For The Summer Page 7

  I drink my coffee while Fin removes the board, a stack of cards, and four colorful gingerbread men from the box. He shuffles the cards and sets the stack on the table.

  “Which color do you want?” he asks.

  I look over the piece for a second. “Green.”

  He takes blue, tossing the red and yellow ones back into the box.

  “You can go first,” he sits back, taking a sip of his hot cup.

  I tap my finger against the table eyeing up the board and the cards. Technically I’ve never played Candyland before. Jim was a pretty absentee parent and my mom tried to keep me distracted from our quiet, empty house by enrolling me in gymnastics and figure skating, horseback riding, and watercolor classes. The Brenner’s weren’t the family game night type.

  There aren’t any dice that would dictate how many spaces I should move so I have to assume the cards will tell me what to do. I bite the inside of my cheek and reach for the card at the top of the pile, looking into Fin’s eyes before taking it. The card has one orange square on it. I feel my brow start to crease. This is a game for preschool children. It’s not rocket science. The card has one orange square, the first orange square leads to some kind of rainbow bridge. Do I want to use the bridge? Am I even allowed to use the bridge? My card is orange, but if I cross the bridge I’ll land on a purple square. I don’t have a purple square on my card. I can probably move to the single orange space and just stay there, ignoring the bridge altogether, right? Yes, I’m sure that’s allowed. My eyes narrow. But what the hell is a rainbow bridge, could it be the difference between winning and losing?

  Fin clears his throat. “You’ve never played this have you?”

  I look up and let out a frustrated breath. “No. I’m almost nineteen and I don’t know if the rainbow bridge is some kind of a trick or if I’ll regret skipping over the forest of peppermint sticks.” I shake my head. I know I sound like a lunatic. This is a children’s board game. It’s not trying to trick me and I’m sure you shouldn’t feel any regrets about choosing gumdrops over gingerbread. Oh god, am I having some kind of nervous breakdown? The pressure of uprooting my life, losing my best friend, ending my relationship, and needing to withdraw from UCLA is finally getting to me. That must be it because I can’t actually be freaking out over an orange square.

  “You just want to get to the end of the board first. None of the candy really matters. The paths and bridges are just shortcuts,” Fin explains casually, like he’s talking to a sane seven-year-old and not an unstable adult. He gets up and strolls toward the coffee bar. Reaching behind it he feels around blindly before holding up a bag of cookies. He sits back down and hands me a cookie. I move my gingerbread man to the purple space on the other side of the rainbow bridge. I swallow a bite of cookie and watch Fin as he draws a card and moves two blue spaces on the board. The rest of the game goes smoothly. I win, which would be more exciting if the box didn’t say it was for ages three and up, and also if I hadn’t had a minor meltdown about the rainbow bridge.

  “We should probably get going,” he says, looking down at his watch.

  Fin tucks everything back into the box and puts both games under the register. We toss our empty cups into the recycle bin and he locks up on our way out. He opens the passenger door and I slide in, waiting for him to climb in and start the car so I can attempt to explain my weird behavior.

  “Did you play any games as a kid?” he asks, pulling the car away from the curb.

  “Not really, no,” I say. “My dad wasn’t home much and my mom kept me pretty busy most of the time. I think she didn’t want me to notice that he was never around. Anyway, there wasn’t time, or anyone to play with I guess.” I turn and look out the window. It seems like such an insignificant detail, whether or not you played board games with your family as a kid. But when you think about it those small everyday details are what separate the functional from the dysfunctional. In pictures, the Brenner family looked perfect. Nice clothes, perfect smiles. But when the cameras weren’t there and there was no one to impress the smiles faded and silence fell. I’ve had a lot of opportunities, I know that. Still, I can’t help but wonder if we had shared some of those mundane, everyday family moments if things would be different now.

  “What about you?” I ask after a few silent minutes.

  Fin clears his throat and runs a hand through the top of his hair. “Kris and I grew up in foster care from a pretty young age.”

