“And miss the chance to live out a romcom?”
“Right.” I sigh. “Why would you do that?” Fran, in the same room as me—all night long. What are the odds I keep my hands to myself? Because as quirky as Fran Fairchild is, she’s also sweet and adorable with my own personal magnetic pull living somewhere inside of her.
I swallow, clear my throat, and check those raw, irrational feels at the door. Because at this point, I’m disappointing my mother, behaving the opposite of a gentleman, and I’m confusing myself as well as Fran.
Fran examines my bedroom—a shrine from my high school days. I’m not sure how many times Dad has asked Mom to turn one of our rooms into a gym or an extra office. But Mom always tells him no. She’s sentimental like that. In some ways, she reminds me a little of Fran. Details matter. Time matters. Memories matter.
For the record, I would be completely fine if Dad turned my room into a gym, and yet, it’s kind of sweet coming home to my Pelé posters and my junior team trophies on every shelf in the room.
“Wow,” she says as we cross the threshold. It’s the same word Simone uttered the one and only time she came into this room. She came, met my parents, and saw my childhood bedroom, and less than an hour later, she left.
Same word—but completely different meaning. Fran speaks with amazement. “This is you, Callum—kid you. It’s like I’ve stepped back in time.” She lets go of my hand and turns a full circle, taking in the space.
“Yeah, Mom likes to keep things a certain way. She’s nostalgic like that.”
“I can appreciate that,” she says. “It’s very…” She picks up my stuffed bear with the San Jose Earthquakes logo on the front. “Interesting.”
“Hey,” I say, unsure if I’m teasing her or myself, “Landon Donovan and I have been through it all together.” I steal the bear from her grasp, pat his head, and set LD back on my bed.
“Landon Donovan?”
“He was my dad’s favorite player. I saw him in person once, but I was young.”
“That’s nice.” Fran sits on my bed, and while it’s a queen, it does not feel big enough for the two of us and the space I will need to put between us. She bounces once, then twice, her eyes still wandering.
Self-destructively, I sit next to her. “What was your room like?”
“Mine?” She shrugs, her brows pinching like it’s difficult to remember. “Not this. I didn’t really have decorations or posters or anything too memorable. Mom wasn’t into that stuff. When I left for college, I took it all with me. There isn’t anything like this back home. I’m not even sure she’s in the same apartment.”
“You aren’t sure where your mom lives?”
“We don’t talk much. She doesn’t have time.”
Fran’s mother doesn’t have time for her daughter? Instinctively, my hand rests on her back. “Fran, I’m sorry if I stepped out of line the other night. Again. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. But if I made you uncomfortable?—”
She presses one finger to my lips. “You didn’t.”
I nod, and she pulls back her curling finger. “I want you to know that I respect you,” I say. “And I would never want to do anything to make you…”
“Uncomfortable,” she says.
“Right. Or to do something that might cause you…”
“Discomfort?” she offers, grinning at me.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable. Did you make yourself uncomfortable?”
Her shoulder brushes mine, her eyes warm and steady, keeping watch on me. I can’t look away, and I am intently aware of her every curve that touches part of me. “Not in the moment,” I confess. “But afterward, a little.”
She nods as if to say she understands my predicament. She cups her hand on my cheek and tilts her head. “If it’s all just practice,” she says, “then there’s nothing to worry about.”
My heart thumps with her words, and it pounds when her eyes fall to my lips. The woman does not need practice. She’s run her drills, and she’s ready to go pro.
“I’m not sure,” I whisper. “I just want to be careful.” But even as I offer the cautionary advice, she leans one inch closer to me. She’s giving me every clue I taught her to watch for.
“Maybe you could be quiet,” she whispers. Her fingerssnake around my neck and slip through the ends of my hair. “For just a second.”
