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

FOUR

CLAIRE

Rachel drops me off after school on Tuesday. I was able to bike to the PT clinic from the school and then home before, but Evan’s house is too far to bike. I feel like a jerk depending on her for a ride so I’ll be relieved to have my license. I even consider buying a beater using part of the ten thousand dollars I’ve saved from my summer jobs.

The address Evan texted me is in a subdivision I’ve never been in before. The drive up to the gate is long and curvy with a fully paved jogging trail twining around manicured trees, small ponds, and shrubbery made to look tastefully wild. When we are finally buzzed through, we aren’t surprised to see huge homes set back in three inch deep vanity lawns that beg to be walked on. Big trees shade the road way as we navigate our way through the subdivision, oohing and aahing at all the gorgeous homes.

“OMG. Are you really doing this?” Rachel asks. She waits at the gate to their property.

I sigh, clenching my fingers together to stave off nerves. “I really am.”

“What are you more nervous about? Driving or the fact that EVAN CARMICHAEL will be sitting next to you?”

“I know!!’

“I can’t believe he’s letting you drive his truck. That’s hot!”

“If driving was a euphemism for um, sketchy stuff, that would make actually sense. And what are you saying, Miss I-found-the-man –of-my-dreams?”

“True,” Rachel says.

“Anyway, I’m nervous about both.”

“Here’s my advice,” she says as the gates open and she noses the car forward, “Take advantage of the moment and enjoy it. Stop putting up roadblocks.”

I’m about to answer that she’s being ridiculous but my voice dies away as the house comes into view. It’s this sprawling brown brick monstrosity that has a separate four car garage, a lot of French accents, and a metal roof. Tennis courts and basketball courts are visible in the back along with a pool. It’s crazy.

I lick my lips, anxiety building in my chest. “Wish me luck.”

I hop out and wave goodbye. Watching her drive away makes me want to run after and ask her to just take me home, but I firm up my shoulders, grasp his backpack with his assignments and school issued ipad and lift my hand to the buzzer.

The door opens before I can ring it and Evan is standing there, leaning on one leg and his crutches.

“Bored?” I ask him. I skooch around him and prop up our book bags right inside the door. “Does that mean you’re ready to go driving now?”

He looks at me – shorter now because he’s hunched over on his crutches. “I’m ready if you are.”

Tension zips through me but I shake it off and nod my head. I help steady him as he works his way down the stairs to the driveway. At the bottom he fishes in the pocket of his athletic shorts and hands me his car keys. They have a braided leather toggle on them along with a vintage style metal football coin.

We head over to his truck and I open the door for him.

“This truck is awfully high. Don’t you want to take your mom’s Lexus instead, since it’s closer to the ground?” I ask him.

He just stares at me.

“Or not. We can take the truck,” I say. But I have no idea how he is going to manage getting in without injuring himself. He hands me his crutches, holding onto the truck to keep his balance. The muscles in his back bunch together under his Henley as he lifts himself up using the hand holds alone. My mouth waters and I have to tell my hands not to run themselves over all the beautiful ripples I see there.

He turns back with a smug look of triumph, catching me checking him out, before he sits down in the seat. My face flames up, while his prideful look turns into a full on grin.

“You checking me out, Claire?”

I have no response, so instead I toss his crutches in the back of the truck. I have a sneaking suspicion he did that whole rippling back muscles thing on purpose now. He starts lifting his injured leg in and I help him maneuver it so he doesn’t inadvertently bang it on the car.

I clamber up into the driver’s side, disoriented by how far I am from the pedals and how the steering wheel is at the wrong height from the seat.

I start trying to adjust everything, but I can’t figure out where everything is. Evan leans across to point it out, tantalizing me with the smell of him and his proximity. A light dusting of blonde hair coats his arms as he points out to me where the headlights are and how they work and all the rest. By the time I’m situated, my nerves are strung out tight.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“Why?”

“This is not a good idea. This is your baby, Evan. Didn’t I tell you I never passed driver’s ed?”

“Are you planning on never learning how to drive?” he asks.

“Well, no, I’m going to learn. Some day.”

“All right then. Let’s go.”

At a loss, I hesitantly put the key into the ignition. I turn to him one last time. “Are you sure you want to do this? I would be perfectly happy with not driving your truck, like, ever.”