  His honesty shocks me. My chest tightens as his words sink in. You hear all sorts of awful stories about children being mistreated in foster care, siblings being separated, and just overall neglect. I can’t help but wonder what his experience was like, but I’m also too afraid to ask.

  “But, eventually we ended up in a great home, together. We were adopted and landed the type of parents that made us play really cheesy games with them every night after dinner until we moved out on our own. We still have family game nights sometimes,” Fin says. I steal a sideways glance at him. His mouth is turned up at the edges. A smile that comes naturally with the memories I guess.

  “I’m glad you ended up in a good home, together,” I say, surprised at the relief I feel knowing this. My chest relaxes, but my heart is still racing. I barely know Fin, but I feel like I could grow attached to him pretty quickly. That scares me. Letting another guy in, being vulnerable again so soon after having my heart broken and my trust betrayed. Isn’t that asking for trouble? For more heartbreak and pain? Shouldn’t I be locking up my heart and throwing away the key, or at the very least hiding it in a safe place for a very long time? I wish I had those answers, and I wish I could turn my feelings off with a bit of logic. Unfortunately, that’s not how any of this works.

  We stop at a red light and I realize I’m still staring at Fin. It’s completely crazy, but I just can’t pull my eyes away. His handsome features, square stubbled jaw, and the way his shirt is hugging every muscle have my full attention. He turns my way and I do something truly out of character, something so out of left field not even I saw it coming. As soon as our eyes meet I lean in and kiss him. At first, it’s a shy kiss, riddled with uncertainty and maybe even a little bit of fear, but there's something electric there. A spark. It lights me up and makes my whole body flutter with excitement. Does he feel it too? Can a kiss be this electric for one person and not the other? I’ve only kissed two boys before tonight. I wouldn’t say I’m experienced but the experience I do have is limited. What if I read this wrong? What if he wasn’t even into me like this? What if he just wanted to be friends?

  Once I feel his body react my own apprehension fades away. I hear him shift the car into park. He leans in closer, and I feel his lips part against mine. His fingers brush against my cheek before getting lost in my hair. The timid kiss I started feels distant with our lips pressed together, tongues exploring and tasting each other fervently. I reach out, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck, caressing his short hair playfully. Then he pulls away.

  We’re both out of breath when we separate, retreating against the car doors. My heavy breathing and erratic heartbeat fill my ears. I swallow hard and the sound is uncomfortably loud. Why did I do that? What the hell was I thinking? I barely know this guy. Our eyes are locked and the car is silent. I run my hand through my hair, desperately trying to pull my thoughts together. But I’ve got nothing so I blurt out the first rom-com classic line I can think of.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. That was a mistake,” I say. My words are shaky and breathless.

  Fin nods. His eyes are wide and still locked on mine, his chest is rising and falling heavily. He looks up at the green light, shifts the car into drive, and heads toward my house. The rest of the drive is silent. I search my mind for something to say, anything to repair the damage I’m sure I just did, but I come up blank, again. This time I don’t even have an overused cliche on the tip of my tongue. There’s nothing but awkward, deafening silence as he parks beside the curb in front of the house. I reach f
or the door, opening my mouth to thank him, to tell him I had a good time. But I don’t get to. His hand wraps around my wrist and I turn to meet his hooded hazel eyes.

  “We should keep this casual, friendly,” he says. His rough voice is barely a whisper. “You’re still getting settled and I,” he stops short, looking away for a second before our eyes lock again. “I don’t do this.”

  “Do what?” I ask, licking my lips nervously.

  “Get close to people. Talk about Kris and our parents. I don’t do any of this. I’ve had friends for years that don’t know the things you know after a few hours.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  He shakes his head and exhales heavily. I wait. Hanging onto the hope that whatever he says next will be perfect. The way it always is in the movies. But nothing comes next. No words at least. He tugs me closer. His mouth crashes down on mine and we pick up exactly where we left off. Our lips connect and the spark returns. My stomach flutters low as our mouths meld together perfectly. He lets go of my wrist and I wrap my hands around his neck, inching across my seat to get even closer. Hooking one arm around my waist he pulls me into his lap. A giggle escapes me and his lips curl into a smile against mine. The kiss slows and I pull back slightly.

