George:That’s not the direction I was going.
Me:Sorry I can’t make it to the airport. I have to wait for my mom to get home so I can take her car to grab a new tire
George:You mean two new tires.
George:You can’t keep driving on a spare.
George:I can come pick you up. We’ll go flying, then get your tires.
George:Emphasis on that plural.
I wait on the front stoop of our house for George to arrive, overly anxious about the idea of him coming here. The discomfort isn’t to do with the house itself. My home may be crumbling in a variety of ways, but when you stand back and look at the larger picture, the place is pretty gorgeous.
The lower half of the house is fashioned from warm, red bricks that continue into columns that frame a thick wooden door. The entry has a curved top that makes me think of drawbridges. A wide, multipaned window gazes out at the front yard. The upper levels are the classic Tudor-style white plaster bisected with dark wooden beams. The roof has a dramatic, whimsical slope, and only an expert would realize how badly the shingles need to be replaced.
So no, it’s not the house. My steadily increasing anxiety has to do with the weaving of George into more parts of my life. Specifically, the part that includes my mother.
How will she react if she finds out that I’m friends with someone else connected to BBN? That I’mmorethan friends with him. That I’m starting to feel things and ways about him.
“Why are you sitting on the stoop?”
I start at the voice speaking directly behind me and clasp my chest to calm my heart as I turn to find Marge staring down at me with a confused smile.
“You’re so quiet!” I accuse her instead of answering. “I didn’t even hear you open the door.”
She shrugs, then waits, picking up on my evasion.
“My car has another flat. George is on his way to pick me up so we can still go flying.”
“George. Hmm.” She taps her chin, her expression thoughtful. “He was quite tall, if I recall.”
“Uh, yes. Correct. I don’t have an exact measurement, though, if that’s…something you needed.”
“Have him come inside when he gets here. The chandelier bulb needs to be changed.”
“Marge, no—”
But she’s already gone, and I sigh in defeat. My stepmother is used to handing out instructions and having them followed. Something to do with being a teacher.
Not long later, George pulls up in his truck. Through the windshield I spy him smiling, and it reminds me of when I spotted him in the airplane with Tasha. Only this time, the happy expression is for me. Because of me.
I pop up from my seat and jog over to meet him. He’s not even fully out from behind the wheel when I lean in to kiss him, mainly because once he fully gets out of the truck, it’ll be hard for my mouth to reach his. George solves this issue by wrapping his arms around my waist and drawing me up with him until he’s standing straight and my feet are dangling.
“I like this greeting,” he rumbles against my mouth.
“Good. It’s all a ruse to soften you up. Marge has a chore for you.”
He snorts. Then he kisses me deeply once more before letting my body slide down his. Even though I want to stay right here, staring up at him for a few minutes just to enjoy the view, a sharp bark interrupts the gazing.
“We’ve been spotted.” I slip out of George’s hold and return to the front door. “Are you ready to be tested? To be judged, and most likely found wanting?”
“I don’t—”
“Too late. It’s happening.” I open the front door, and a moment later out trots Grumps. The cocker spaniel pauses on the front porch when he realizes there’s a stranger in the front yard. He growls, barks three times, then waits to see if George will attack.
“Don’t stare at him,” I instruct. “And try not to look like a murderer.”
“What does a murderer look like?”