“Oh, I’m good with it. If for no other reason than that I get to get out of the house.”

The reminder that I am doing him a favor as well makes me feel a little less flustered. I turn the truck on and it roars to life. Thankfully, there is no music on to distract me. Suddenly he leans toward me and puts a hand around my shoulder, drawing me closer to him, until his nose rubs the tip of my ear.

“Relax, I trust you,” he whispers.

I shudder and, just to escape what he’s doing to me, push his hand off my shoulder and put the truck in reverse. I manage to get out of the parking area in front of the huge garage, even if it is at a jerky pace that has him covering his eyes and trying not to laugh.

We make it out onto the road past his gate and I start to get the hang of it. He yells at me a few times because I don’t stop at a stop sign or was speeding a bit and there were speed bumps (which does make me feel genuinely guilty about every wince of pain). He scoots toward me a bit more and I’m very aware of his long, solid length next to me. But it’s really hard to drive when half my brain is telling me to pay attention to the guy next to me.

“What’s wrong with you? How did you not see the red light?” he asks me in disbelief (thankfully, not in anger).

“I don’t know! I’m nervous!” We are able to stop at the stop light, but only just barely. I have to reverse a few feet so we can see the light change.

“What do you mean you’re nervous? What are you nervous about?” he asks.

“You! You make me nervous,” I snap before I can stop the words from coming out of my mouth.

“What?” He sounds so clueless and innocent, it drives me over the edge

“Yes, and you know it. Getting in my space and making me feel buzzy things I shouldn’t be feeling with your muscles, and your smell, and that half-smile thing you do.” I clap a hand over my mouth in the sudden realization of what I’ve been saying. And a hand over my mouth is not enough so I hide my face in my hands and turn away. He doesn’t say anything and I am cringing so bad, I want a hole to dig so I can cover myself up and not come out for another twenty years like Rip Van Winkle.

A car horn blares behind us and I jump. I put my hands on the wheel and press the gas, slowly bringing us up to speed.

“I didn’t mean that,” I say into the silence. “Those were just, um, nerves talking. You know, like when you’re mad and you say something you don’t mean? That was nervous verbos… a. Yeah, nervous verbose. It’s a condition some people have. Like me. I have this condition where I say stuff I don’t really mean when I get nervous.”

I take a risk and glance over at him, hoping against all hope that he’s buying what I think is a rather clever line of bull. He’s wearing a smile like the cat that swallowed the canary. The only thing he’s missing is the feathers.

“Uh uh. Nope,” he said. I groan, mortified.

We drive around town for a good half hour. After my mortifying confession, Evan decides to spare my blushes because he eases up on his flirting. In some ways it kind of depresses me because it probably means he’s not interested. I knew that. Of course, I knew that. But him friend-zoning me actually makes me more comfortable too and we start talking about our lives. I share about my family and he shares a little bit about his. I find he’s generally easy to talk to, which is weird for me considering I’m socially-awkward girl.

“Would you mind stopping by Checkers? I could really go for a burger,” he asks me. The idea of trying to navigate his huge truck through the Checkers’ drive through makes me sweat.

“Do you mind if I order at the walk up window and bring it to the truck?” I ask.

“Probably best, I don’t want the top to be scraping anything.”

“It is kind of a big truck,” I smile at him.

“Yayuh!”

His enthusiasm makes me laugh.

“Why did you buy such a big truck anyway?” I ask as I pull into the Checkers parking lot.

“I’m compensating for something.”

I do a double take. “Um, what?”

He cracks up laughing at me and my face turns beet red.

“Not what you were thinking. Wow, Claire, keep your mind out of my shorts!”

I smack him on his arm, gently, because I don’t want to hurt his knee by making him jump. “I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“Oh, whatever. You totally were.”

“So… if it’s not… that… what is it?” I ask.

He sighs and squints one eye at me like he doesn’t really want to tell me.

“Come on. I’m trustworthy,” I say with my best puppy dog eyes.

“That is the worst puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen,” he snorts.

I look at myself in the mirror. Yeah, needs some work. I add some more pout to it.

“Better?”

His eyes settle on my mouth and the humor in his eyes is swapped out for something different. I lose my pout, curious about the change in his expression, but his eyes are still focused on my lips.

“What?” I ask.

