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“Drink this,” he tells me. “I’m going to make you cinnamon pecans.”
Prickling warmth spreads through my chest, like I’ve swallowed sunshine, and I try to shake it off because it makes me feel uneasy. Why is Kellan Drake (Walsh), moody asshole and criminal SGA president, being nicer to me than most of my past boyfriends?
Is he starting to like me?
Should I even allow myself to entertain the thought?
I manage to loosen up enough to tease him about being a Southern boy at heart—what with the cooking and the hospitality, the button-up Polos and the sweet tea addiction—and he gives me a small smile that almost looks a self-conscious.
He leans against the granite countertop while I sit on my bar stool, and somehow he starts asking me questions about myself. At first, I don’t realize there’s intent behind it. It’s easy to tell him about my pseudo-photograhic memory, about how well I do on standardized tests, about how I was good at math when I was little but fell miserably behind the year that Olive died; I never did recover. I blab about Mom and Grans’ reaction when I got accepted to this little private college on a full academic scholarship.
Kellan is a perfect listener, crunching on raw pecans and sipping on his iced tea with one elbow propped on the counter. He looks relaxed and interested, as if my history is somehow meaningful to him.
He draws stories out of me like silk from a spider, soliciting details about my high-school parties, prom, graduation (I was salutatorian), the mundane tasks I had to do while getting ‘rushed’ (AKA hazed) for Tri Gam...
I tell him crazy things I never tell anyone, like how I’ve always wanted to ride a horse at the beach because of that movie Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken, and how, if my sister gets a partial scholarship to CC, I’ll probably stick around in town for a few more years at least.
We discuss the merits of beets and the horror of goat milk in coffee, the necessity of quality in movies (we agree on a lot of the classics, like “The Godfather” and “Pulp Fiction”). I confess my desire for a slap-band watch and tell him about meeting Mark-Paul
Gosselaar at the mall in Atlanta when I was shopping for my prom dress.
I’m nearly sick from what seems like dozens of baked cinnamon pecans when I start to ramble on about how many kids I want.
“Two, at least, so they can be best friends. Four if they turn out to be easier than I think, but definitely two.”
I can tell I’m losing him as I ramble about the virtues of young children, but when I ask how many siblings he has, I realize something else is going on.
He bites his cheek between his teeth, inhales so hard his nostrils flare, and says, “My parents had three kids.”
And that is all.
It’s plain to see this is a sore subject for my mysterious Mr. Drake.
I feel a pang of sympathy as he turns around and starts scrubbing the pan he used to bake the pecans.
I try to remember if I read anything about his parents or siblings in the brief news article about Kellan being suspended from the Trojans, but I don’t think anything was mentioned.
I’m irrationally irritated at myself for saying something that has led to a rough spot in our smooth and easy night—a night in which I almost felt like we were on a fun first date.
A few minutes later, he turns back around, wipes his damp hands on his pants, and with an unreadable look aimed not quite at my face, says, “I’m going for a run.”
I bite my lip, because it’s what I do when I’m not sure what to do.
“You want to go?” he asks.
My eyebrows jut up. I can’t help it. Sometimes they get away from me.
Kellan notices and smirk-smiles. “Not a runner?”
“No—I am a runner. Sometimes runner. I’m just... surprised you asked.” And embarrassed for admitting my surprise. Way to be obvious, Cleo. “Do you run downstairs?”
He shakes his head.
“Outside?” I smile, because he looks a little spaced out. (Too many pecans?)
He nods a beat too late, then gestures toward the front hall. “Down the road.”
Before I can give him an answer on whether I’d like to go, he looks in my direction—but not at me—nods a little, and says, looking at his cell phone, “I’ll be down in ten or fifteen. Gotta go get dressed.”
