My (Not So) Perfect Plan (Believe In Us #2)

ONE

CLAIRE

In an iconic scene in Gone with the Wind, Scarlett O’Hara says, “As God is my witness, I will never be hungry again.” That’s like me, only with poverty and chaos. Order is the most important aspect of any society. An ordered society is clean, is structured, is wholesome. My family is the furthest thing from an ordered society. My house is the anti-thesis of order. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. My parents work their fingers to the bone to make sure the seven of us are cared for, but I can’t wait to leave the chaos behind.

My dad works at the metal works plant like he has for the past twenty-five years, grit embedded in the wrinkles of his hands that will never come out no matter how hard or how long they are scrubbed. Mama stays home and takes care of the house and their bajillion kids.

So I’m exaggerating and there’s no such thing as a bajillion, it’s only seven, but the way my siblings go nuts, you’d think there were a bajillion of them. My poor mother got married at sixteen to her childhood sweetheart in Podunk Arkansas (I think that might actually be a place), and then they moved south and have been here ever since.

Sure, she loves my dad, but she has her regrets, the chief of which is getting married so young. My father never had the chance to get his degree and “make something of himself.” Me, being the oldest and of relatively quality brain matter, she was determined that I was going to take advantage of all the opportunities public school affords, like signing up for scholarships and getting into an Ivy League school.

As it turns out, I’m no genius. Realistically, I might not be able to get into an Ivy League school with a scholarship. The grades, especially my math, just aren’t impressive enough even though I’ve been working my tail off since I was twelve to make it happen. But they are good enough for University of Dallas, assuming I can pass trigonometry. I’m disappointed in myself that Ivy League is out of the question, but at the same time, it’s kind of a relief, because do I really want to be mingling with people who have no other frame of reference than rich and richer?

Getting a full ride scholarship has been a lot of hard work and late nights sitting in the room I share with my three sisters, the door locked to keep them out and attempt some sort of peace and quiet so I can think while I struggle with trigonometry. It’s why I’m currently rubbing my eyes beneath my no frills reading glasses and wishing I had Evan Carmichael’s life.

Gah! It’s completely infantile for me to still have a childhood crush on Evan Carmichael. Those sorts of things were supposed to go away in seventh grade, or maybe stop when I had a couple of boyfriends. But I never had time for boyfriends or parties. Or a life outside of spending carefully planned time with Rachel, Raven, and Tamara.

Being on the student council, volunteering hours at the physical therapy clinic, attending football games (again, as a member of student council), take up most of my extra time – well, that and occasionally babysitting my siblings so my mom can go grocery shopping.

I shut my math book with a bang. I hate math. I don’t know how I am going to do well in college if I can’t handle advanced math courses. Disgusted with myself, I pull out a new weakness: planning for the fall gala fundraiser. When I first volunteered to head up the committee for the gala benefitting Children’s Mercy Hospital, I figured it would be some basic party planning, but no, it was so much more than that. And I LOVED it. I got with Tamara (always Tamara or better Jean, never Tammy) and Rachel to come up with some themes. I researched it and set up a few digital lookbooks. So. Much. Fun. Now I just needed to present them to the committee and have everyone would vote on the theme. Regardless, it was going to be a sit down black tie affair with a live band, dancing, and catered food.

I spent another hour working on the remaining theme lookbook before my sisters pounding on the door to let them in forced me to turn away from the computer. I pack up my stuff quickly, knowing that if I leave it out, every page of my math book will be doodled on within five minutes, my laptop will end up with a crack down its screen, and I won’t be able to find half of my homework assignments the next day. Like I said, chaos. It tends to happen when you have four girls in one room. There’ve been more than a few times that I wished my parents would consider letting me build a shed in the back yard. I figure it would be totally fine with a small electric heater for the winters and a window for hot summer nights.

The important thing is that it would be mine. My space. And no one else’s. Dreams of my own space take me through the night and into the following morning. When Rachel stops by to pick me up, I am ready to go in my standard uniform of skirt and student council polo. I figured if they gave us free shirts, the least I could do is save the wear and tear on my own clothes by using them as frequently as possible.

I throw my backpack onto the floor of the front passenger seat and wave to my siblings who are all lining up outside for the bus, which will be picking them up in approximately six minutes.

