Kristan Higgins - Waiting On You

Then she noticed the second guy. Her smile faltered.

Holy St. Patrick. Her face didn’t change (she hoped), but her body was...was doing things. Stomach tightened, mouth dried, knees (and other parts) tingled. She acknowledged the feelings from afar because her brain couldn’t quite function at the moment.

He looked a lot like the other boy, but he was darker. Not quite as good-looking...well, no. Not quite as perfect, but a lot more compelling. Black hair instead of brown, olive skin and deep, dark eyes.

He looked like a Spanish pirate. Like a Romany gypsy. Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, and like Heathcliff, there was something about his expression that said he knew things, saw things, that he wasn’t as sweet or as easy or as simple as the boy who stood next to him.

“Now, which one of you is Bryce?” Mrs. Wheaton asked.

“I am,” said the blue-eyed guy. “This is my cousin Lucas. He lives with us.” And even though Bryce made the introduction, it was Lucas who shook hands with Mrs. W. first, causing his cousin to follow suit, and Colleen could sense the dynamic: Lucas, the cousin who lived with “us,” was in charge.

“Nice to meet you,” the gypsy boy said, and Colleen just about slid out of her chair in lust. Because that voice, good God, did eighteen-year-old boys really get to sound like that? It was deep and mellow and just a little rough and caused a reverberation in Colleen’s special places, and what the hell would happen if he actually spoke to her?

“Welcome, boys,” Mrs. Wheaton said. “Find a seat, if you’d be so kind.” There was a tremendous screech as the female half of the class pushed their chairs back to make room for the newcomers.

Lucas went past Colleen, and it was horrifying, embarrassing, thrilling to have her heart pound so hard. He smelled like soap and sunshine and wore faded jeans and black Converse, and that was all she saw because she didn’t dare look at him. Don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me, her brain chanted. He didn’t, just went past to the back of the room, the longest four seconds of her life. Her cheeks burned—honestly, a boy making her cheeks burn? This never happened!—and she stared at the words in her book. I do not know, my lord, what I should think.

Preach it, Ophelia.

Where was he? Was he looking at her? Who was he sitting next to? A girl? Probably a girl. Jessica? She always sat in the back. She’d probably already given him her number. They were probably already planning a hookup, because everyone knew Jess just used Levi for sex. Would the Spanish pirate boy go for someone like that? Colleen would lose all respect, not that she had any just yet, but you know, she could already feel herself getting mad, boys were so stupid, and—

“How’s it going?” Bryce asked. He’d sat down next to her, and she hadn’t quite noticed.

“Great,” she said. “I’m Colleen. Welcome to Manningsport.”

“Nice meeting you,” he said with an easy grin.

Where was Lucas? What was he thinking? Would he like her, too? Because it was obvious that what’s-his-name, Bryce, already did, though he was now talking to Tanya, who was being super-duper helpful and sharing her copy of Hamlet with him, pressing her boob against his arm. Colleen hoped he liked the smell of Eternity perfume, because Tanya practically bathed in it.

She wanted very much to turn around and see the gypsy boy. Also, she should probably stop referring to him as pirate or gypsy. Even mentally.

She didn’t turn. She was too smart for that, as Dad pointed out.

She didn’t feel so smart now.

For the next thirty-one minutes, she tried to concentrate on Hamlet. Never before had she been quite so interested in the words coming out of Mrs. Wheaton’s mouth. Not that she could actually understand them, mind you, but Colleen assiduously took notes, keeping her handwriting tidy, mentally repeating phrases like “preoccupation with death,” “theme of decomposition.” And in the meantime, her entire body pulsed with hot, almost painful throbs and a vague sense of danger, the same as last summer, when they’d gone swimming on Cape Cod the day after a shark attack. Just because you couldn’t see it, didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Waiting.

“Come on, idiot,” her brother said, nudging her head with his backpack. “Physics lab. Snap out of it.”

Ah. Class had ended, then. Lucas and Bryce were talking to Mrs. Wheaton. Colleen stood up and gave her brother a look. “I was taking notes. Thank me later when I save you from flunking the test.”

“I don’t need notes,” Connor said, going on ahead.

She carefully didn’t look at Lucas...well, not directly. Wouldn’t want to give the impression that she couldn’t look at Lucas, so she did the drive-by glance...gaze just skimming the face, looking away the instant before his eyes could meet hers, a faint smile on her face, so very pleasant. “Bye, Mrs. Wheaton,” she said. “Bye, boys.” Because Colleen O’Rourke wasn’t bothered by the male species. She was too smart for that.

For the next three weeks, Colleen managed not to speak to Lucas Campbell. Bryce, she found, was as friendly as Smiley, the Holland family’s Golden retriever, and about as smart. Bryce was quite beautiful and fun to look at, and she found herself flirting with him harmlessly, same as she did with all the other boys. He could volley it back pretty well, though most of her jokes went over his head. Still, he had long eyelashes and beautiful blue eyes and always seemed happy.

His cousin...well, Colleen didn’t know what he was like. She gave him the occasional drive-by, not wanting to ignore him outright because of what that might reveal.

Tanya Cross who was as determined as she was irritating, asked Bryce to the prom. Bryce then sealed Tanya’s bitchery by asking Colleen if she’d go with him, and could she give an answer because “that Tanya chick wants to go with me.”

“Sorry, pal,” she said, patting him on the arm like a fond auntie. “It’s not really my thing. You go with Tanya. She’s sweet.” Which Tanya wasn’t, but it wouldn’t be nice to say so...plus, it would irritate Tanya all the more to know that Colleen had been totally classy.

Had Lucas asked her to go, her answer might’ve been a lot different.

He didn’t.

Lucas wasn’t going and had turned down four girls before it had been ascertained that no, he wasn’t waiting for someone else to ask him; he just wasn’t going. This, of course, was widely and voraciously analyzed every time two or more girls gathered in a classroom, hall, cafeteria, gym, bakery, school bus or mall and via phone, text, email, sign language and smoke signals.

Oh, the delicious and frustrating mystery of it! No one knew why Lucas lived with Bryce. Their fathers were brothers, and Bryce said only that “it worked out best.” Bryce’s mother worked for an insurance company that had a branch in Corning, a half hour away; hence the senior-year move from Illinois.

Bryce’s dad was the one who showed up at Bryce’s soccer games, sitting with his nephew, talking easily. The fondness between them was reassuring to Colleen. Lucas Campbell was no Heathcliff (thank heavens, because she knew how irresistible those types were).

Still, Lucas had a tinge of tragedy about him: his own mother dead; details of the father unknown, though speculated upon greatly—mafioso, movie star, eccentric billionaire, prison, gay, defrocked priest. Coll pretended not to listen but ate up every word.

The week before prom was consumed with talk of dresses, hairstyles, shoes and how to stop a guy from going too far. Despite her own utter lack of experience, Colleen was asked for advice and doled it out, sounding quite expert to her own ears—tell him beforehand how far you’re comfortable going, or just say, “that’s far enough,” no, don’t french on the dance floor, it’s so tacky, and whatever you do, don’t have unprotected sex.