- Home
- S. K. Kelley
Sidetracked: Part 1 Page 3
Sidetracked: Part 1 Read online
Page 3
She flashes a thumbs-up and a classic Rose grin, and we walk to the living room together.
With the couch pushed against the wall to free up space, and sleeping bags laid out on the floor in front of the TV, our pretend sleepover reminds me of the ones we had often during middle school. The setup is rather authentic—complete with delivery pizza, microwave kettle corn, and a lineup of cheesy horror movies and even cheesier romcoms in the queue.
I didn’t even realize I missed doing lame stuff like this.
We sit on the floor in our fuzzy pajamas and more-or-less ignore the movie, opting to play card games instead. We talk and laugh about everything and anything. Memories from high school. Complaints about finals and classes at RCC. It’s fun.
Then Rose changes the subject. She starts talking about the guy she went to the Memorial Day barbecue with. They weren’t really dating, I guess, but she still broke things off with him. She laments how hard it is to find decent guys in Riverview. There are plenty of hot guys, I guess, but they never give anyone the time of day.
“Well, who’s your dream guy?” I ask.
She looks up from the cards in her hand. “Like my favorite celebrity?”
I laugh. “No. I already know that. Just describe your ideal guy—like the perfect boyfriend.”
“Oh! I see what you mean,” she says, returning her attention to the game to play a card. “My ideal guy would be tall, hot, and athletic. Good teeth. Fashionable. Clean. Bonus points if he’s blond—I look good with blonds.”
“Because you’re blonde too?”
She smirks but says nothing.
I assess my cards and set one on the pile on the floor between us. Rose throws down another. She holds two cards while I’m forced to draw two more. Now stuck with eight cards, I’m losing miserably.
“You know, my dream guy is basically your Hot Grocery Store Man,” she says mildly. When I fail to suppress my grimace, she laughs again. “Sorry, but it’s true. Anyway, what kind of guy would my sweet, innocent Jayde go for? The Hot Grocery Store Man type, or...?”
We glance up from our hands at the same time.
I don’t often fantasize about the opposite sex, and she knows it. But she also knows I’ve had this guy on my mind since I met him. Does she expect me to own up to it? Because, to be honest, Ice was intimidatingly attractive, and I’m not sure I could handle a long-term relationship.
What type of person would I want to date, though?
“I don’t know,” I say carefully. “I’d like a nice guy, I guess. Someone who is fun to be with but honestly cares about me too. I want to mean something to him, you know?”
“You’re no fun,” she pouts. “You know what I meant.”
“Hot Grocery Store Man is hot and all, but looks are a bonus.”
She rolls her eyes and drops her second-to-last card on top of the pile. “Uno!”
four
ROSE WAKES ME UP IN a panic over being “late.”
I remove the blanket she tossed on my head and watch as she stumbles into her bedroom. The door smacks against the rubber doorstop and bounces back but doesn’t close completely.
“Kyle called two hours ago, wondering where I was,” she says from inside. “I’m surprised he’s not knocking on the door right now.”
“Did you tell him we stayed up late?”
I check my phone. It’s 10:13AM.
She groans. “I did, but it’s a fifteen-hour drive even if we don’t stop. And we’ll have to stop. Ugh! I should have agreed to take his car. Mom will lose it if we have to stay the night in a creepy motel in the middle of nowhere again.”
The living room is littered with pillows and blankets and food packaging. I pick up an empty popcorn bag and stuff a few random bits of trash into it.
“It’s fine. It won’t kill me to clean without you.”
She pops her head out of the doorway to thank me with an apologetic smile before she shuts herself inside her room. The living room isn’t a complete disaster, anyway. If I don’t put it off, it’ll only take a few minutes to get everything where it belongs.
Of course, I was right.
As I fold the last throw blanket, Rose darts out of her room with a large suitcase and duffel bag. She leaves her luggage near the door and spins to face me. I set the blanket on the back of the couch.