  “I lied,” I whisper, a smirk pulling at my mouth. “I’m not sorry and it wasn’t a mistake.”

  “Good,” Fin says, planting one more short kiss on my lips. He stares into my eyes, brushes a loose strand of hair from my cheek, and tucks it to the side. The gesture is so gentle and intimate it sends a shiver down my spine. Feeling vulnerable, I look away, breaking the connection between our eyes.

  I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never been the girl to fall head over heels or ass-backward into anything. I’m level headed. I weigh things out. I take things slow. I make informed decisions and well thought through plans. Falling for a guy I’ve known for less than seventy-two hours is fast. Too fast. It’s careless and impulsive. I’m not this girl, am I? I knew Oliver for two years before he made a move, and then we spent a week in between before we made things official. That's how you're supposed to do this, right? Slow and steady? But that spark. There's no denying that there is something between us. Maybe I can just see where this goes. Let myself be this girl. The one that doesn't have a plan or think long term. The type that lets my heart call the shots and takes chances because it feels right. I can do that, can’t I?

  “Do you mind if we keep this to ourselves for now?” Fin asks.

  I take a deep breath, an uneasy feeling swirls in my stomach. Keep what a secret? Us spending time together? Or kissing? Maybe all of it?

  He tips my chin up. As soon as my eyes lock with his hazel ones a different feeling fills my core, a warm fluttering, light and excited and new. My worries calm and my overactive brain relaxes, letting my thoughts from a moment ago fade away. I can be this girl and it’ll be a good thing. The girl without a plan, the one who doesn’t worry about what comes next or how things are supposed to happen. I’m in. At least for the summer.

  “I guess not,” I say with a shrug. It’s not a big deal. I’m sure a ton of people keep new relationships or whatever this is quiet at first. There doesn’t need to be some big epic declaration that we’re seeing each other. This is uncharted territory for both of us. Fewer people knowing will lessen the pressure of it all. Give us the chance to get to know each other before making a big deal about anything. I’m sure that’s all Fin is thinking.

  “I just want us to both be sure," he says.

  "Yeah," I say, nodding my head. It makes sense. It really does. We just met, I'm new here and I've barely even been single for three days. His logic is solid. I know it is. So why does it hurt that he's starting this off thinking it might not last long enough to warrant telling anyone?

  I shimmy off his lap and open the passenger door. By the time I reach the porch my head is clear and I realize why my stomach feels so sour, the reason for my uneasiness. Fin wants to keep our relationship quiet, hide his feelings for me from his friends and anyone else who might take notice. He wants to keep me a secret…I've never been anyone's secret before.

  I wish I could say I thought long and hard about my feelings for Fin, weighed them against my own self-respect, and told him where to shove his secret relationship. But I didn’t. I bumped into him two more mornings that week, both encounters lead to another date night at The Dirty Bean. I mean, I wasn’t exactly trying to avoid him. Getting coffee at his sister’s cafe every morning was tempting fate.

  My fast feelings for Fin came as a surprise, the intensity of them was downright shocking. My attachment, if you could call it that, for Oliver had developed over time. It was more of a slow stumble into a comfortable, predictable relationship with a hot jock. This, whatever it is Fin and I are doing, is the complete opposite. In less than a week, I can feel myself completely falling head over heels for him. It’s equivalent to jumping off a cliff, into a gray sea only to discover that the water below is warm and calm. Terrifying and shocking, but worth it in the end, or at least worth it right now. I think about him and a smile crosses my lips, and seriously, I can’t get him out of my mind. I barely even know anything about the guy and he’s already worked his way into every inch of my thoughts and, scarier still, my heart.

  “Remind me why we’re out of the house before eleven,” I say combing my fingers through my hair.

  “Your grandparents invited us to brunch,” Mom says, flicking on the turn signal.

  “Does brunch have to happen before noon?” I ask.

