“There she goes again,” Morgan, from her nest of blankets on the sofa, stares out the window—the one below my bedroom window. It’s become a regular event.
Gracelyn and Gabe arrive home.
Gabe goes in through the deck door.
Gracelyn strips to her panties and bra behind the grass plants, shoves her clothes into a bag, and dashes up the stairs to her bedroom.
I won’t lie … I don’t exactly hate her routine. However, my curiosity grows with each episode.
“You haven’t said anything to Gabe or her, have you?”
Morgan shakes her head. “You said we didn’t want to make her feel embarrassed.” She tosses her book aside. “I’m going over to see Gabe.”
“I figured.” I stay focused on the window as if Gracelyn’s still undressing. As if I haven’t had sex in a long time. As if—
“Do you think it would be cool if Gabe were my boyfriend and Gracelyn were your girlfriend … just for the summer?”
“What?” My head jerks in her direction as she slips on her shoes. “N-no.” I shake my head like the torso of a wet dog. Where did she come up with that ridiculous idea?
She shrugs. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. And you haven’t had a girlfriend since Mom. It would be nice to practice a little before I start school this fall.”
“Practice?” I tilt my head to the side.
“Yes. If I get a boyfriend in school, I don’t want him to think I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Kill. Me. Now.
“And …” I clear my throat. “What do you mean by doing?”
Eye roll. Shocking.
“That’s just it! I don’t know. Gabe can show me.”
“Show you what?” I sit up, dropping my notebook and pencil onto the cushion beside me, my blood pressure in the unhealthy range.
“Daaad! I. Don’t. Know. It’s like when you try to get me to try something new to eat and I say I don’t like it. You say I can’t know that until I taste it. Well … I need a taste of a boyfriend.”
“No! You don’t.”
She opens the door and tosses me a sour face over her shoulder before leaving. “Figuratively.”
The door shuts.
I lose five more years off my life.
And now we have a boyfriend situation.
*
The next morning, Gracelyn arrives on time with a plastic bag and an odd smile. It’s more of a cringe, scraping her teeth over the corner of her bottom lip as Gabe plops down in one of the porch chairs with his tablet to wait for Morgan. The girl who used to get ready for the day in less than five minutes now takes fifty minutes.
“Come in,” I say to Gracelyn, eyeing Gabe. It’s not that I don’t like him. He seems nice enough. I just don’t know about him being the object of Morgan’s affection—her obsession. “Coffee. Black.” I nod to the mug on the counter as she sets the bag on the kitchen table.
“Thank you.” Her hand shakes as she lifts it to her lips.
“Is something wrong?” I stare at her shaking hand for a few more seconds before meeting her wide-eyed gaze.
“No. Why?”
“Your hand is shaking.”
She steadies the mug by lifting her other hand to help set it on the counter. “I was just a little nervous. I didn’t know how hot it was. Didn’t want to burn my tongue.”
I return a slow nod. “So, do you want my hair wet or dry?”
“It’s best dry while I use the clippers.”
“I only want it trimmed. No need for clippers unless you think the back of my neck is too hairy.”
Her lips part, but no words come out.
“Just trim it up a bit with scissors so I don’t have hair hanging in my eyes.”
“The order is clippers and then scissors.”
I chuckle. “I don’t want it buzzed.”
“The clippers have different guard lengths.” She seems … upset? On edge. It’s weird.
“O … kay. You’re the expert.” I pull out a chair and sit down while she dumps the contents of the bag onto the table. After plugging in the clippers, she inspects the guards and a small smile jumps onto her face when she catches me watching her.
“Let’s do this.” She shoves one of the guards onto the clippers and flips the switch. “Oh!” She startles when it hums. “That tickles my hand.”
“Maybe I should remove my shirt or grab a towel.”
“What? Oh … shoot. No.” She shuts off the clippers and grabs the folded cape by the bag. “Sorry, I spaced on the cape. I’m just … out of my element.”
“But you do this for a living.”
“Not in people’s kitchens.” She wraps the cape around me.
I tug on the neck a bit.
“Too tight?” She narrows her eyes.
“It’s fine.” Breathing is overrated.
The clippers come to life again.
“Just a trim,” I remind her.
“Yes, Nate.” She guides my head forward so my chin tips toward my chest as she brings the clippers to my nape and swipes up. “Shit!”