Last Stand Page 2

  “No, you can’t. You have cross-country and homework and other responsibilities. I’m not so far out of high school that I’ve forgotten. I’ll swing it.” She walks to the door of the shop and flips the sign to indicate the place is closed.

  I want to tell her that Pete should be swinging it, too. But they broke up, he joined the Army and went to some post in Georgia, and she’s stubborn enough not to accept anything from him. Says she doesn’t want a dime, doesn’t want to deal. No ties.

  She claims she’s ecstatic with this arrangement. I’ve programmed my mouth to issue a, “Whatever you say, Keira!” auto-response whenever she tells me this.

  I think she doesn’t remember what she was like pre-Stewie anymore. She was totally into sports in high school, had lots of friends, and did a decent job on the academic front. She met Pete, who’s from Northglenn, at a high school football game and they hit it off. Things were even better when she got to college in Boulder. Pete was there, too. She loved her classes, raved about her professors. She even claimed to love her dorm. But after two years, she was back home again, pregnant and single. She said it was okay, that she’d manage, and promptly used the rest of her college savings to put a down payment on Fair Grounds.

  To everyone’s surprise, Keira got the place in shape in only three months. Within a week of opening, it became the popular place to be, despite the fact she looked like she’d swallowed a basketball at the time. I know she’s proud of how Fair Grounds has done and claims she’s happy beyond words with her life.

  But she’s not the same Keira anymore. Always tired, always serious. She doesn’t talk about her friends from high school or college, and I don’t think she ever sees them, even when they’re in town during school breaks. It’s all about Stewie.

  Not that it shouldn’t be all about Stewie. It just strikes me as a lonely life, no matter what she says.

  She grabs the drawer from the cash register and sets it on the counter with one hand, balancing Stewart against her chest with the other. He’s completely quiet now; he probably loves the smell of coffee and the relaxed atmosphere of Fair Grounds as much as I do.

  I take off my apron and toss it on the counter. “Want me to help tally?”

  “Nah. Go do your homework. Don’t want to screw things up on the first day of school.” She pauses. “Isn’t it a big day for you and Amber?”

  The one downside of my first-ever kiss with Amber? My sister walked in on us. It’s not like we told everyone that today’s the one-year anniversary of that event, but since Amber mentioned talking to Keira before buying the Alamo book, I’m guessing Keira put two and two together.

  I brandish my cell phone. “I’m going to call her on the walk home.”

  “That’s not good enough, Toby. Girls remember the first kiss. Even if that kiss happens to occur in a garage.”

  “I bought her a gift, okay?”

  “A good one?” Why un-romantic Keira focuses on this is beyond me. Females are a mystery, my sister most of all.

  “So how’s Pete doing these days?” I ask. “Gonna fill him in on Stewie’s strep? Guys like to know that kind of thing.”

  She rolls her eyes and laughs out loud. “Now, was that necessary? You could have just told me to leave it alone, mind my own business.”

  “Coulda. Didn’t.” She’s so used to me making comments, she doesn’t even get annoyed anymore. I grab my backpack from under the counter and ask her one more time if she wants me to tally the receipts. On her assertion that she’d prefer to handle it herself, I tell her I’ll see her at home, then slip out the front and down the stairs, holding my cell phone above my head so Keira knows I’ll call Amber ASAP.

  Chapter Two

  I’m dialing Amber’s number when I hear her calling my name.

  I turn and wave my cell phone while she jogs to catch up to me. “I was just calling you.”

  “Saw the lights still on at Fair Grounds and had Meghan drop me off on the way home to see if I could help you close up. Keira told me you’d just left.” Amber’s out of breath, but smiling. She weaves her fingers through mine, and we head up the road, toward the gates of Rocky Knolls, the development where we both live. Saying “the gates of Rocky Knolls” makes it sound fancier than it is. They’re two generic stone pillars with a sign that says ocky Knolls; we lost the R my freshman year. It’s a source of constant amusement for those who don’t live in Rocky—or “ocky”—Knolls.

  As we walk, I apologize for the text, but she says it’s cool, that she’d have done the same thing for Keira and Stewie. We talk a little about Model U.N. She thinks she and her best friend, Meghan, may actually get to be ambassadors this year, which is why they stayed after school to help out. I gather being an ambassador is a good thing, so I say all the appropriate supportive boyfriend stuff. After that, we’re quiet, just enjoying each other’s company. Eventually, my mind drifts to my homework. How long could it take to read thirty pages of The Great Gatsby and do twenty Trig problems?

  “You’re not going to come over tonight, are you?” Her voice is soft, but there’s a pouty undercurrent to her words. She’s forgiven me for the text message, but she’s unhappy about it jeopardizing our time together. And she knows me well enough to know that when I’m quiet, it’s usually because I’m making a mental to-do list instead of thinking about her.

