Summer of Supernovas (8 page)

Yes, it
is
crowded. Because any available space has been taken up by all the awkward now surrounding our foursome.

Irina shoots Grant a mutinous look before moving toward the window. “Well, no time like the present.” She pauses to covertly wink in my direction. Guess she’s over worrying about me, which is good. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready, Wil. Take your time.”

Grant kicks his foot back and forth over the metal grates as he waits for Irina to clear out.

“Uh…” Okay, this situation is more uncomfortable than wearing a thong.
Backward.
“H-hold that thought,” I say to Seth before standing.

Seth nods and answers his ringing cell.

“Grant?” He’s already crawled back in. And I’m seized by a weird kind of panic at the thought of not saying goodbye to him. “Grant?”

His head pokes out, startling me with its abrupt nearness. “What?” The furrows in his forehead have returned.

I want to smooth them out with my fingers. I don’t know why. Doesn’t matter. He’s completely off-limits. But…can’t we at least be friends?

Yes. Why not? In fact, I’ve already made up my mind—I
want
Grant Walker to be my friend. Friendship…I can handle. The label alone means things will stay clean and simple.

“Listen, thanks for everything tonight. Getting me in, saving me from the Rooster”—I feel a surge of heat in my cheeks—“and the dance. I’ll miss you.”

Grant’s eyes snap to mine.

“I mean, your
band.
I’ll miss
your band
…tonight.”
Sheesh, Wil. Why don’t you peel the duct tape from his shoe and slap it over your mouth right now. I’ll miss you?
I’m afraid to look at Grant. Instead, I fiddle with my glasses like they’re to blame for my weirdity. I take a stabilizing breath and finally meet his eyes. “So, is there any chance of a rain check?”
Please say yes. Or no.
Now I’m not sure how I want him to answer.

His expression softens. “I’ll do you one better.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out something that glints in the streetlight. “Here.” He drops the almost-weightless object in my hand.

“A key?” It’s silver and half the length of my pinky finger. “You’re giving me a key. I don’t understand.”

“It won’t open any doors.” Well, that clears up nothing. “Just show it to the bouncers,” Grant elaborates. “That’ll get you in whenever you want—no cover, no hassle. My uncle owns the club, and we get a few of these to give out at our discretion.”

“I…wow.” The key, warm from his pocket, feels scorching in my palm. “I…”

“Hey, G,” Seth chimes in behind me. “Ryan’s blowing up my cell. You’re on in five. I think you better jet.”

“Thanks.” Although Grant’s tone suggests little in the way of gratitude.

Seth cheerfully replies, “What are brothers for?”

I jolt. “ ‘Brothers’?” I echo, swinging my head to Seth. “You guys are
brothers
?”

Oh my God!
That’s
why Seth is familiar. The bone structure, the hair, the build…

“Oh, you didn’t realize? Yeah, Grant’s my older brother—well, not much older. Only a year and some change.” Seth shrugs. “And we get mistaken for each other a lot. Course…I like to think I’m better-looking, but that’s probably because I’m jealous as hell he got all the musical talent. The bastard.”

When I turn to find Grant, he’s gone. The vertical blinds sway, tapping in his absence. There’s a twinge of pain in my chest that stops my breath.

Exactly what are the odds that my astral match and astral downfall would not only hail from the same family tree…but also share the same damn branch? One in a million? A billion?

This is no cosmic coincidence.

It’s a divine message. A message meant to remind me how perilously little separates the right choice in love from the wrong one. Well, unlike my departed mother, I will choose wisely. Starting with forgetting that dance with Grant. Already it feels more dream than reality, and dreams cannot replace the wisdom of the stars.

Seth hesitantly brushes my arm. “Please tell me you’re not the type to make a guy beg.”

“I’m sorry?” I relax my hold on the key and pull my gaze from the sky. “What were you saying?”

