like she’s enjoying herself. She looks bored. And she isn’t studying the garments or picking anything up or comparing prices like most girls would.
Where? A big discount department store, a place where I would never expect Clarissa to be. It just wouldn’t make sense for her to be here.
And finally, the why. This is the key question. Why would Clarissa be here?
Just as I’m about to reject the idea that it’s her, a man’s voice calls out to her.
“Clarissa!”
I was right! It’s her.
Clarissa looks up and seems instantly more bored than she did a few seconds ago, when she was browsing the rack of shirts with the enthusiasm one would have when trying to decide which brand of cold medicine to get.
“Yeah?” she responds.
“Come here!”
I tilt my head down and bury my eyes in a rack of dresses, but keep stealing little glances at Clarissa and our new mystery guy.
Mystery guy is hot. He has a perfectly symmetrical and tanned face, a five-o’clock shadow, a white t-shirt, dark-wash jeans and a naughty, crooked smile. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think it was Drew.
But from my research, and from meeting Drew Anderson, I know it isn’t him. But it isn’t Robert Crandall, either.
He pulls her in tight by the waist and presses his lips onto her, giving her a short but passionate and hot kiss, his hand holding her chin softly. He’s tall, and she has to stand up on her tip-toes even though she’s wearing three-inch tall lace-up gladiator espadrilles, and the way he holds her makes them seem like new lovers.
But Robert, he is not.
That’s a cold move, Clarissa. Two-timing your fiancee with two different guys?
It would explain what she’s doing in this store - hiding out.
She pushes him away softly, like it’s just for effect and she doesn’t really want him to stop kissing her.
“What if someone saw?”
“Let them watch. I don’t care.”
She locks her hand into his for a second and then swats it away, heading toward the escalator with him following her.
Damn. She can’t even display affection for her one of many boyfriends in public for fear of getting caught, and here I am without a boyfriend at all.
It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault but my own that I’m without a boyfriend.
I wonder what it would be like to be like Clarissa for just a day.
I also wonder what it would be like to be with Drew for just a night.
10. Drew
“Ma?”
I make my way up the crumbling wooden steps and open the creaky screen door.
“I’m in here!”
She has a dust rag and a bottle of cleaning solution in her yellow rubber-gloved hands.
Mom’s wearing black skinny pants and a white work shirt to clean. She’s chic, there’s no doubt about it. I take after her in that department. Like her, I also know how to dress. A red bandana holds her jet-black hair away from her face. She looks like a modern-day Rosie the Riveter, just with a little bit more lemony-fresh cleaning solution.
“Put that stuff down and give your favorite son a hug.”
“Eric is here, too?” she says, putting her supplies on the table just inside the front door and peeling off her gloves.
“Very funny.”
She brings me in tight for an embrace. She smells like the musty old house and marinara sauce.
“Come, let’s sit in the kitchen. I am so happy you’re here. Tea or coffee?”
I don’t like coming here. It just reminds me of the fact that I had to spend my time as a kid in two places, and it makes me think about the fights and disagreements my parents always had about the correct way to raise their sons. I’m thankful that they came to the compromise they did, but being in the country house still makes me feel on edge.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Tea, then.”
She goes over to the stove and turns on the burner under her tea kettle.
It’s funny how a place can endure so many years and still not change. I still remember leaving the house at the beginning of every
Where? A big discount department store, a place where I would never expect Clarissa to be. It just wouldn’t make sense for her to be here.
And finally, the why. This is the key question. Why would Clarissa be here?
Just as I’m about to reject the idea that it’s her, a man’s voice calls out to her.
“Clarissa!”
I was right! It’s her.
Clarissa looks up and seems instantly more bored than she did a few seconds ago, when she was browsing the rack of shirts with the enthusiasm one would have when trying to decide which brand of cold medicine to get.
“Yeah?” she responds.
“Come here!”
I tilt my head down and bury my eyes in a rack of dresses, but keep stealing little glances at Clarissa and our new mystery guy.
Mystery guy is hot. He has a perfectly symmetrical and tanned face, a five-o’clock shadow, a white t-shirt, dark-wash jeans and a naughty, crooked smile. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think it was Drew.
But from my research, and from meeting Drew Anderson, I know it isn’t him. But it isn’t Robert Crandall, either.
He pulls her in tight by the waist and presses his lips onto her, giving her a short but passionate and hot kiss, his hand holding her chin softly. He’s tall, and she has to stand up on her tip-toes even though she’s wearing three-inch tall lace-up gladiator espadrilles, and the way he holds her makes them seem like new lovers.
But Robert, he is not.
That’s a cold move, Clarissa. Two-timing your fiancee with two different guys?
It would explain what she’s doing in this store - hiding out.
She pushes him away softly, like it’s just for effect and she doesn’t really want him to stop kissing her.
“What if someone saw?”
“Let them watch. I don’t care.”
She locks her hand into his for a second and then swats it away, heading toward the escalator with him following her.
Damn. She can’t even display affection for her one of many boyfriends in public for fear of getting caught, and here I am without a boyfriend at all.
It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault but my own that I’m without a boyfriend.
I wonder what it would be like to be like Clarissa for just a day.
I also wonder what it would be like to be with Drew for just a night.
10. Drew
“Ma?”
I make my way up the crumbling wooden steps and open the creaky screen door.
“I’m in here!”
She has a dust rag and a bottle of cleaning solution in her yellow rubber-gloved hands.
Mom’s wearing black skinny pants and a white work shirt to clean. She’s chic, there’s no doubt about it. I take after her in that department. Like her, I also know how to dress. A red bandana holds her jet-black hair away from her face. She looks like a modern-day Rosie the Riveter, just with a little bit more lemony-fresh cleaning solution.
“Put that stuff down and give your favorite son a hug.”
“Eric is here, too?” she says, putting her supplies on the table just inside the front door and peeling off her gloves.
“Very funny.”
She brings me in tight for an embrace. She smells like the musty old house and marinara sauce.
“Come, let’s sit in the kitchen. I am so happy you’re here. Tea or coffee?”
I don’t like coming here. It just reminds me of the fact that I had to spend my time as a kid in two places, and it makes me think about the fights and disagreements my parents always had about the correct way to raise their sons. I’m thankful that they came to the compromise they did, but being in the country house still makes me feel on edge.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Tea, then.”
She goes over to the stove and turns on the burner under her tea kettle.
It’s funny how a place can endure so many years and still not change. I still remember leaving the house at the beginning of every
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