  “I’ll try to after I shower and eat. I need to see how bad the Trig homework is.” I can’t screw up the first week. I had a teacher in middle school with a reputation for being super-strict. I was so nervous about impressing her that I vomited at my desk on the first day. Not only did my friends tease me for weeks—they still bring it up, so to speak, from time to time—but I swear the teacher held it against me the whole year. Thought of me as the strange vomit kid.

  It’s never, ever something I’d admit out loud, but I want to make a good impression on my teachers this year. They’re the people I’m going to need to write college recommendation letters for me.

  I stop walking and tug on Amber’s hand to stop her, too. “Think you could come by my place for a few minutes right now?”

  She shakes her head. “I promised Mom I’d get home by six-thirty for dinner.”

  “Just for a sec? We’re nearly to the gates already. You can still get home on time.” I have to find a way to give her the necklace today. She’s big on celebrating events on the exact day. No party for her on Friday night when her birthday’s actually on Thursday, no attending Fourth of July fireworks on any day other than the Fourth.

  She turns and starts walking again, but doesn’t let go of my hand, so I follow along. When we get to the intersection where I usually go left to my house and she goes right, heading uphill to her family’s two story French colonial, she stops and looks up at me. “You know if I come to your house, I won’t make it back by six-thirty and I really need to get home. Just come over later and bring your Trig. All right?”

  I know I should say no. Just stay home, wash off the cross country stink, finish my homework, and then do a lightning-fast run to her place to deliver the necklace before she goes to bed. But I want so, so bad to go to her place, to curl up with her on the basement sofa, like we did before summer and Friendly’s got in the way, that my mouth overrides my brain.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “But we actually have to do homework.”

  “No problem. I have a bunch, too.” She gives me a quickie kiss goodbye, and I tell her I’ll try to be there in an hour.

  • • •

  “You kids okay down here? Need anything else to drink?” Mrs. DeWitt is standing halfway down the basement stairs, leaning over the railing so she can see Amber and me on the sofa in front of the television. I’m sprawled at one end, with my Trig book open, calculator out, and fifteen problems finished. Amber’s at the other end, feet tucked under her, reading her history assignment.

  “We’re good, thanks,” I assure her. Amber adds a, “yep.”

  “Holler if you need anything.” She turns and heads ups
tairs, then shuts the basement door behind her. We listen to her footsteps on the hallway floor above us. Seven steps, then the sound deadens as she hits carpet in the family room. Amber looks at me. We both know this is the signal that we’re being left alone for the evening, that her mother expects us to keep working on our homework.

  We also take it as the signal that we’re good for at least an hour if we feel like making out. There will be seven more steps, the sound of the door opening, and five steps down the stairs until she hits the visual danger zone. But she probably won’t be back, and Amber’s giving me the look.

  “How’re you doing on that?” I ask, shooting a pointed look at her history book.

  “Almost done.”

  “Me, too. Only five more Trig problems.” Of course, I still have to do the Gatsby reading. But if I can just finish this—

  Amber’s feet tangle with mine on the sofa. I move a little closer, trying to focus on the next Trig problem.

  No dice.

  My papers slide off onto the floor as Amber grabs my ankles. In a matter of seconds, she has her hands beside my knees, then around my waist, and we’re lying on the sofa kissing like we haven’t kissed in months.

  Screw Trig. Screw F. Scott Fitzgerald and impressing teachers.

  I want Amber’s weight on top of me, my hands in her hair, the warm, fulfilled feeling I get whenever my arms are around her. The headiness of being so close I can inhale whatever it is that makes her smell like her.

  Amber’s hands slip under my T-shirt, and I’m all too happy to reciprocate, sliding my fingers under the sides of her bra, then slowly forward, feeling the soft curve of flesh right at the edge of the cups. It’s our usual routine, her pushing my shirt up and me pushing up hers, so we’re skin-to-skin on the sofa as we kiss, but in a way that allows us to yank our clothing back quickly if there are footsteps in the hallway above.

  But tonight, instead of letting her hands continue to explore under my shirt, Amber reaches down and slides her hands along the waistband of my shorts, first on the outside, then along the inside. “One year,” she whispers as her lips move toward my ear. “One year since you kissed me in your garage. I thought you never would.”

  We’d been dancing around our connection for months, becoming friends through marching band, then hanging out together whenever we practiced outdoors. She was going out with Connor Ralston most of the year—one of those superjocks who’s good-looking and at ease in every situation—and she started confiding in me about the ups and downs of their relationship. First, in bits and pieces during those outdoor hours in band, then in more depth via texts and late-night cell phone calls when she and Connor had a particularly dramatic day.

  In other words, I’d happily relegated myself to the same pitiful role all average, somewhat geeky guys take when around a gorgeous, out-of-reach girl: I became her sounding board, just so I could spend more time around her. I never in a million years thought I’d be anything more than a friend to her, but neither did I want our symbiotic relationship to be put on hold just because school was out for the summer. So when freshman year ended, I asked her on a whim if she wanted to get together to practice over the summer.

  She shocked me and said yes, even though no one really expected us to practice.