“I was, uh”—he rubs the back of his neck—“asking you again about Friday? You never answered, so at the risk of totally embar—”

“I’d love to.” I dig deep and produce a grin. “But do we have to wait? On Wednesday the planetarium is holding a summer night sky event. Sagittarius is rising in the southeast—your sun sign. Would you…be interested?” I frown. “Or maybe that’s too nerdy. You’re probably busy. Friday’s great.” I turn and inch up my skirt to avoid tearing the slit on my way back through the window.

“You really don’t have a clue.”

“Huh?” I stumble on my reentry, catching myself on an office chair. Seth appears at the window.

“Well”—he climbs in stealthily—“see, I’ve got this major weakness for hot nerds and heavenly bodies.” Seth’s smile is angelic, but the light from the computer monitor on the office desk shows his eyes are pure devil. “By ‘hot nerds’ I’m referring to you, and by ‘heavenly bodies’ I’m referring to the stars and planets.”

I chuckle, feeling the slight flutter of butterflies. There! See? I
like
Seth. He’s flirtatious and fun and apparently has a weakness for girls with nerdy tendencies. Most important of all, he is Sagittarius.

“Okay,” he confesses into my silence with a boyish shrug, “I lied. I don’t know jack about the planets. But I can learn. So…maybe I just have a weakness for you.”

“What did you say his family name was?” Gram asks.

“Walker,” I answer. “And he goes to Hartford, so you wouldn’t know him from around here.”

“So his family’s well-off.” Gram whistles. “As I live and breathe, so
that’s
the fella who turned your head. My, my, I can certainly see why. Quite a catch from what I can see from here.” She stands higher on her toes in the breakfast nook.

“Hey, get away from the window!”

She lets the curtain drop. “No need for testiness, Mena. It’s natural for me to be curious. Seventeen years of age and I only recall you being interested in that one boy. What was his name? Brogan?”

“Brody Cooper,” I correct, opening my purse.

“Right,
him.
He always wore”—Gram wrinkles her nose—“those saggy, ill-fitting pants.” My grandmother had never warmed to Brody. There were a million reasons why. Reasons bigger than his pants—like the sheer crime of chronology.

“You didn’t like Brody because he was a senior and I was a freshman.” I catch my distorted reflection in the bottom of one of the pans hanging from the potrack. I wipe the lipstick at the corner of my mouth and bare my teeth, which I’m pleased to see are lipstick-free.

“Well, now, that’s only partly true.” She moves from the nook to take the kettle off the burner. “There was also the matter of his—”

“Gram, please! I’m nervous enough as it is without you dredging up ancient dating history.”

“Yes, of course. You just forget I said a
word
about that Brogan boy.” She ceremoniously clinks the teaspoon on the rim of her teacup. “Okay, then, Mena. Let’s have a look at you.”

With my fussing complete, I round the island countertop and brace myself for her full scrutiny. “Well?” My hands pluck at the halter dress, moving it this way and that. The A-line dress is black with little bunches of red cherries all over, a sweetheart neckline, and hem that goes all the way to my knees. Iri has assured me it’s a respectable first-date dress.

Then why is Gram making that face? If she brought her hands to her neck, it would be the international sign for choking. Oh no…

“What?” I ask in alarm. “Too much? Is my chest getting that icky double-boob thing?” Frantic, I tug at the halter strap. There’s no time to change.

The doorbell rings.

“Say something,” I plead.

Gram closes the space between us in a few brisk steps and wraps her arms around me. “Absolutely stunning. The spitting image of your mama.” She kisses the top of my head.

I pull back, beaming. “Really? You think so?”

Her blue eyes are steadfast, but her voice wavers as she replies, “Hand to God. Now get that door before your gentleman caller thinks you’ve changed your mind. Go on.” Gram shoos me from the kitchen.

The bittersweet moment is fleeting. I’ve gotten good at fixating on the sweet and denying the bitter. Years of practice. Plus, Gram’s always said living in the past can rob you blind of your tomorrows. And I want my tomorrows and all the promise they hold.

Seth Walker stands tall on my doorstep, flowers in hand, but his confident grin fades like the daylight.

I will put a pox on Irina’s house. I should never have let her talk me into wearing this dress. What the hell was I thinking, relying on the opinion of someone who often wears more jewelry than clothes?

