“Yes. Am I slurring my speech? Oh shit, I must have given myself brain damage when I ran into the wall,” he says, concerned.
“No, you’re not slurring your speech,” I say, calming him. “Thank you for checking up on me. I’m okay,” I lie, trying to convey a powerful, self-assured woman, and not the wimpy one I truly am.
Stone rubs his head. “Oh, that’s good.” The cellphone spotlights his perfect bone structure and manly physique.
“I need a drink,” I blurt out.
“I know where Ruby keeps a bottle of Kahlua for special occasions.”
Thank goodness. My close encounter with the man of my dreams requires a high blood alcohol level. And thank goodness for small towns, where everyone knows where everyone hides their booze.
“Careful,” I say, helping Stone up. He’s wearing a rain slicker and pants, and he takes them off in the kitchen, while I shine my cellphone light on him. It’s a lot like my own personal Magic Mike show, but underneath he’s still wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and thick socks.
He finds the Kahlua and Jiffy Pop popcorn. “Contraband,” he says, happily. He turns on the gas stove and begins to shake the Jiffy Pop over the burner. He tosses me a box of matches. “You can be in charge of the candles. Bottom drawer over there.”
I follow his finger and take out five candles. I begin to light them and place them around the house. Two in the kitchen. Three in the den. Once I’m in the den, Stone walks in, holding a bowl of popcorn, the bottle of booze, and two glasses. It dawns on me that I’m spending the evening in a candlelit house alone with Stone Jenkins. I knock back the Kahlua, and he pours me a second glass.
What’s going on? Am I dreaming? Am I dead? Is this a really good Twilight Zone rerun? How is it possible that Stone is checking up on me, cooking for me, and liquoring me up? Maybe I hit him on the head a little too hard.
I sit on the couch, and this time Bark jumps next to me without any urging on my part. Stone picks up the dog and places him on his lap when he sits down. He sits so close that his thigh is pressed up against mine.
I might just swallow my tongue.
I’ve never been this close to Stone. He’s even better up close. I wrack my brain, trying to remember my seventh grade after-school etiquette classes that my mother forced me to go to. Let’s see…don’t put my elbows on the table, don’t ever pop a zit, don’t fart in public. Nothing about being alone with my lifelong crush. Not a hint about what I’m supposed to say, not a clue about conversation topics. What on earth can I talk to him about except the dinner special?
“So,” he says, drawing out the word, starting the conversation for me. “Why did you hit me over the head with a pot?”
I gasp. Drat. I’ve been found out. I think up a slew of lies to tell him, including an evil twin, parallel universes, and a PCP overdose. For some reason, I decide to tell him the truth.
“You scared me to death. I thought you were a chainsaw killer.”
“You’ve got to stop watching horror movies,” he insists. “Remember that time you peed yourself watching The Blair Witch Project on TV when your parents went out of town?”
“I was eight years old!”
“I helped John wash your sheets that time.”
I finish my second Kahlua and cover my face with my hand. I’m mortified, picturing Stone cleaning my sheets with my brother.
God, please let me fart so that we can change the subject.
“So, you were worried about me?” I ask, surprising myself with my daring. The Kahlua is starting to work. I can almost look him in the eyes, now.
“I always worry about you.”
“You always worry about me? What does that mean? You mean, you wonder if I floss?”
Stone smiles, and I pour myself another glass of Kahlua. I’m a tiny woman, and I can’t hold my liquor. I start losing sensation in my fingers. “I guess I mean that I’m always thinking of you,” he clarifies, startling me.
He thinks about me? Me?
I drop my glass, and it bounces on the carpet. “Oops,” I say. We both bend down to pick it up, and we knock heads.
Stone rubs his temple. “You really have it out for my head, today, Norma.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. He takes my hand and helps me up, making my heart race and my body shake. “You’re always thinking of me?” I blurt out.
His eyes are twinkling in the candlelight. I have to crane my neck to see his face because I only reach mid-level on his chest. It occurs to me that I could touch his chest—or other parts of him—if I want because we’re standing so close that I could simply lift my hand, stretch out my finger, and I would be flesh to flesh. I sigh, thinking about the joys of touching Stone Jenkins. Yum.