Then her hands land on her hips, and she frowns. “Well, I hope you manage to have some fun without me.”
“I’m sure I’ll have an awful time,” I say.
She drops the fake frown, closes the distance between us, and wraps her arms around me. A wave of blonde hair tickles my nose. I laugh and pat her on the shoulder.
“Nah, you’ll be fine,” she says as she breaks away. “Don’t let me forget to pick up a couple souvenirs while I’m gone, though.”
I must have two dozen random knick-knacks and touristy t-shirts by now—at least one for every vacation she’s gone on in the past four or five years. They decorate my desk and dresser, and several made it onto a shelf by the staircase. I love them, but I’m running out of places to put them.
“Something from the Grand Canyon this time?” she asks.
“Sounds good. I don’t think I have anything from there yet.”
With a laugh, she pulls the front door open. “I’ll get a nice, tacky sweatshirt. One with a big, ugly picture on it.”
She’ll run out of tourist traps to buy souvenirs from eventually, won’t she?
“Anyway, I’ll see you later.” She hefts the duffel bag into her arms. Our eyes meet, and she grins before starting down the steps. “Well, I won’t see you for a couple months, but y’know—same difference. I’ll call you when I get there. And maybe earlier, when I cross the border.”
“Have fun, and drive safe.”
She shoves her bags into the trunk. We both wave, she climbs in her car, and I step back inside. The front door closes behind me.
It’s already quiet.
Despite being considered a cottage, the house is rather large for one person. Returning the couch to its original position in the middle of the room doesn’t help. I eat the rest of the leftover pizza, finish tidying up, and head upstairs, where I sit on the edge of my bed.
What is everyone up to?
FaceSpace is boring. More uninspired posts about summer break. A few students worried about their final grades. I comment on something Robbie shared earlier this morning.
With a yawn, I roll onto my side to get more comfortable.
Staying awake until three in the morning and sleeping on the floor wasn’t our best plan. I post about the sleepover, tagging Rose to say I miss her already. Then I rest my head on my pillow and close my eyes.
I TOOK A NAP—BY ACCIDENT.
After I woke up, I showered. I went for a short walk. Cleaned the kitchen. Rose commented on my post from a rest stop. I won’t hear from her for a while, so... I’ve been wasting time, trying to distract myself from the empty house and my newfound lack of immediate responsibilities.
My latest idea was to sit outside and update my résumé on my phone. Not much has changed besides the number of college credits I’ve earned. I reword a few sentences, cycle through a handful of different fonts, and pause to yawn.
Dragging the chair out here was more exciting than this.
I lock my phone and stand from the uncomfortable, plastic folding chair. My fingers brush the doorknob—I’m ready to go inside—but the sight of green stops me.
Moving closer to the edge of the landing, I scan the nearest and sparsest row of trees. The forest is quiet. The expanse of grass in front of Windsor Park is empty, though it shifts in the gentle breeze. It’s due for another trim before fire season sets in.
Hm...
I haven’t seen the fluffy white cat in a while. It was cute, with eyes as blue as the summer sky. Did the owner find it? Is it safe, hidden away inside of one of my neighbors’ cottages?
I lean against the porch railing.
Speaking of things I have
n’t seen...
Hot Grocery Store Man.
Ice Monroe.
He hasn’t called, and it’s like he doesn’t exist at all on social media.
Maybe I imagined the whole thing. No, he was definitely real, but that doesn’t mean his intentions were. Maybe he was humoring me—or teasing me—by asking for my phone number. Maybe he spent the entire time laughing to himself and never planned to call in the first place.
I bet Ice isn’t even his real name.
Yeah, that’s probably it.
Oh, well. I knew Hot Grocery Store Man—a real-life example of Rose’s perfect boyfriend—was too good to be true. He was just another hot guy who wouldn’t give a girl like me the time of day.
With a sigh, I rest my chin in my hands.
Maybe Rose was right. Maybe I should have asked for his phone number.
What? No.