“TGIF!” Rachel whoops as she pulls back onto the main road. She isn’t much a whooper, but ever since she started dating Jaxon Lewis, our local basketball star, she’s been a lot less mousy. It’s encouraging to see someone come out of their shell and shine the way God meant them to. “Let’s do something wild and crazy. Like skip school and tag the water tower.”

I curl my lip at her in disgust. “Jaxon is a bad influence on you.”

“Come on, what would you write?” she asks. I know she would never actually do anything like graffiti the town water tower, so I indulge her little fantasy. I sigh and think to myself because it’s a big decision. Pithy quote, clever quote, mysterious quote, dumb quote. What would be the most impactful quote if I were going to tag up the water tower?

“I know what I would write: Jaxon Lewis is the schiznit,” she says with a huge moony grin on her face.

“For schizzle my nizzle?” I ask her, deadpan.

She eyeballs me like I’m nuts. “No. Just no. Don’t ever do that again.”

I sigh. I have no cool factor. Even the nerds have more personality and interest than I do. Whatever happened to ennui being popular? If ennui was popular, I’d be all the rage. I think back to my collection of sweet Regency romance novels I have stocked on my kindle. Just between you, me, Tamara, and Rachel, I can safely tell you, there are well over a hundred. Life was simpler then. Back then, only fast girls wore make up. Touching was left to hands and dancing didn’t involve gyrating one’s body in a way that I could never manage to do without looking like a complete imbecile.

“You look grouchy this morning,” Rachel said.

“Brilliant deduction, Watson!” I wasn’t usually the queen of snark, but today I felt like it.

“Ouch! Hey, what did I say? I’m just giving you a ride to school,” she said, pulling into the parking lot. Which made me feel like a jerkwad.

“Sorry! It’s just… everything,” I say as we head for the doors. “I feel like everything is starting to fall apart. Senior year is here and I’m wondering what it was all for…. No, that’s not true. I’m struggling with Trig. I hate math.”

“Can you get a tutor?”

I wince. Getting a tutor is like admitting defeat. It means that my brains and hard work were officially not good enough on their own. It’s humiliating and given my family’s poverty and chaos level, I already have enough humiliation in my life.

“I know what you need,” Rachel says, cutting a glance in my direction. I groan, but that doesn’t stop her. She shimmies up to me and bops me with her hip. It all but body checks me into the lockers. “Girl’s night!”

“No, no. Come on, you have Jaxon to entertain you, what do you need girl’s night for?” I argue.

“I hang out with him all the time.”

“I know. You basically sit in each other’s pockets. Gag.”

“It’s a good thing I know you so well or half your Regency references would be unintelligible. And what the heck? Do you want me to hang out with you or not?” Rachel asked, pretending to huff. Our lockers are right next to each other so we exchange our books as we talk.

It’s not that I hate girl’s night. I always enjoy it while I am doing it and afterward I am always glad we did it, but I hate the idea of it before we do it. It’s so complicated, and my life is already complicated. There will be hair styling and nail painting involved. And other painful processes like tweezing my eyebrows, a few stupid games that end badly, and probably a movie that will make cringe in embarrassment or fear. I’d rather just be miserable by myself. On the other hand, I can be miserable with my friends who are willing to indulge my unhealthy obsession with 80s music, or I can miserable surrounded by my loving but oh-so-insane siblings who I have to threaten with bodily injury on a regular basis.

“All right,” I whine, giving in.

“Tonight, after the game. Or better yet, leave after half time. You don’t have to stay for the whole thing.”

“That wouldn’t be right. I can’t do that. I have to stay for the whole thing.”

“For crying out loud, Claire, live a little. Break the rules one time!”

I shake my head, coming to a stop next to her outside her first period home ec class. “You going to pick me up?”

“Tamara could, I bet. She usually goes to the games.”

“I hate riding with her,” I frown. “Psycho rabbit on speed terrifies my introvert into hiding.”

“That’s good. Keeps life fun,” she say right before a big hand followed by an arm wraps around her waist from behind. She tilts her head to look up at the guy behind her. Jaxon is one of the school’s heartthrobs and it’s anyone’s guess how she ended up snagging him. But that it’s legit true love is doubted by no one.