  “I don’t know the rules of brunch, Amelia, but they asked us to come over at eleven. So here we are pulling into the driveway at eleven."

  I shift to face her. My forehead is scrunched and my eyes are narrow. Something is off.

  "What's up?" I ask, eyeing her suspiciously. My mother hardly ever speaks in a clipped tone and never without a reason.

  "Nothing." She shrugs and checks her makeup in the visor mirror.

  I'm not buying it. I continue to stare at her.

  She huffs out a heavy breath. "Your grandparents want to make up for lost time. They want family meals, gatherings, holidays the whole nine yards."

  I shift my eyes from side to side. "I've heard of this," I say with wide eyes. "I think it’s called family bonding and I'm pretty sure it's normal."

  "Amelia, I love my parents. I do. But growing up, they were very overbearing. There's a reason I stayed away after college and why I didn't fight your father on steering clear of this place. Everything always had to be their way. They wanted perfection and I just wanted to live my life and be happy. I didn't want their empire and I didn’t want to live up to their standards. It drove them nuts and it drove us apart.” She sighs, pressing her hands over her eyes for a few seconds. “They seem different now, I’ll give them that, But honestly, I don’t know if I believe that they’ve really changed. I know they've come to terms with the life I chose, but I'm worried they'll have their sights on you. You haven’t made up your mind about UCLA or what you want to do with your life and I’m afraid your grandparents will take that as an invitation to meddle. To try to sway you and push you toward their path."

  "That won't happen, Mom. We both know I'm stubborn as a mule. Besides, I have made up my mind. I’m not going to California in the fall, and right now I don't really have a path so I'm pretty open to suggestions.” I blink, offering her a crooked smile. I can tell she’s worried, but for me, too much grandparenting doesn’t sound so bad. “As long as they don't turn into tiger grandparents I'm happy to do the whole family bonding thing.”

  “Don’t tell them about UCLA,” Mom says quickly, shaking her head.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Let’s just keep your decision between us, for now,” she says flashing me a wide grin. “Please?”

  I stare at her for a second, wondering if she’s blowing all of this out of proportion. Maybe my grandparents have changed, or maybe they just seemed overbearing when Mom was my age, who kn
ows. Either way, I don’t really see the harm in not mentioning my lack of college plans or the fact that my complete lack of direction has me wondering if my father was right when he basically said I wouldn’t amount to anything. I shake my head, clearing the thought. If the subject comes up I can just skirt around it, say I’m not sure or I’m still weighing things out. They’ll find out sooner or later anyway, definitely by the end of the summer.

  I shift my eyes and let out a deep breath. “Ok, fine. I won’t tell them.”

  Mom leans over and plants a kiss on my forehead. I smile and roll my eyes before we climb out of the car and walk toward the front door. First Fin and now my mom, two secrets in twenty-four-hours. This has to be some kind of personal record, maybe it’s one of those weird planetary alignment things. I make a mental note to google that later.

  A woman slightly older than my mother answers the door. She’s wearing a cardigan and khaki slacks and I can’t help but wonder if she’s intentionally dressed like my grandmother or if it’s a coincidence. She tells us her name is Matilda and I push the thought away as she ushers us inside.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Walker are on the back patio,” she says, leading us out of the foyer.

  I clear my throat. “Could you point me toward the kitchen,” I ask, holding up my index finger awkwardly.

  “Is there something you’d like me to get for you,” she counters.

  “Just streamlined directions to the kitchen.” I nod.

  Mom points at the white door to our right. “Through there,” she smiles.

  I push open the door and step into the largest, whitest, and somehow cleanest kitchen I’ve ever seen. There are baskets of rolls, stacks of white plates, and silver trays with lids on top. Everything looks and smells amazing, but my eyes scan the counter in search of the one thing I came in here looking for. Coffee. I spot a double coffee pot in the corner, two full pots. I can tell by the signature orange and black handles that one is decaf. Honestly, I don’t understand why people drink decaf, and I definitely don’t know why someone would choose to start their day with it. I’ll take all of the caffeine all of the time.