I meant what I said. The last thing I need is a boyfriend. I want to relax and recover from the school year. Though, it might not be so bad if it only lasted for the summer...
Ugh.
Stop thinking about him. If he planned to call, he surely would have by now.
My phone rings.
The default ringtone tells me the call isn’t from Rose, and a glance at the screen confirms the caller isn’t in my contact list. But it is a local number.
My stupid heart skips a beat.
You’re kidding.
It’s spam, right? Or a wrong number?
I accept the call and raise the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I ask.
The other line is quiet a second too long. I don’t breathe.
“Hello,” a familiar voice replies. “It’s Ice Monroe. Remember me from Bargain Shop?”
I stand up straight, holding the phone tight. No freaking way. Well, I guess he wasn’t playing me or turned off by my impressive lack of social grace, but I’m not in the clear yet.
Act casual, Jayde.
“Oh, hey!” Nice. That totally didn’t sound forced. Ugh. “I was starting to think you’d never call.”
He laughs. “My apologies. I’ve been quite busy, but things are calming down now.”
“Oh? Same here. I guess.”
“Are you free tomorrow?”
I stare at nothing in particular for so long my eyes lose focus. The colors and shapes of the parking lot, trees, and sky blur together into a mess of grey and black and green and blue. Then I shake my head and return to the chair.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’m not doing anything tomorrow.”
“Wonderful. I’m free too.” His voice is crisp and clear through the phone. “We should do something in town.”
I glance in the direction of the phone at my ear. “Like what?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve had frozen yogurt,” he says. “There’s still a shop at Century Plaza, right?”
“Yes?”
I bite my tongue. I haven’t visited Century Plaza Mall in months, so I honestly don’t know, but there sure as hell better be a frozen yogurt shop on the premises.
“Care to join me?” he asks.
“Sure.” I wince. “I mean— Yes. That sounds amazing.”
Frozen yogurt at the mall should be a casual affair, but it’s for the best. I’m hopeless. Anything more involved might kill me.
“I can meet you around one-o’clock,” he says. “If that works for you?”
“Mm-hm.” I force myself to give my fingers a break and relax my death grip on the phone.
“Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jayde.”
“Okay, Ice. Thanks.”
The call ends there, freeing me to breathe and properly appreciate how strange saying his name was. I mean, Ice? Come on. Though, I guess it’s better than Hot Grocery Store Man.
Still reeling, I add his phone number to my contacts—as Ice Monroe—and set an obnoxious custom ringtone. Next time he calls, I’ll know it’s him right away.
Oh.
My face is hot, and not only from the sun.
Did he just ask me out?
Why? After how we met, why on earth would he want to talk a second time—let alone ask me out on a date? Well... I guess it doesn’t matter. He must see something worthwhile in me.
I stare at Rose’s name in my contact list. I want to message her. To let her know that Hot Grocery Store Man called despite my full belief he never would. To let her know I scored a date with him. I want her to cheer me on, but it still seems too good to be true.
I’ll wait until after the date. Just to be safe.
five
I STEP OFF THE BUS near Century Plaza Mall a few minutes after 1PM. Ice is already there, sitting at a bench outside the main doors, so I speed walk to meet him. He stands and greets me with a smile.
I force a smile in return. “Hi! Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s no problem.”
Ugh.
My memory wasn’t exaggerating—Ice Monroe is exactly as gorgeous as he was when I first met him. Tousled hair. Casual, high-end clothing. Confident posture. His appearance strikes me as simple yet deliberate, and I bet he spent a lot of time perfecting the look.
He’s definitely more Rose’s type than mine, but there is nothing wrong with being a tall, hot, athletic blond as long as you’re not a conceited prick on top of it. So far, Ice checks out as okay.
He glances past me, toward the road. “You take public transit?”
Ah... He noticed.
Of course he noticed. The bus stop is right on the other end of the parking lot, but I hope he doesn’t find it strange—or pathetic, considering I’m nineteen.