“Hey Claire,” he nods at me before he turns to Rachel with this look in his eye that makes all us girls sigh with longing.

“Hey, babe. Good morning,” he smiles at her. He gives her a quick kiss and I try not to look and feel awkward, which is near impossible. Should I try to finish this conversation or let it go? Probably let it go because I need to get to class and they are caught up in this pink bubble that probably doesn’t admit of outside noise.

“All right, well, see ya later tonight then,” I say, but I doubt she hears me because her and Jaxon are lost to the world. My envious heart plummets.

I sit through a student council meeting where the president and the vice president argue over whether or not student council members should have designated and reserved parking spots. Evan Carmichael is slouching in a desk next to me and I have to force myself not to look at him, or even glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Stupid crush. It’s always exciting when he ends up next to me by accident, but it’s not like we interact at all. For some reason though, his mere presence has me feeling even more morose. My mind wanders off to contemplate why I’ve been feeling so out of sorts.

It’s true my trig grade has been worrisome. And certainly the chaos at home hasn’t been helpful. But there’s no real reason why I should feel so cross and despondent. That’s Raven’s thing. I got annoyed and frustrated, but being an Eyore was not me. Not that my friends would know it by how I had been acting recently. If I didn’t watch it, I’d be dying my hair black and purple, wearing black skinny jeans, covering my eyes with my bangs, getting a brow ring, and listening to indie rock bands. As if.

I snort to myself at the thought of that. Wouldn’t everyone be surprised if I did though?

“What was that, Claire? Do you think we should handle it differently?” The snotty voice of Emily Woodruff comes out of nowhere to blindside me out of my day dreaming.

I am a deer in the headlights because I haven’t been following their conversation at all. Evan Carmichael looks over at me with his slow, tantalizing smile, the one that says he always has everything already figured out and I’m still clueless. It’s his smile that does it, so smug and entitled. Everyone knows that Evan was born into wealth. Combine that with his golden boy star quarterback status, and it is a deadly combination. My face turns beet red at being caught day dreaming, but I scowl at him all the same, which has him raising an eyebrow at me.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention,” I say to Emily.

“Ugh. Forget it.” She goes back to arguing with the class president Henry Hopemore III (yeah, guess if that guy is going to have a future in politics.)

I’m trying to figure out if I should be paying attention to their argument when Evan leans toward me and whispers, “I’m just saying, it’s okay to admit when you’re day dreaming about me. It happens all the time.”

My jaw drops and I turn on him with a sneer. I am so offended. He thinks he can talk to me like that because I’m poor and unattractive. Would he say the same thing to Emily or Stella or any of his other wealthy hob knobbing giggling entourage?

“You wish I day dreamed about you,” I hiss.

“Would it be so wrong of me to say, I do? I wish all girls would day dream about me. And one day, when this fine body,” he smirks and waves down his body – the body I can’t keep my eyes off of now, “is gracing the cover of GQ magazine, they will be.”

His arrogance is incomprehensible.

I smile and lean toward him like I’m going to tell him something flattering. I almost laugh at the way he leans toward me in eager expectation to have his ego stroked. We meet in the middle and I put my mouth up to his ear. I’m suddenly aware though that the joke is on me because Evan’s mouth is within three inches of my neck – the guy I’ve crushed on my whole life is Right. There.

I swallow and whisper what I was going to say. “You’re revolting.”

I am such a liar. I pull away and face the front, my cheeks flaming. I don’t know when he moves, or how he reacts or anything because I refuse to look his way for anything. When the bell rings, I flee the room like my butt is on fire because I really don’t want to say anything else that will make me look stupid.

The rest of the day goes by with tedious, painful slowness. In Trig. my last class of the day, Mr. Henderson has me stay after.

“You’re struggling with this class, Miss Brown. Care to explain?”

I don’t know what to say to that other than the obvious, and true, answer that, “Math is not my talent….?”

“Regardless, this will bring down your whole GPA, which never looks good to colleges. Now, I know you took a bunch of AP classes, but if you don’t get a handle on this, I’m afraid you are going to be seriously hurting.” His eyes watch me over the tops of his wire-rimmed spectacles to make sure I’m paying attention. “Look, can I assign you a tutor? Would that help?”

