I wove my hands in my hair. It had taken more than an hour to straighten every strand, and after being outside for less than five minutes, I could already feel the waves of my curls taking form. But now, I was beyond caring. The only thing that would make up for my terrible luck was if Asha was having a good time, hopefully with Gabe Grant.
The thought made me smile.
***
I didn’t know how long I was outside, but at some point I wandered down to the fountain. It was even more beautiful upon closer inspection. The bottom was tiled with colorful glass, giving it the appearance of a waterlogged kaleidoscope. I stepped up onto the smooth concrete base. As I walked the circle, I hummed the Heartbreakers’ song Asha had gotten stuck in my head.
“Miss?”
The sound of his voice startled me, and I had to flap my arms to keep from tumbling headfirst into the water. I regained my balance, but my heart was thumping. I pressed a hand to my chest and took a seat before I actually fell in.
I knew it was that boy again without having to look. When I turned to him, I had to crane my neck to see his masked face.Holy mother, he was tall! Not like my friend Boomer, but still… I hadn’t realized this when we crashed into each other on the dance floor. I’d been too distracted by my soaked dress to make a height comparison. As if sensing this, he took a few steps back so he was no longer looming over me.
“Were you trying to sneak up on me?” I asked, my pulse still thundering in my ears. “Because mission accomplished.”
“Sorry,” he said, his face neutral. “I wanted to see if you were all right.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Okay, I wasn’t fine. Not bad necessarily, but after my unexpected surge of emotions, I felt disheveled, burned out. Like a battery that had been completely sucked of its juice. My excitement for the ball had already faded, but I wasn’t ready to leave yet. Not when I’d be going home to a dark house. There was no way I’d admit this to a total stranger though, even if he was hot in a mysterious way.
He must have known I wasn’t being completely sincere, because when I glanced back up, he was studying my face, eyes narrowed in concentration. It felt like an hour passed before he finally spoke.
“Is your dress okay?”
My face got hot. “It’ll be fine. Nothing a trip to the dry cleaner can’t fix.”
“I’m sorry for spilling on you,” he said for the second time. “I got that club soda and rag if you need them.” He held out the two items as a peace offering.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I said, barely able to meet his gaze. My face was burning, and I prayed that the lack of light would hide the color of my cheeks. Unlike Mom and Rose, who always had golden California tans, I inherited my grandmother’s Irish genes. Not only could my pale, pasty skin sunburn on a cloudy day, but when I was embarrassed, I turned as red as a stop sign.
The boy was still holding out the bottle and cloth, but I was too nervous to reach out and take them. Three long seconds passed. Finally, he strode forward and set them down beside me. Then he stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, and I couldn’t tell if he wanted me to invite him to sit down or give him an excuse to leave. I was too distracted to do either. My thoughts kept returning to the moment of the spill, and with each detailed replay inside my head, my stomach tightened. I had been a total spaz. A bitch even.
“I feel like such an idiot,” I confessed, hiding my face in my hands. “I’m sorry for freaking out on you like that. You must think I’m some high-maintenance Barbie.”
The boy took my apology as a sign to join me. He sat and pulled something from his pocket: a phone and earbuds. “Your hair isn’t blond,” he responded. I stared at him, confused by the sudden and strange change of topic, so he clarified: “Like Barbie’s.”
Oh.He was making a joke. Sheesh, it was impossible to tell withthat serious tone and straight-faced demeanor of his. “Right,” I said. “Not like yours.”
He was towheaded, a blond so light it resembled sunlight reflecting off a fresh bed of snow. And it was styled perfectly, bangs swept up out of his eyes. I almost laughed. He was the Ken to my Barbie. Instead of replying, he reached up and self-consciously touched his hair, checking to make sure every slicked-back strand was in place. When he finished, he fixed his eyes on me again. I waited for him to say something,anything, but he seemed content with the silence.
I, however, was not.
“I’m Felicity Lyon, by the way.”
I had hoped to keep the conversation going, but for some odd reason, he flinched and looked away.
Okay, weird.Was he too shy to talk to me, or did he not want to tell me his name?
“Never mind,” I said. “Pretend I never said anything.”
After a few more moments, he draped his headphones around his neck and said, “I’m Aaron.” He didn’t give a last name, but I could work with that.
“SoAaron,” I said and tried not to wrinkle my nose. Calling him Aaron felt wrong somehow, but maybe that was because I babysat a little boy named Aaron who enjoyed wearing his Halloween costume year-round and popping out of closets to scare people. “What are you doing here?” As soon as I said this, I realized it sounded like I was asking why he was sitting with me, and I quickly added, “At the ball, I mean.”
“My dad was invited,” he said without giving a more detailed explanation. I was pretty sure he was frowning, though it was hard to tell because of his mask. I wanted to reach over and pull it off so I could see his face, but I folded my hands neatly in my lap.
God, Felicity. Can you be anymore awkward?