“
Wow.
You look beautiful,” Seth finally utters. “I…I guess I should’ve dressed up more.” He glances down at his designer jeans before fidgeting with his crisp button-down shirt. The cuffs are unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tanned forearms.

“No, you look great!” As soon as I say it, relief lights his face. “Anyway, I always overdress. I have a closet full of these dresses and never enough occasions to wear them.”

“Then maybe we should do something about that.” He unleashes a dazzling smile. His teeth could not be straighter if I lined them up with a ruler. “Oh, I got these for you. Hope you like purple, and, um, old-school gestures.”

I take the dozen roses from his hand and smile. “Look at me, Seth, I am
all about
old-school. They’re gorgeous, really, thanks.” Another swell of nervousness sloshes my stomach. “Uh, come on in.”

Gram’s already got her eagle eye on the flowers, cataracts be damned. Of course, she’s sizing up Seth as well. Her period of assessment is measured by the distinctive
ticktock,
ticktock
of the grandfather clock in the hall.

“Good evening, ma’am, I’m Seth Walker. Nice to meet you.” He offers his hand, which Gram takes in hers.

Ticktock.

“Yes. Genevieve Carlisle, Wilamena’s grandmother.” Lesser guys would surely crumble beneath Gram’s steely gaze. I call it the Gram Gauntlet Gaze—the Triple G. It’s the one she uses when sussing out a person’s moral fiber.

“Yes, ma’am,” Seth replies, smooth and not the least bit flustered. His confidence is awe-inspiring.

Gram offers a sparing nod, which means he’s passed…I think.
Jeez!
She can be such a confounding Taurus!

She tucks back a silver tendril that’s come loose from her hair clip. “Happy to put those in water if you like, Mena.”

“Thank you.” I give her a peck on the cheek. “We should really be going if we’re going to make that exhibit before dinner.” I shake my head at Seth’s questioning look. Gram had been so unbelievably ecstatic over my date. It just seemed unnecessary to clarify the
exhibit
was an astronomy-related one, in light of the tower incident.

“Hmm, lavender.” Gram takes the flowers, turning the bouquet. “That’s a color you don’t see so often in roses. Of course”—Gram pauses to eye Seth—“you must know what that signifies since you chose them specifically for her.” She grins, knowing full well Seth hadn’t a clue about color connotations. For heaven’s sake, he isn’t a florist!

I’m about to say as much when Gram finally fills the silence. “Enchantment. It signifies enchantment.”

“Then”—Seth stuffs his hands in his pockets—“I suppose it was a lucky guess, Mrs. Carlisle.”

Ooh, he’s good. Real good. I go back to being awed.

She chuckles. “Yes. I suppose it was.” Gram shuffles toward the kitchen. And before I can feel the release of my pent-up breath, she adds, “Just be sure to keep it in your pants, son. Have a lovely evening.” The kitchen door swings shut behind her.

My eyes go round as saucers and my face sizzles. “I’m sorry,” I sputter. “I’m sure she didn’t mean…well, no, actually, she
did
mean it, but—”

“Hey.” He nudges my arm. “Come on, it’s all good.” He raises his hand. “And I, Seth Walker, solemnly swear to keep it in my pants. Even if you’re as enchanting as…”

I stifle a laugh, shaking my head. “I used to babysit a Boy Scout, and I can tell you the solemn oath only uses three fingers.”

He drops his hand. Now I can’t decide which is sexier—his crooked smirk or the dangerous glint in his eye. “I never said I was a Boy Scout.”

“No, you didn’t.” The butterflies have returned. They are overcaffeinated and pumped full of steroids as they declare war on my insides.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” I answer automatically, grabbing my purse.

Am I ready?
The question feels momentous, though of course, it isn’t meant to be. Still, it won’t stop taunting me with its implications. Am I ready for tonight? Am I ready for what might follow? What I have been hoping would follow since concocting this plan?

Truth?
I don’t know.

However, the planets have unanimously agreed—there has never been a better time for me to find out.