I wordlessly nod my head, blinking back tears. Never in my life have I ever been held after class for a low grade. This is humiliating with a capital H.

“Okay, tell you what. He normally has practice, but since it’s a Friday, he has off today. Why don’t you meet him in the library right now?”

“Now? Right now?” I ask, my breathing starting to come in shorter spurts.

“Yes, I’m sure Coach Jenkins will be willing to send him down. He owes me a few favors.”

Great, a jock is going to be tutoring me in Trig. Now I feel lower than low. I don’t even know what else I say but it appears to satisfy him. I drag myself toward the library after texting my mom and Rachel of the plan. Normally I would head home and Rachel would pick me up on the way there. Now, it looked like I was going to be staying at the school the entire time.

Is it too much to hope that the jock won’t show? I grumble to myself as I sit with my back to the door. I hate math. I hate math. I hate –

A back pack drops on the table in front of me and I look over, my stomach settling somewhere in the vicinity of my shoes at the devastating smirk turned my way. The universe is a cruel mistress.

“What up, Claire?” Evan asks, offering me a fist bump.

“Look,” I ignore his hand and wave a finger under his nose. “Let’s get one thing clear, I’m not one of your bros and I’m not one of your hoes, so don’t be ‘whatsupping’ me or ‘hey dawg, how’s it hanging’ me or any of that. We have a student/tutor relationship and that’s it. Kapiche?”

“Drake is out, The Godfather is in. Got it,” he kicks back in his chair and fires an imaginary gun my way, like he’s the Fawnz.

I roll my eyes so far I’m sure they can see my brain and turn away from him. What was Mr. Henderson thinking? This was never going to work.

“So Henderson tells me you need help with Trigonometry. I was kind of surprised. Aren’t you, like, really smart?”

“No. All your brain dead friends just came up with stupid names to call me in grade school because I actually tried and that made them look bad.”

He cleared his throat, sat up, and clasped his hands together on the table. “So when they call you ‘The Brain,’ that’s not actually a reference to your intelligence?”

I grit my teeth and check my phone. How much longer will this go on? He might get my blood racing on a regular basis because he is so stinkin’ good looking, but right now he is just ticking me off.

“Okay, okay,” he raises his hands like he’s the soul of innocence. He pulls his trig book out of his bag and opens to a page. “Math. I’m going to tell you a problem, I want you to walk me through finding the solution.”

I might reconsider what I think of Evan if he proves to be a decent tutor with an ounce of focus. After working with him for an hour and a half and seeing that brain of his in action, I’m glad to be wrong about him being a dumb jock. Not that I actually thought he was dumb, but I had been pretty convinced that Mr. Henderson was letting him slide just because he was the quarterback. I always hated the idea that I was crushing on a dumb jock.

“Are you going to the game tonight?” he asks, knowing full well that all student council members are required to be at the home football games.

“Haven’t missed one yet,” I say, shrugging my back pack onto my shoulders. He grins like there is some sort of personal triumph in my having attended the games.

“You going home to eat?” he asks, following me to the door.

“No, I’ll probably just pick up something from the vending machines. I don’t have my license yet.”

He gasps in shock. “Whaaaat? How old are you?”

“Almost eighteen,” I grind out. “You don’t have to say it like that. I just never had time to learn to drive or money to buy a car. I mean, I took driver’s ed, but it didn’t stick very well.”

He steps in front of me to open the hall door to the cafeteria. The vending machines are right inside.

“I’m going to go get something to eat right now. You want to come with me instead?” he asks.

My hands pause in their search for money in my pockets. “Wh-what? Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m hungry?” he asks, like it’s this novel thing that happens to people sometimes.

I shove him in the chest. “Whatever. Yes. But I’m buying my own food. This is not like a date.”

He cocks his head and purses his lips in amusement, “Um, no, not like a date. That was not what I was… Nevermind.” He turns and leads the way out of the building and I’m left to scramble to catch up, cheeks flaming once again because I only belatedly realize how dumb I must have sounded. I mean, really, why the heck would I think he would he consider dating someone like me? It didn’t need to be said, but I had said it in this huge, loud way and now it was going to be soooo awkward. But I was hungry and I really didn’t relish the idea of eating a handful of chips for dinner all by myself somewhere on campus.