He clears his throat and turns away. “Nothing. Um, the truck. Yeah. So, I used to be kind of a… uh, a dweeb.”

He looks out the window like he doesn’t want to look at me. I can feel my eyebrows shooting up. Is he kidding me? Does he not remember that we went to school together since 2 nd grade?

“Evan,” I reach out and touch his forearm with my fingers before snatching them back, but that’s enough for him to turn and look at me. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“All the way up until 8 th grade, when I got my growth spurt. Don’t you remember?”

I shake my head. “No. Not at all.”

“Yeah, total dweeb. Glasses and everything. Remember when we did show and tell and I gave a presentation on how to read the stock market, and I brought my charts, and a brief case and everything?”

The memory brings me back to third grade. He wasn’t the new boy anymore, but Miranda Summers, Joy Tidwell, and I thought he was soo cute. I remember thinking that he must be a genius to understand the stock market at that age.

“Yeah. I thought your presentation was really cool,” I say.

He shrugged, in a you- would -think-that kind of way.

“What was that about?” I asked, trying not be offended.

“Well, the hot nerd is always going to think other kids doing nerd things are cool,” he laughed.

I gasp. Did he just call me hot? Did he just call me a nerd? Should I be flattered or offended?

“I am not a nerd, or a dweeb, or whatever. I happen to be detail oriented with a career track that will bring me order and success. Just because you were always popular doesn’t mean the rest of us are lame and pathetic,” I say, crossing my arms over my waist.

“I wasn’t! Didn’t you just hear the part where I said I was a dweeb?”

“Nobody thought that!”

“Yeah, they did. Especially the Bruschiani twins. They were the bane of my existence until they moved away in sixth grade.”

“I swear, it’s like we are living in a parallel reality. My memories of you are nothing like that.”

“What were they like?” There’s a note in his voice that has me suspicious.

“Uh uh. No dice. I see what you’re doing there, Carmichael. You can save your ego stroking for the privacy of your own room. So that’s what you are compensating for with the truck?”

“Probably. I don’t know. I kind of just said that to get under your skin. I got a big truck because it’s badA,” he chuckles.

“Ugh. You jerk!” I go to smack him in the arm again, but he catches my hand instead.

“Be nice! You’re going to leave my delicate skin with bruises,” he says in a falsetto.

I take my hand back feeling kind of guilty. How did I end up comfortable enough with him to be smacking him on the arm?

“Hey,” he strokes a finger down my cheek and I’m startled enough to look at him. “I was just joking. You’re not actually gonna hurt me. I mean, come on. Look at these guns.” He raises the sleeve of his shirt, flexes and then kisses his bicep.

I groan and open my door to jump out of the truck.

“I take it back,” I said right before I closed the door. “You were a total dweeb, weren’t you.”

“Get me a coke!” he hollers back, laughter in his voice.

We get back to his house an hour after we left. Evan seems to be in much better spirits. I’d like to take credit for that, but I’m sure it was just the hamburger or the fact that he’s not stuck in the house.

I climb out of the truck and get his crutches out of the back, wondering how we are going to get him out without him injuring his leg.

“Should I get your mom or something? You want your crutches now?” I ask. “How are you planning on getting down with hurting your leg?”

He smirks at me, grabs hold of the handles and lowers himself down like a gymnast onto his good foot. It actually looked really easy and completely safe. And I feel quite foolish. I shove his crutches into his chest.

“What do you need my help for again?” I ask. He just laughs. I hover, ready to help him get his balance again if the steps up to the front door prove to be a danger, and then follow him into the house. It’s cool and quiet, and just a little bit sterile.

“Hey, mom, we’re here,” Evan hollers, moving into the living room on his crutches.

“Why don’t you come get a snack in the kitchen before you start PT?” she says, sticking her head around the corner of the living room.

Evan scowls. “Mom, we’re not twelve.”

I wave my hand at her. “Hi, Mrs. Carmichael. I would actually love a snack. It smells like brownies in here. Did you bake?”

Mrs. Carmichael’s face lights up. “I did! Come on in and have a brownie.”

She disappears around the corner and Evan narrows his eyes at me, attempting to look angry and managing to just look adorably handsome instead. I laugh and nod in the direction of the kitchen, placing a hand at his back.

“Shall we, Mr. Grouchy Pants?”

