“Gemma.” I say her name as if I’m the high school principal calling her into my office, and I’m rewarded with a look of wary defiance.
At the first glimpse of her attention, I tilt my head toward a picnic table and then turn my back on her to lead the way. Also to hide my smug grin.
I should not be enjoying this. I’d spent the past couple of weeks trying to get her to leave me alone, yet now that she wants nothing to do with me, I’m forcing her to talk. I have no excuse.
I face her and assume my police officer stance.
“What’s up?” she asks, her jitteriness betraying her attempt at nonchalance. She was obviously telling the truth about not being an actress. Though somehow, she makes even failure look good.
I wait for her to finally give me eye contact. Despite not wearing sunglasses, her expression is unreadable. Which says more than she realizes. Maybe an argument will snap her out of her mood. “I can’t let you drive in those shoes.”
Her sapphire eyes flutter wide, all sensitivity and innocence. Then they narrow, blaming every one of her life’s disappointments and frustration on me. I’ll take it over emotionless Gemma. I’ll take it over quitter Gemma. I’ll take it over beauty queen Gemma any day. This is when things get real.
“I’ll drive barefoot,” she counters. I think she’s trying to sound menacing, but it still comes out all breathy and sweet.
I pinch my lips together to keep from hooting. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that.” It’s true that I can’t let her. It’s not true that I’m sorry.
She knows, and she’s not going to back down. She drops her chin and steps closer so I can hear her hushed tone. “Is this because I compared you unfavorably to a witch doctor?”
A corner of my lips twitch. “While that’s probably not a good thing to say to a police lieutenant”—understatement—“my decision is nothing personal.”
A little voice inside my head reminds me such a statement might not be entirely true either. Gemma triggers me because she reminds me of someone I used to have a very personal relationship with.
But we’re talking about safety. And shoes. I tell myself I’m saving lives by preventing a daydreamer from getting behind the wheel in heels.
“I couldn’t let”—I motion toward the closest woman to us, who is middle-aged and has too much life experience to wear stilettos to safety academy, though perhaps not as much fashion sense since she’s still wearing her funky high tops—“Erin drive in high heels either.”
Erin looks at Gemma’s feet. “What size do you wear?”
Gemma props one of her sandals on its stiletto and rocks her perfectly painted toes back and forth. “Around a size eight. Why?”
Oh man. I know what’s coming. It’s not me against Gemma. It’s me against the whole class. Everyone loves her. I should have expected them to gang up.
“I wear a size eight too,” Erin says. “Would you like to wear my shoes to drive?”
No, Gemma won’t want to. For starters, she made it clear earlier that she didn’t care to drive. She simply wants to spite me. Plus, Erin’s kicks won’t match her crazy striped dress/pants outfit.
“Of course I would.” Gemma kindly mocks—if that’s a possible thing—my earlier statement, then waves Erin to follow her toward the picnic bench. As she passes, her face pivots to taunt me with a triumphant smirk. It’s adorable in a pouting puppy kind of way.
I drop my arms. I’m not going to fight her anymore. I’ll let her learn her lesson by having her get what she thinks she wants. It’ll be like the time in high school shop class when my teacher caught me chewing tobacco and gave me the option of talking to my grandparents or swallowing the wad. I swallowed, then ended up confessing to Granddad later after I went home sick. And I never chewed again.
Maybe Gemma doesn’t need an argument so much as she needs to win an argument. I’ll give her this small victory. Even if she runs over all the orange cones and goes so slowly she’s almost driving backward, she’ll still get a thrill. She’ll be living herself instead of writing stories about other people living.
Then she’ll fail so hard that she can’t continue her show of perfection. She’ll forget to care about what other people think. And that’s what I want for her. It’s what I wanted for my ex. And I’m actually kind of proud Gemma is choosing to try.
She slides her feet into the retro Nikes with a yellow swoosh, hot-pink laces, green toe box, and blue trim. I’m not sure if the local company is bringing back an outdated look or if Erin has owned these things for decades.
“Ooh … comfy,” Gemma coos, as if she’d willingly pick out those monstrosities for their comfort level alone. Perhaps she’s never worn a pair of comfortable shoes before.
Erin remains barefoot rather than put on Gemma’s heels. I assume it’s because she doesn’t have a death wish.
Kai slides a hand across his face, clearly covering a chuckle.
Charlie isn’t as smooth. “Gemma, you look like you should be driving a clown car, not a police car.”
“The key word isdriving.” Gemma looks directly at Erin, who doesn’t seem to be offended in the least by Charlie’s brash assessment of her style. “Your shoes are a statement piece. It’s rare to find clothing both so functional and trendy. Thank you for letting me borrow them.”
I lift my eyebrows in admiration of not only her spin on the situation but also how authentic her gratefulness comes across. Unfortunately I’m still making that face when Gemma glances up at me.