  When Connor dumped her in early August for a girl from another school, her girlfriends assured Amber she’d get Connor back. It bugged her, she claimed, because she wasn’t even sure she wanted Connor back if he wasn’t going to treat her the way she deserved to be treated. I told her to ignore her friends and go with her gut, that if she got back with him, fine. But if not, when she was ready she’d find someone better. Someone who’d spoil her.

  I even gave her names, I was so pathetic.

  To my everlasting joy, she laughed out loud and said, “Too full of himself!” when I suggested Griff.

  The day before sophomore year started, when her mom took her to pick up new reeds for her clarinet, she called and offered to grab me some for my sax. She dropped them off a few hours later as I was sweeping out the garage, trying to earn car money. We flirted a little, talked about band and whether she could possibly make first chair as a sophomore, and then I was kissing her. Just leaned over the push broom and did it without letting myself think about it first.

  And it was perfect, at least until Keira walked in with a garbage bag full of dirty diapers, yelled, “Whoa! Um…sorry!,” dropped the bag on the floor, and hurried back into the house laughing her head off. One year ago today.

  I remember the necklace and whisper, “Hey, I forgot, I have something in my backpack.”

  “Really?” She eases back, and the grin on her face is downright heartstopping. I forgot how much I like the way she smiles at me while we’re kissing and no one else is around. Like I’m the only person in the world who makes her feel this happy.

  I reach for the floor and unzip the bag one-handed, keeping my other hand in its comfy location, tucked under the side of her bra, and pull out the box containing the necklace. I slide it so it’s on my chest, right between us. “Happy anniversary, Amber.”

  Twin lines furrow the area between her eyes, like she was expecting something else, but they disappear when she smiles. “You got me a present! Um…you want me to open it now?”

  “Yeah. Is there a problem?”

  “Of course not!” She sits up, letting her rear end slide into the space between my thigh and the back of the sofa, so I push myself upright and pull her onto my lap. She eases a finger under the tape, then peels off the wrapping paper without tearing it.

  My heart nearly stops at her sharp intake of breath as she opens the box from the jeweler. “Toby, this is gorgeous!”

  “You like?”

  She nods, fingering the gold-dipped aspen leaf and the small round opal set in its center.

  “I thought you might like something outdoorsy.” I explain. “When I saw this one, with your birthstone, it seemed like something you’d wear.”

  She doesn’t say anything. She just stares at the necklace, lying against the fuzzy blue velvet inside the box.

  “If you don’t like it, I can take it back and you can choose something else.”

  Could I sound like a bigger dweeb? I can just hear Keira’s reaction. She’d say, if she already told you it’s gorgeous, why in the world are you offering to return it? Take a girl at her word!

  Amber blinks, then smiles at me. “Never. It’s perfect. I’ll wear it all the time.”

  She takes it out of the box and asks me to hold her hair out of the way while she fastens it. Once it’s on, she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me, long and slow and soft. It’s quiet; I can’t even hear the television upstairs. Just me and Amber and the low hum of the DeWitt’s air conditioning. Like no one could ever disturb us down here.

  She must have the same feeling, because she slides her hands down my back, then eventually around to the front to play with the button on my shorts again.

  I want to stop her, but I don’t want to, either. The sensation of her fingernails running along my waist, then lower, just below my belly button, is driving me nearly over the edge. I think I’m going to combust, but in a very, very good way.

  I know she can tell, since she’s sitting in my lap, but it’s not stopping her. I swallow hard and try to think of something else. Cars I might be able to afford. Ms. Lewis’s stupid syllabus. Ms. Lewis herself. But nothing’s easing the problem.

  Then Amber maneuvers my shorts down a few inches, so they’re barely covering me, and pushes me backward on the sofa, so she can get them the rest of the way down if she wants.

  “Amber, we can’t.” I tell her in between kisses. “If you keep…any more and I might come.”

  She smiles against my lips and moves her body—with her porno-mag worthy breasts—against me. Then she slips her fingers into the waistband of my underwear.

  “Really, Amber. We need to stop.” I can’t believe I’m saying what I’m saying to her—it’s bad enough I
just used the word come in sentence out loud—but what’s my alternative? “If…well, it’ll make a mess. Your parents are gonna know.”

  And I don’t want to.

  When it gets right down to it, no matter how good this feels physically, my brain’s telling me it’s wrong. I can’t get a hand job in her parents’ basement. It was bad enough that she gave me one at Sophomore Blast last year, when we were hidden away in her tent. Okay, good, as in how it felt, but bad in the sense that we could have been discovered—by Meghan, who was sharing the tent, by one of the chaperones, by anyone who happened to stumble away from the annual sophomore class lakeside party. And bad in that when I realized what she really wanted then was to have sex, that the hand job wasn’t the destination, but a prelude to what Amber considered the main event, I squirreled my way out of there before she could say the words. I cut her off mid-I want to… and told her Griff was going to come looking for me because I’d promised to play on his team in the flag football game.