He opens the door on my side (whodathunk this guy was such a gentleman? Not me!) of his big black truck and holds my hand to help me climb inside. The sensation is heavenly but I am refusing to relive it or examine how it makes me feel because Not. A. Date. Remember? As soon as he turns the key in the ignition, his speakers rumble to life with country music. I am dying because I hate country, but I don’t want to say anything.

He turns the radio off, apologizing for the music with this little shamefaced smile. “Feel free to play something. I’ll listen to anything, but I just put in this speaker system so I like to use it.”

Sweet! I plug in my ipod and open my favorite list of 80s tunes. Then I turn up the speakers, looking over at him to see how high I should go. He smiles at me (in Regency times they would say it was ‘rakishly’ and my insides got all warm and quivery) and gives me the thumbs up sign a few times, like it needs to go louder. I can’t help but laugh and accommodate him. I have to start dancing, because that’s just what 80s music does to me. I can’t dance worth a darn to electronica, but get me some Rick Astley or Michael Jackson and I will tear it up.

I really don’t think there is anything more fun than to go barreling down the highway with the windows open blaring Jesse’s Girl, especially when there’s a hot guy in the seat next to you. He gets into with me and we miss our turn to the diner, which means making a u-turn, but it’s all cool because it just means more fun.

When he parks and turns off the truck, that happy feeling is still in place. I open my door, and suddenly he’s there helping me down and that same little zing has me smiling up at him like a love-struck idiot. He releases my hand and walks behind me into the diner.

I sit down at the booth the waitress shows us and he slides in across from me. I’m searching for a name for what I’m feeling because I’ve been so down recently and for the first time in a long time, I’m not. I slap my hand on the table as it comes to me and his eyes look up from the menu in surprise.

“Gratitude!” I snap my fingers.

“Huh?”

“That’s what I’m feeling,” I look at him and smile. It feels really good to smile because my gosh I have been a grouch recently. “Thank you.”

“What did I do?”

“You brought me here and let me play 80s music in your car.”

“Guess that makes you easily entertained,” he winks at me and grins at me wickedly. “You can come play 80s music in my car all night long, Rawrr.”

He even did the claws, and it’s so absurd, it actually makes me giggle. GIGGLE. I never giggle. I’ll say it again: Claire Brown NEVER giggles.

The fact that I just did makes me frown because it makes me think I’ve had overexposure to Evan and now I’m coming down with Evanitis, as evidenced by symptoms of happiness and giggling. Before long I would become one of his female zombie entourage that he randomly passed out hook ups to. And the idea of hooking up with Evan gives me shivers. Gah! What was wrong with me?

I pick up my menu and hide behind it because I need more barrier. Basically any barrier from Evan would be good, I was learning.

“So, 80s music, huh?” Evan asks.

Was there censure in his voice? I peek over the top of my menu at him. His eyes are laughing at me.

“What? It’s good music!” And I can actually dance to it. “I can dance if I want to.”

“What else do you listen to?”

“Classical.” I’ve chosen what I want so I set aside the menu and decide the conversation is safe enough to participate in. “And Rachel and I are in love with Ed Sheeran and Adele’s music. You?”

He shrugs his shoulders and sucks down some of the water the waitress brought. “Like I said, I’ll listen to anything.”

Silence falls between us and I don’t know what to say. I feel like I should say something, but I don’t know what. I twist my fingers together and then sag with relief when the waitress comes to get our order. Since my budget is limited by the amount of money I’ve made over the summer (money that is supposed to last all year), I ask for the most basic items on the menu - mozzarella sticks and a side salad.

After the waitress leaves, I don’t have a menu to hide behind anymore, so I play with my straw wrapper instead, wrapping it around my finger and then unwrapping it again.

“Did you get into any schools yet?” Evan’s deep rumble startles me and I jump.

“Not yet. I was a little behind in getting my applications.” Working at Clyde’s farm over the summer from morning to night had really cut into a lot of my summer plans. “You?”

“Yeah. Football scholarship to University of Dallas.”

“Cool. Not surprising. You’re good at football.”

His eyes reach mine like he’s surprised I said that.

“What?” I ask him.

“You don’t strike me as the type of girl to be hitting on the quarterback,” he says with a half-smile.

