His bare arms are tan, toned, and now that we’re sitting here and he’s distracted, I can openly study his tattoo. It’s an intricate design that starts in the middle of his forearm and ends at his muscular shoulder blade. It looks like it might actually end even farther under his shirt—like maybe his collarbone—but from where I’m sitting, it’s hard to tell. I can definitely make out a few objects: a raven (our school mascot), a crucifix, and a girl’s name (Zoe, I think?) all woven into a tapestry of Celtic designs. It is entirely black.
Weston has my ear buds in and is adjusting the volume of my pink Nano.
I can tell that the song is on because his eyes settle on mine.
You should have kissed me, such a wistful and romantic song. Even though I can’t hear the song playing, I can hear the words and rhythm playing in my head: I should have kissed you, I should have pushed you up against the wall, I should have kissed you, just like I wasn’t scared at all.
Dear Lord, I wonder what he’s thinking.
Weston is watching me watch him, his dark chocolate eyes hooded as if he’s gotten sleepy. His dark, inky eyelashes are sinfully long for a guy.
Minutes tick by.
Slowly—causing me anguish—he runs his tongue several times over the cut on his lower lip before reaching up and removing the ear buds.
I can’t stand it. I have to ask.
“So…?” What did you think, my mind is screaming.
He thinks for a heartbeat then gives me an uncommitted, “You’re right, I’ve never heard it.”
Wait. What?
That’s it? After all that buildup? Okay, so obviously the buildup was only on my end, but in any case, I feel disappointment. Really, Molly, what did you expect? He’s a guy.
All this talk about kissing has me hot and bothered. For real, I wouldn’t fight him off if he suddenly decided to ravish me with kisses. After all, I haven’t been kissed in ages, and I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like. I’m not really sure what to say at this point, so I just continue eating my half-eaten meal, which has gotten cold during our conversation.
I rack my ravaged brain for a safe topic. “So, Weston, how did the scrimmage go today?”
There. Safe enough.
His eyebrows shoot up. “You weren’t there?” he says and stops chewing. Obviously he’s surprised; I can tell by the look on his face.
On second thought, maybe not such a safe topic…
“I was working, but…I usually don’t go to the games, no.” I can see by his confused expression that this is a foreign concept. He tips his head to the side, like a cocker spaniel. A girl not following his every move? Shocking! “Why do you seem so surprised?”
“Why not?” he asks. His plate is completely empty, so he picks up his glass of water, picks out the straw and, tipping his head back, chugs it downs.
I can’t help but admire the muscles of his collarbone and the smooth area of skin just visible above the V-neck of the raggedy T-shirt.
He sets his glass down with a loud thunk, and the abrupt sound snaps me out of my perusal.
“Why not what?” Earth to Molly.
“Why do you usually not come to the games?”
I shrug. “I just…don’t. I just don’t think they’re that big a deal.”
Weston’s dark eyes bore into me like I’ve just delivered an insult. I can tell he’s fighting back a sarcastic remark, because the muscles in his clenched jaw tick. “Not a big deal?”
I study him for a moment. His nostrils flare.
Testosterone much?
“You want the truth? Here it is: I prefer watching the NHL.”
Weston snorts his obvious skepticism with a laugh.
Setting my napkin on the table, I lean forward onto my elbows and point to his mouth. I’m about to go in for the kill. “So…did you get that gash on your lip from a high stick, or…did some left wing run interference when you tried to light the lamp?”
Causally, I lean back and wait. (For you non-hockey-lovers, I just asked him if he got nailed by someone’s stick while trying to score a goal).
Weston blinks.
Then he blinks again.
Okay, at this point you’re probably thinking to yourself, What’s he gonna say, what’s he gonna do, and you wouldn’t be alone, because I’m wondering too—but here’s the thing: I don’t stick around to find out.
An old actress from the 1900s named Mae West once said, “When a girl goes bad, men go right after her.” I read that quote once in Cosmo magazine and loved it so much I tore the page out and pinned it to the only space in my room where I’m allowed to hang things on my wall: a large bulletin board next to my desk.
On the weekends, when Jenna and Tasha (or any of our other friends) aren’t with their boyfriends, one thing we’ve always loved to do is sit and read old back issues of magazines. In fact, we’ve been doing this for so many years, I happen to keep a laundry basket of old magazines in the back of my closet, which my mom has tried to throw out on numerous occasions. You know how it is.