He braces himself. “Okay, hit me.”

“Seventeen.” I add, “And four months! Those four months are important, Grant. It means I’m practically halfway to eighteen, so why not just round—”

“All right, all right,” he sighs, “but do me a solid. Don’t mention this to anyone else—house rules—last thing I want is to see you get blacklisted. Got it?”

“Don’t worry, no one ever thinks I’m under…” My eyes catch on a determined face in the crowd. It can’t be. “Oh, for the love of Venus!” I slink from my stool and hunker beneath the bar. If this were truly my lucky day, the earth would indulge me by shifting its fault lines. Just crack open and swallow the problem.

“Wil?” Grant ducks his head under the bar. “Hey, I said I promise not to turn you in.” He pauses. “Or is this disappearing act part of your Unusual Girl mystique?”

“Rooster!” I hiss.

“Ah, right, so it’s the latter.”

My hands curl around the edge of the bar as I slowly peer over the top. Sure enough, there’s Year of the Cock, working his way toward me. He’s momentarily derailed by one of the green fairies. I drop down again, inwardly cursing.

“I’m gonna venture there’s an excellent reason why you’re down here crouched in the fetal position. I’ll be above sea level when you’re ready to explain.” He’s choking back a grin. “Man, I can’t wait to hear this one.”

“Wait a sec!” I grab his shirt, yanking him back down. We are almost nose to nose. I get a whiff of the fresh laundry smell I noticed the other day. “Look, um, there’s a guy over there laboring under the false impression that I’m interested.”

“Did you say something that might’ve led him to believe that?”

“What? No! I mean, I asked him a couple of questions.” Grant starts to pull back. “W-wait, okay, here’s the thing.” I take a breath. “I came out tonight to…find someone.” Humiliated, I drop my hands from his shirt. “But, Grant, trust me, it isn’t him.”

“I see. So you want me to tell him to get lost?”

I shake my head. “Tried that. Not good enough. His arrogance is second only to his persistence. He is, after all, the Year of the Cock.” I bite my lip, mind racing.

Grant blinks. “Uh, I’m sorry, you lost me at co—”

“Rooster,” I interject. “You know, Chinese astrology? Ugh! This guy is relentless—like the social equivalent of a plantar wart.” I rub my temples, grappling for an escape plan.

“Well, you could just pretend we’re together.”

I snap my head up, softly thumping it against the underside of the bar. “Seriously?”

Grant’s indignation glows in the dark. “Now who’d have thought I’d be a worse alternative than someone born in the Year of the Pecker.”

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, your plan is
much
better. Keep hiding till spring, little gopher.” He stands up.

I stare at the frayed edges of his jeans. There’s the silvery sheen of duct tape on the side of one of his Chucks. He’s right. I can’t stay here till spring, plus it smells like old alcohol and even older mops.

“It isn’t gopher. It’s groundhog,” I say as I reluctantly poke up from my hidey-hole.

Grant eyes me warily over the rim of his glass.

Insulting him and correcting his rodent know-how isn’t gaining me any points. Change of tactics. This calls for boldness. I twine my arms around his waist.

He lowers his drink and croaks, “What…what are you doing?”