that if drugs hadn’t been a factor, I wouldn’t have given him more than the cursory five minutes. Okay, ninety-eight percent. And maybe ten minutes, tops. Ninety-seven. Probably ninety-seven. And possibly one dance.
“Are you finished working out whatever problem you’re trying to solve in your head?” Caleb says, breaking me free of my mental calculating. “Because I made three phone calls and took a short nap in the time you drifted off to sea.”
“I did not drift off. I’m still sitting here, same as you.”
“Well, grab a life raft anyway and answer my question.” He begins slipping albums back onto the shelf, painstakingly checking name, title, and color as he goes to get them in the right order. I like him a little more.
“I already told you, I got the money from a trust fund. But don’t be getting any ideas.” I pick up my Tiffany album and slip it back where it belongs.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. But your raft’s a little leaky, because that wasn’t my question.”
I blink twice. “Oh. Well, what was it?”
“I said, Princess …” He draws out that silly nickname until I feel myself blushing. “Are you interested in breakfast? Think of it as my attempt to acknowledge your birthday a day late. Which I would apologize for, except that this time yesterday I didn’t even know you existed. So sorry about the no gift thing.” He tilts his head to look at me. “Think your stomach can handle it?”
On cue, it growls. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, a vat of black coffee. It all sounds good right now, especially considering the night I had.
Turns out Caleb is a mind reader.
“And just so you know, I was going to ask you before the trust fund came up. I’m not interested in your money, so stuff that thought away where it belongs.”
Maybe I should be insulted, but I find myself fighting back a grin. “In that case, take me to the biggest buffet you can find. Because I could eat enough for you and me combined.”
9
Caleb
“I’m About to Come Alive”
—Train
I used to spend hours and hours making my Christmas list. From the moment the last remnants of my birthday wrapping paper were stuffed into the trash—which is the first of September, by the way—my five-year-old mind would plot ways to get the latest Transformer, the newest video game, the hottest trading cards. Then the Sears Catalog would arrive sometime around Thanksgiving, and the list expanded. Skateboards. Roller blades. The coolest Ninja Turtle sleeping bag I’d ever seen—so much better than freckle-faced, red-headed loser Jason Setzer’s who lived next door to me and dragged his Ninja Turtle bag out every time I came over just to rub it in my face. My Christmas list rocked. The only thing that topped it were the actual presents themselves. They were great. The stuff childhood dreams are made of.
I got that sleeping bag the year I turned six. Slept in it every night for months.
By the time I turned seven, Christmas lists were a thing of the past. By then, there was nothing left to wish for.
“Next time you’ll think twice before challenging me to a contest you can’t win,” I say, dragging the last of my hash browns through ketchup and forking the bite into my mouth. I savor it like the four pancakes, three eggs, and two biscuits before it. Until my mouth stills, followed by my heart rate when both process the words I’ve just spoken out loud.
Next time.
I don’t do next time.
Not where girls are concerned. Especially not where hot, gorgeous, keeping-my-pulse-at-an-unsteady-rhythm girls are concerned. Girls leave. Everyone leaves. At least that’s the case for me.
But too late, I realize the implication of my words. It’s a pretty big assumption, though I realize with a start, not one I’m all that averse to. This time yesterday, the mere suggestion of a “next time” where a girl was concerned would’ve had me howling with laughter. Look at me now. In just a matter of hours—not even enough time for the
“Are you finished working out whatever problem you’re trying to solve in your head?” Caleb says, breaking me free of my mental calculating. “Because I made three phone calls and took a short nap in the time you drifted off to sea.”
“I did not drift off. I’m still sitting here, same as you.”
“Well, grab a life raft anyway and answer my question.” He begins slipping albums back onto the shelf, painstakingly checking name, title, and color as he goes to get them in the right order. I like him a little more.
“I already told you, I got the money from a trust fund. But don’t be getting any ideas.” I pick up my Tiffany album and slip it back where it belongs.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. But your raft’s a little leaky, because that wasn’t my question.”
I blink twice. “Oh. Well, what was it?”
“I said, Princess …” He draws out that silly nickname until I feel myself blushing. “Are you interested in breakfast? Think of it as my attempt to acknowledge your birthday a day late. Which I would apologize for, except that this time yesterday I didn’t even know you existed. So sorry about the no gift thing.” He tilts his head to look at me. “Think your stomach can handle it?”
On cue, it growls. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, a vat of black coffee. It all sounds good right now, especially considering the night I had.
Turns out Caleb is a mind reader.
“And just so you know, I was going to ask you before the trust fund came up. I’m not interested in your money, so stuff that thought away where it belongs.”
Maybe I should be insulted, but I find myself fighting back a grin. “In that case, take me to the biggest buffet you can find. Because I could eat enough for you and me combined.”
9
Caleb
“I’m About to Come Alive”
—Train
I used to spend hours and hours making my Christmas list. From the moment the last remnants of my birthday wrapping paper were stuffed into the trash—which is the first of September, by the way—my five-year-old mind would plot ways to get the latest Transformer, the newest video game, the hottest trading cards. Then the Sears Catalog would arrive sometime around Thanksgiving, and the list expanded. Skateboards. Roller blades. The coolest Ninja Turtle sleeping bag I’d ever seen—so much better than freckle-faced, red-headed loser Jason Setzer’s who lived next door to me and dragged his Ninja Turtle bag out every time I came over just to rub it in my face. My Christmas list rocked. The only thing that topped it were the actual presents themselves. They were great. The stuff childhood dreams are made of.
I got that sleeping bag the year I turned six. Slept in it every night for months.
By the time I turned seven, Christmas lists were a thing of the past. By then, there was nothing left to wish for.
“Next time you’ll think twice before challenging me to a contest you can’t win,” I say, dragging the last of my hash browns through ketchup and forking the bite into my mouth. I savor it like the four pancakes, three eggs, and two biscuits before it. Until my mouth stills, followed by my heart rate when both process the words I’ve just spoken out loud.
Next time.
I don’t do next time.
Not where girls are concerned. Especially not where hot, gorgeous, keeping-my-pulse-at-an-unsteady-rhythm girls are concerned. Girls leave. Everyone leaves. At least that’s the case for me.
But too late, I realize the implication of my words. It’s a pretty big assumption, though I realize with a start, not one I’m all that averse to. This time yesterday, the mere suggestion of a “next time” where a girl was concerned would’ve had me howling with laughter. Look at me now. In just a matter of hours—not even enough time for the
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