console myself. So I’m not married to a millionaire. Okay, I’m not married at all, nor do I have any prospects. Forget the fact that I’m temporarily a failure.
I top off the tank, put the gas nozzle back in the thingy and screw on the gas cap. I head inside to pay.
From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of red. I turn. Lo and behold, Dylan Braun is at the pump across the way. Propped against the side of his red Dodge Ram, arms folded across his chest, his white shirt collar open, his dark tie loose, he looks like an image from the cover of GQ. And he’s looking at me.
Zing!
I wave as I stroll, gliding like a runway model. “That thing got a hemi?” I call out. Light, airy, cute.
I don’t see the next pump island rising out of the pavement. My toes jam into the concrete and I fall face-first into the trash bin. My right hand and face are buried in greasy paper, half-full soda cups and candy wrappers. I knock an “oomph!” out of me as I spin and hit the ground.
Oh, please, say this isn’t happening.
“Macy! Are you okay?” Dylan runs to my rescue.
I bounce around, rubbing my knees and flinging soda from my hand. “I’m all right.” I make an effort to gather my cool while my voice squeaks up an octave or two.
“You went down face-first.” His eyes never leave my face.
“Any other way and you’re a coward.”
He laughs. A good, hearty, that’s-funny laugh.
My right knee is throbbing and my pride stinging. I prop my hand on my hip, then drop it by my side, then on my hip again. I’m not sure what to do with my hands.
Worse, I’m not sure what to do with myself. Dylan’s blue-green eyes watch me. Oh no, please tell me I plucked that one dark hair from my chin this morning.
“You’re looking good, Macy,” Dylan finally says.
Yes, I yanked it. I borrowed Mom’s tweezers. “Thanks.”
Hard to imagine I once loathed Dylan. In fourth grade he wrote a haiku about me that the class chanted for a month. In those days I was a little pudgy due to my affinity for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and vanilla ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup.
I can still hear him read his stupid little ditty before the entire class.
I went out to play
And I saw Macy Moore
She’s fat.
The class howled. I slid under my desk and despised him.
I carried a small grudge—okay, a huge grudge—until junior high. By then, Dylan was incredibly popular, athletic and handsome. He breezed through puberty unscathed. All the girls liked him. I, however, couldn’t get beyond “she’s fat.”
But during church camp the summer after seventh grade, I forgave his dumb haiku when our counselor described the crucifixion of Jesus for my sins. It had me in tears and I could no longer justify seething over Dylan’s poetry.
I stole a peek at him during the closing prayer and caught him wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. My heart melted a little.
By the time we started high school, I fell face-first in love—pure, unrequited love. Any other way and you’re a coward. But he never knew.
“I think you’ll live,” Dylan says, reaching for my hand to examine the scrapes. He brushes away the dirt and gravel. I feel light-headed. For a man built like a Mack truck, his touch is tender.
“And not die of embarrassment? Please, give a girl her due.” Perhaps a swoon is coming on. This is definitely a swoon moment.
“Never let it be said I kept a girl from her due.” He laughs low and peers deep into my eyes.
Well, well. Dylan Braun. “I thought you would be fat and bald by now.” My senses start to solidify and my composure returns.
“That was the plan, but some things just don’t turn out.” His grin is still his best feature—rakishly Clark Gable.
“Married?” I flirt, knowing he’s not. His mother, Margaret Braun, and my mother are birds of a feather, descendants of blue-blood Europeans with dukes and duchesses in their lineage. If Dylan married, I’d hear about it.
“Not yet.
I top off the tank, put the gas nozzle back in the thingy and screw on the gas cap. I head inside to pay.
From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of red. I turn. Lo and behold, Dylan Braun is at the pump across the way. Propped against the side of his red Dodge Ram, arms folded across his chest, his white shirt collar open, his dark tie loose, he looks like an image from the cover of GQ. And he’s looking at me.
Zing!
I wave as I stroll, gliding like a runway model. “That thing got a hemi?” I call out. Light, airy, cute.
I don’t see the next pump island rising out of the pavement. My toes jam into the concrete and I fall face-first into the trash bin. My right hand and face are buried in greasy paper, half-full soda cups and candy wrappers. I knock an “oomph!” out of me as I spin and hit the ground.
Oh, please, say this isn’t happening.
“Macy! Are you okay?” Dylan runs to my rescue.
I bounce around, rubbing my knees and flinging soda from my hand. “I’m all right.” I make an effort to gather my cool while my voice squeaks up an octave or two.
“You went down face-first.” His eyes never leave my face.
“Any other way and you’re a coward.”
He laughs. A good, hearty, that’s-funny laugh.
My right knee is throbbing and my pride stinging. I prop my hand on my hip, then drop it by my side, then on my hip again. I’m not sure what to do with my hands.
Worse, I’m not sure what to do with myself. Dylan’s blue-green eyes watch me. Oh no, please tell me I plucked that one dark hair from my chin this morning.
“You’re looking good, Macy,” Dylan finally says.
Yes, I yanked it. I borrowed Mom’s tweezers. “Thanks.”
Hard to imagine I once loathed Dylan. In fourth grade he wrote a haiku about me that the class chanted for a month. In those days I was a little pudgy due to my affinity for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and vanilla ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup.
I can still hear him read his stupid little ditty before the entire class.
I went out to play
And I saw Macy Moore
She’s fat.
The class howled. I slid under my desk and despised him.
I carried a small grudge—okay, a huge grudge—until junior high. By then, Dylan was incredibly popular, athletic and handsome. He breezed through puberty unscathed. All the girls liked him. I, however, couldn’t get beyond “she’s fat.”
But during church camp the summer after seventh grade, I forgave his dumb haiku when our counselor described the crucifixion of Jesus for my sins. It had me in tears and I could no longer justify seething over Dylan’s poetry.
I stole a peek at him during the closing prayer and caught him wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. My heart melted a little.
By the time we started high school, I fell face-first in love—pure, unrequited love. Any other way and you’re a coward. But he never knew.
“I think you’ll live,” Dylan says, reaching for my hand to examine the scrapes. He brushes away the dirt and gravel. I feel light-headed. For a man built like a Mack truck, his touch is tender.
“And not die of embarrassment? Please, give a girl her due.” Perhaps a swoon is coming on. This is definitely a swoon moment.
“Never let it be said I kept a girl from her due.” He laughs low and peers deep into my eyes.
Well, well. Dylan Braun. “I thought you would be fat and bald by now.” My senses start to solidify and my composure returns.
“That was the plan, but some things just don’t turn out.” His grin is still his best feature—rakishly Clark Gable.
“Married?” I flirt, knowing he’s not. His mother, Margaret Braun, and my mother are birds of a feather, descendants of blue-blood Europeans with dukes and duchesses in their lineage. If Dylan married, I’d hear about it.
“Not yet.
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