"What ya thinkin' about?"
I shrug.
"Ya know, I used to gag when my parents talked like that," he says.
"I think it's sweet," I mutter quietly.
Robin stops walking and grabs my hand, pulling me so I'm right in front of him. I feel an involuntary pang of fear, but I know it's irrational and I hastily push it away.
"I used to think they were just a sappy old married couple," he continues. "But I get it now."
"Get it?"
"When I saw you last summer, at the pool, in that sexy little red lifeguard swimsuit that was somehow hotter than the slutty bikinis all the other girls were wearin'... It was like I was seein' you for the first time, Rory." He stares intently down at me.
I had no idea he noticed me at the pool. I had no idea he'd ever noticed me before that day on his parents' front porch when he first asked me out. I'm surprised, and honestly, flattered, even though he's complimented me a hundred times since then.
"I even asked Lace about you. But then when I saw you that night, standin' at my front door in those tiny little shorts, lookin' like you were nervous about somethin'... I don't know, sweetheart, it was like I was struck by lightin' or somethin'.
"I tried to play it all cool, but I couldn't stop thinkin' about those big, brown, angel eyes. About that pretty hair you hide behind when you're bein' all shy and sweet." He tucks the small curtain of hair that's hanging over my cheek behind my ear. "I ain't been able to stop thinkin' about you since. I ain't ever gonna stop thinkin' about you, darlin'. And I don't wanna."
Robin leans down, and in complete contrast to last night, he kisses me slowly and tenderly. He lets the pretty things he's just said linger in the mild winter air. And they touch me. They really do. When he pulls away, his gaze is positively adoring.
"Robin," I breathe.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"I... Last night... I don't wanna do that again until I'm ready," I murmur, thanking God for the courage to say the words out loud.
"I know, sweetheart," he replies, and then slides his arm around my waist and continues our walk.
FOURTEEN
P R E S E N T D A Y
IDON’T TELLmy mom about the fight with Chelsea. I have a feeling she'll find out soon enough one way or another, and she thinks I've been doing so well lately, I don't want to destroy that facade for her any sooner than I have to.
When I wake up the following day, my Jeep is already in my driveway. Sam has been true to his word - not that I ever doubted him. I have no way of knowing if he, and presumably Tuck, dropped it off sometime last night or early this morning, but either way, he didn't ring the doorbell to say hi, didn't call or text. I'm not surprised, but I am vaguely disappointed, and I'm reminded again that my feelings for Sam are out of control.
I take a thirty minute shower, and when I realize I'm just procrastinating to avoid school, I decide to give myself a gift.
A day.
Just one day.
Tomorrow I'll go back to school and face the fallout, whatever it might be. The rumors, the consequences, whatever disciplinary action I might face - all of it.
But not today. Today I'll sit around in comfortable clothes, eat comfort food, listen to angry rock music, and reread my favorite novel.
I let my hair air dry and throw it all up on top of my head in a messy bun. I slip on yoga pants, a white lace camisole instead of a bra, and my mom's old, over-washed, navy blue NYU sweatshirt - the one she cut the neckline off sometime in the nineties so that it hangs loosely over one shoulder. This is my comfort uniform.
I power off my cell phone and decide to bake myself banana muffins. I know the muffins will be evidence of my truancy, but I'll have to tell my mom what happened when she gets home anyway, and it can't hurt to sugar coat things a bit. Literally.
I set my iPod on the dock in the kitchen and start to blast Live's Throwing Copper album, get out the ingredients, and start working.
When the house phone rings I let the answering machine pick up since I'm not even supposed to be here right now. At first I ignore the authoritative female voice that sounds through the speaker, but as soon as I hear "Mrs. Perreira, the dean here at Port Woodmere High," my ears perk up. I pause the music and walk over to the answering machine to hear the dean explain to my mother that Miss Stanger made her aware that I was out sick today, but that she was made aware of an "incident" that took place yesterday afternoon between me and another student, and she would like the parents to come in to discuss what happened and what kind of repercussions there will be.
My heart sinks. Though I silently thank Carl for having the foresight to make up an excuse when she realized I wasn't in homeroom, I'm reminded that my day of pretending nothing happened, is just that, one day of delusion.