“Yeah, I don’t drive,” I admit. “The bus system here is fine, so I never saw any reason to get a car. Not to mention the cost of gas and insurance, and the impact on the environment...”
You’re yammering on about nothing again. Shut up, Jayde.
He laughs easily. “If you said something earlier, I would have given you a ride.”
“Well, now you know. Thanks, though!”
I glance away. I could have told the truth, but he doesn’t need to hear a sob story about how none of the adults in my life cared enough to bother teaching me. That is not first date material.
Fortunately, he doesn’t press the matter and instead suggests we head inside.
I agree, a little too eagerly, and we walk through the large front doors together. If he thinks I’m weird, he doesn’t mention it. He just asks about my day, and I’m thankful for that.
Another stroke of luck—One Scoop, Two Scoops still exists! He laughs at the lame joke I tell about being worried it wouldn’t be there.
When we step inside the shop, I glance around, desperate to look anywhere but at him. A few customers sit at small, round tables and eat frozen yogurt from brightly colored paper bowls. The environment is low energy and quiet, with more tables empty than occupied. It calms my nerves, and I manage to suppress the warmth in my cheeks.
Ice picks up two paper bowls at the start of the self-service froyo bar. He hands one to me, and I carefully accept it.
“What’s your favorite flavor?” he asks.
“Out of these? Um...” I scan the labels on the frozen yogurt dispenser. “Lemon meringue, I guess.”
He serves himself, choosing lemon meringue, and I fill my bowl with strawberry cheesecake after he says it’s his favorite.
This is cliché, but I guess it’s fun.
Moving along to the toppings bar, there are more options than I remember. I cover my frozen yogurt with strawberry slices on one half and a variety of candies on the other. Then I watch as Ice meticulously places one peach ring and three brownie chunks in his bowl. He offers my cup a mildly judgmental glance before flashing a smile.
He obviously finds the abomination my frozen yogurt bowl became funny—which is fair, if a little embarrassing—but he says nothing.
We walk to the cashier counter, I hand Ice my bowl, and he sets both on the register scale. Our total comes out to just over t
en dollars, no thanks to my blatant overuse of toppings, I’m sure.
The flicker of guilt I felt fades when he slips a fifty-dollar bill from his jacket pocket.
Hm... He’s either rich or showing off.
I had him pegged as a fellow college student, but what student walks around with fifty-dollar bills in their jacket pockets? Why is he wearing a jacket, anyway? It’s like ninety degrees outside. Yet, there he is, standing beside me, rocking what looks to be a genuine leather jacket.
What the hell?
I must have spaced out for a minute because I’m already standing in front of a small table across the shop. Ice hands over my yogurt cup—complete with a plastic spoon stuck into the center—and pulls out a chair for me.
Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead.
I thank him and sit. The chair makes an awful screeching noise as I scoot closer to the table.
He takes the chair across from me while trying to fold what’s left of his fifty dollars with one hand. I have no idea why it’s so entertaining to watch, but it is. As he finishes, I stare at the pile of toppings in my paper cup.
When was the last time I did something like this?
Robbie took me out to get ice cream often when I was a kid, and Rose and I came here a few times last year, but it’s not the same. Robbie is my brother. Rose is my best friend. Today, here with Ice, I’m on a real date—a date no one else had to arrange for me. A date I honestly wanted to go on.
“If you don’t hurry, it’ll melt,” he says, his voice playful.
Glancing up, I force a smile. He’s already eating. Two of the three small brownie chunks are missing from his cup.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s not my favorite, but it’s alright.”
I struggle to find a spoonful of strawberry cheesecake yogurt without any toppings mixed in. Cold, sweet, fruity. The flavor is good, but I definitely went overboard with the extras.
When I mention it, he laughs.
Glancing away self-consciously, I realize for the umpteenth time that I am on a date. I haven’t gone on one since the first week of winter term, not long before I swore off dating to focus on school. I’m a little rusty—not that I was fantastic at dating to begin with. But I dug a nice blouse out of my dresser and put my hair up for this.