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“Oh my.”
Fear races through my veins, and I turn toward her, suspecting she’s spotted the photo of Lucas that owns a permanent spot on the corner of my mirror. It’s a portrait I took of him walking on Market Street, an impromptu photo shoot born out a desire to hold on to him a little longer before he disappeared. I scrolled through the dozens of pics I took that day and printed my favorite, a somber, semi-seductive Lucas staring directly into the camera, at me. A strange look of melancholy, desire, and longing that has puzzled me to this day. His inscription on the back of the photo: patience and our future are wrapped in three special words.
I blink away the mysterious note and focus on Jasmine, who holds something equally dangerous—my binoculars.
“What do we have here? Have you been spying on my date?” she teases, having no clue how close to right she’s come. I don’t react and pace to the window, pointing.
“Take a gander,” I challenge her. “We have a signal system; he places penlights on his sill. I use the binoculars to see what the signal is.” Jasmine leans into the window and flashes me with her too-short skirt. For the record, thongs should not be worn with miniskirts.
She adjusts the knob on the binoculars and sneers, “Haven’t you two heard of texts?” She squeezes the binoculars tight. “You can see right into his bedroom.” The joy in her voice only causes my throat to tighten. “I know where I’m going to be hanging out during bedtime from now on. Hold up…” She leans forward, her head now completely out the window.
“Lucas is walking around shirtless…” she says, leaning back and fanning herself.
I snatch the binoculars, but she doesn’t release her grip.
“Wait your turn, babe. You have access to this channel every day.”
I refuse to release them. She must read stubbornness etched on my face and finally lets go. I toss the binoculars across the room onto my bed. “Boundaries,” I yell.
Jasmine scoffs. She paces around me, inspecting me from the corner of her eye. “Are you telling me you’ve never…” She shakes her head in disbelief. “With him right there…” She can’t complete her question, too dumbfounded to understand.
“He’s my friend.” I provide the standard reply that has been true most of my life.
She pivots, her gaze back to the window. “Does he have a pair as well?”
I nibble on my lower lip, already knowing where she’s headed.
“Girl, I know you don’t think he hasn’t…”
I raise a hand in her direction and reach for my purse, hoping to put an end to the uncomfortable conversation. But it doesn’t work.
“… he’s a man.”
I spin on my heels, fingers forming fists by my side. “He’s not like any man you’ve ever known.” My reaction is over-the-top. I know I’ve said too much, shown too much. But I can’t help it when it comes to Lucas.
Jasmine pauses, the corners of her eyes squinting. I’m sure she sees the steam coming out of my ears. “Well, hot dang.” She paints on a plastic smile and scoops up her clutch from the top of the dresser. “Let’s get this date started. I hope you’re right.”
She steps through the doorway, headed to the stairwell, and I shake my head. I’ve always been right about everything when it comes to the boy next door. But my confidence is no longer steady—because he’s no longer the boy next door. He’s returned home all man.
8
It takes all of three seconds for me to know how this date is going to go.
One—the momentary peek at Adrienne when she meets us at the door. She’s wearing a comfortable, practical outfit that reminds the world she is who she is. A beautiful flower in full bloom. My chest thumps in anticipation, and then it remembers she is not here for me.
Two—when she swings the door wide to show Jasmine, I bite my tongue. It’s not that I had any expectations of this date being any more than a last-second fumble of acceptance on my part, but I figured with all that Adrienne knows about me she would have provided a minimal amount of insider information to at least make the evening fun. Jasmine is wearing a dress that is not only too short for her but also all kinds of wrong for the evening I planned.
Three—the moment Adrienne pulls Trent into a hug as if they are long-lost buddies. Trent wraps a hand around her lower back and gives her a peck on her cheek, his hand remaining in place, resting on a territory that is as precious as it is treasured.
Before I can react, my vision fills with a head of dark, perfumed hair. “Where is my hug?” Jasmine pulls me tight, and I blow out strings of chemically covered curls from my mouth. I feel a sharp jab above my eye and react, pulling back, hand to my brow.
“What the …” I stare down into my palm, expecting to see blood. When I don’t, I look up into the hornet’s nest of hair to find the culprit. A freaking red rose.
“My bad. You’re okay,” she answers for me. I’m anything but okay. “How do you like it? I picked it out just for you. Do you find it romantic? A red rose is the most passionate flower in the world.”
It takes all my self-control not to steal a glance at Adrienne. It’s unnecessary—she can read my mind. She knows what I think of roses, especially red ones.
“He loves flowers, don’t you, Lucas.” Adrienne’s voice is full of a lightness that Jasmine will recognize, but it also carries an undertone of warning just for my ears. Silence fills the doorway for a beat before I respond.