My face goes red. “Humility much? I wasn’t hitting on you.”

“Okay.” He totally doesn’t believe me, or is pretending not to.

“Aren’t you good at football?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m all right. It’s not like I’ll be starting my first year or anything. But I love it, so there is that.”

“I wouldn’t say I love it. But it’s okay to watch. Sometimes I really hate going to all the home games though.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You actually go to all of them? Why do you go if you don’t want to?”

“Because as a member of student council we have to…?” I say, confused by his response. How does he not know this? He is on the student council too.

He laughs. “I forgot about that. Maybe I don’t remember because I have to go to every game anyway.”

The waitress brings our food and we dig in. He got a burger and fries. I kind of have a hard time believing that I am sitting here with him. Me. With Evan Carmichael.

“Did you ever consider not going?” Evan asks me.

I swallow my bite of mozzarella and shake my head. “No.”

“Never?” He laughs.

“No,” I say again, like he’s a little bit nuts, because he is.

“Man, have you ever broken a rule in your life?”

I pull apart a mozzarella stick and wave a piece at him. “That’s for me to know and you never to find out.”

“It’s like that, is it?” he grins at me in a way that has me wondering what Pandora’s box I just opened. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to issue a challenge to a football player?”

“Oh, no,” I trip over myself in the rush to negate that statement, “That was not – I didn’t mean to –“

“Oh, no. It’s on like donkey kong now, Miss Brown.” He sits back in the booth and strokes his chin. I notice that there’s the tiniest spot of ketchup right under his mouth. It’s driving me crazy. “What secret rule breaking moments does Miss Brown have?”

“Okay, I really think you are making too much out of this. Nothing terribly exciting.” And also nothing I can tell him about because admitting that you’ve been cow-tipping or that you stole candy in fourth grade, or that you got into a year-long streak of reading sketchy bodice rippers is just not going to happen because laaaame.

“You are a terrible liar!” he says.

My eyes dart over to him as my cheeks flush again. No, I wasn’t terrible, was I? “I think it’s more accurate to say I’m out of practice.”

The waitress brings our bill and I pull out my wallet and start for digging for bills. But then the waitress is moving away with the bill again.

“Hey, what about –“ I looked over at him and he smiles at me and shrugs again. “Did you cover me?”

“Yeah.”

“But, why?” My hand holding the bill sinks to the table.

“It was easier that way.”

“Well, here.” I shoved the ten over to him. “Take that for my part of it.”

“No way. I’m the one who offered to take you out. I’m paying.”

“Oh, so it wasn’t about it being easier.”

“Not anymore it’s not, considering you’re shoving money at me.”

“What’s wrong with my money?!”

“Nothing. Here,” he places it underneath the salt and paper shaker. “If it makes you feel so bad, we’ll leave it for the waitress.”

The waitress comes back with the bill and he flips it open and signs it before I can say anything.

“You’re cute when you’re upset,” Evan says, leaning on the table with both elbows.

“I swear you say stuff just to try to get under my skin.”

“Is it working?” he grins wolfishly.

“Mmmmaybe. But I’m not near as cute as you are with that spot of ketchup on your lip.” I indicate where and grin. I’m pretty proud of my witty come back, hopeful that maybe embarrassment will throw him off his game. Or at least I’m proud of it until he gets this little smile like he knows what I’m trying to do and edges his tongue out to swipe in the direction of the ketchup, which he misses. But all his lip action has me feeling distinctly uncomfortable because I did mention the man is gorgeous and knows it, right?

I really don’t know where to look, which amuses him to no end.

“Did I get it?” he asks, so of course I look. Nope, still there, begging for me to reach across and wipe it off.

I shake my head.

“Would you mind…?” He leans forward, his eyes daring me to touch him. After a moment I reach out and wipe it off with my thumb. His skin is soft and smooth. I swallow, and pull my hand away as if I’ve been burnt and it kind of feels like it. My hand was on Evan’s mouth. OMG. Where are my smelling salts?

It’s really no big deal, Claire. He’s just trying to get to you. No biggie. It doesn’t mean anything to him. I’ve almost convinced myself of all that when I meet his eyes and he looks puzzled.

“Wha—“ I’m interrupted by the loud greetings of his team mates coming in the door.

“Carmichael!! You ready for this?” Derek, a tall rangy guy with a really loud mouth is followed by Troy Hollis and a few other football players. I wave at Troy because he’s the nice silent type that’s always been kind to me. He’s a beast of a guy, but his demeanor and size is at odds with his personality. He nods in greeting as the group of them come up to our table.

“Dude, we heard Sharona had it out for you. I want her to have it out for me,” Derek laughs gutturally and makes some crude movements like he’s performing a sexual act on an invisible female. I’m so disgusted I gag a little in my mouth and turn away. I’m aware that Evan is watching me, too, which makes this entire exchange awkward in the extreme.

Apparently my movement caught Derek’s attention though.

“Whazzup, home girl. Clara, right? Don’t leave me hanging!” I look up to see that he’s holding out a hand for me to clasp. I shudder because I really don’t want to touch him and his skeevy hands. I manage to get through the moment of hand clasping though (and immediately want to wash my hand off but can’t). Derek looks back and forth between Evan and I. “I didn’t think you went out for the librarian type, yo. Niiiice.”

“Hello. Sitting right here,” I say, giving him my most lethal disgusted look. I’m seriously pissed off because no one deserves to be spoken to that way, not only in third person, but like they are an object. I wait for Evan to say something to correct the guy of his glaring misconception that we are hooking up, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches me, this small smile plays around his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh. I kick him under the table.

Evan jumps and the laugh he was trying to contain comes out.

Before he can say anything Derek offers him a fist bump and says, “Don’t tire yourself out before the game, brah.”

My head feels like it’s going to pop with the amount of blood rushing to it. Did he really just suggest that Evan and I were going to be engaging in….images rush through my head unbidden. OMG, Claire stop thinking about that! I collapse my face in hands before I realize Evan isn’t saying anything. Again.

I pick up my head because someone has to do damage control here and apparently Evan is fine with letting it ride, probably because it’s good for his ego. But I can’t believe the nerve of this guy to be talking like this with me sitting right here.

“No,” I blurt out. “We’re not – this is not – he was just, um, being nice.” I am completely unintelligible. And his charge is beyond preposterous. But that does not at all matter because if Derek’s grin is anything to go by, he obviously doesn’t believe me.

“All right, girlfriend, all right.” He punches Evan in the shoulder and winks at him. “Check you later, yo.”

Evan jerks a nod in his direction, that same smile still on his lips, but I am pissed. The rest of the guys say bye and move off toward a different part of the restaurant.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I hiss at him.

“Didn’t feel the need,” he smirks at me. He picks up his water and slurps the last of it down, trying not to laugh.

“This is not funny. My reputation is going to be destroyed,” I frown. “People are going to think…”

“Yeeessss?” Evan drags the word out like he doesn’t already know.

“You know,” I snap at him. “Did you know before you offered to bring me here that this is what they would think?”

Evan laughs a deep belly laugh. “Ah, no. It didn’t occur to me to think about how other people might perceive it. Mainly because I don’t give a darn who I date, when I date, or where I date.”

“This is not a date!” I whisper furiously.

He chuckles. “I think if I pay, it makes it a date.”

I throw up my hands in defeat. Seriously. It’s not even like he’s actually interested in dating me. What the heck?

“We should do this again sometime. It’s been fun” he says, rising to his feet and grabbing his letterman jacket off the seat next to him. He waits for me to stand which I reluctantly do. Can’t he walk ahead of me? Is touching my lower back lightly to escort me out really necessary? Grrr…..

“We are going to have to some issues with you being my tutor if this is how you are going to play it,” I say to him when we are both on my side of his truck again.

“Nothing like a little tension to make life interesting,” he winks at me. He pulls the door open and offers his hand to help me up again. I don’t want to take it, but considering getting into his truck is like rock climbing and the hand holds are inconveniently placed for me, I take his hand. I love it. I hate it. Or hate that I love it.

That doesn’t stop my heart from going into overtime and my palm to start sweating at the contact. Once I’m in, he releases me and shuts my door.

Never again, I tell myself as he goes around the car and gets in. The truck engine roars to life and 80s music blasts from the speakers. He looks over at me, a huge grin on his face. Never again go out with Evan Carmichael.