“So we moved him down to the guest bedroom since the stairs became a problem,” his mother explains, guiding me into a bedroom. Evan is behind me and I swear I can hear him laughing at my discomfort. Because, hello, I’m in a guy’s bedroom. The room is huge, set up more like a suite than a bed-room with a walk-in closet and a walk-in bathroom. There also happens to be a physical therapy table set up in here too which I totally ignore.

“Oh, gosh, um. That’s not at all necessary,” I say. “We can just do the exercises in the living room or whatever.” Basically anywhere except his bedroom.

“Nonsense. The PT table is set up in here. And all the other equipment he’ll need can stay in here too.” Over her shoulder, Evan has turned his back and is doing a fake-make out session with his hands rubbing up on his own shoulders.

“Harry, his father, doesn’t like to have stuff out in the house. Just leave the door open, and I’m sure it will be fine. I trust you, dear.”

He switches it to a make out session with an imaginary person right in front of him. My face is slowly turning the color of a tomato.

“If you think swimming would help, the pool is right through these sliding glass doors,” Mrs. Carmichael turns, catching Evan with his hands in the air. Evan starts flapping them around wildly.

“There was a fly.”

I button up my lip and press down hard so I don’t laugh. Professionalism. Professionalism, I remind myself.

She draws aside a set of up and down door blinds to reveal a beautiful pool only a few steps away from the room. “It’s heated and I’ve heard that less resistance exercises can be good for therapy.”

Images of a shirtless Evan invade my brain and I have to shake them off.

“It just depends.” My eyes dart over to Evan, he has one hand up his shirt like he’s scratching his chest, his abdomen exposed. My eyes flare open because his real musculature is so much better than what my imagination had provided. I look away, but not before he smirks at me, causing me to blush. I suppose I should be happy he is getting back to his usual self because at least the bitterness and sadness that were in his eyes is gone for a bit.

I set our backpacks down on the bed, more or less resigned to the fact that I’m not getting out of doing PT in his bedroom. Intro the interior fanning because Claire Brown is in Evan Carmichael’s bedroom!! Squee!

His mother leaves us to it and Evan heads over to a desk he has set up in a corner. He lets himself kind of fall into the desk chair only he doesn’t account for it rolling, and the back being the kind that tips backwards. I see him going over in slow motion, but by the time I can react, he’s already on the floor.

“Oh my gosh! Evan!” I shout and run over to him. I check him all over, trying to see his face because I want to make sure he’s not in pain or hadn’t injured his leg further. He props himself up on his elbows groaning, his face is dark with embarrassment and anger, and I get a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a kid with scraped knees.

“What the hell?” His good foot shoves at the chair sending it careening ten feet away into a bookshelf. Ok. Sooo not a kid. I can tell he’s trying to get his emotions under control. He probably hates having a witness and just wants to have a complete melt down, but he’s manfully restraining himself.

“Hey, hey, come on, big boy,” I put a hand on his waist to help him rise because now I’m in my element and know what I’m doing. Hotties with smoldering eyes turn me inside out, but a guy suffering through the loss of a dream and a body in need of help? I’m your gal. I help get him to his feet, and pass him his crutches.

“First of all, no more rolling chairs.” He snorts. I help him to the table where we will do the majority of the exercises. I take his crutches and lean then against the wall while he situates himself on the table.

“Second, stop throwing yourself around. Everything you do has to be done with care.” I make sure to keep my voice and actions brisk and professional, like I would with any other patient. It helps if I don’t look at his face.

Evan might be tutor and peer, but right now, he’s a patient in need of physical therapy. This is good practice for me, even if it is just helping him do exercises that he’d normally be doing with his mom. He’s silent as I help him lift his leg into position. I can feel him watching me, but I distract myself by thinking about what other advice I want to give him.

“Third, give yourself a break. You have a ton of stuff to deal with right now. I know it’s not easy to hear, but stress will make everything worse. One day at a time. One moment at a time. One step at a time. No pressure.”

He laughs bitterly and wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Are you even listening to yourself? Do you realize I just had my future ripped away? I have nothing. Everything I’ve worked for since I was a kid, gone. Poof. What are talking about, don’t stress? How the hell could I not stress?”

His words hurt, because they are intended to make me feel small, but it’s not anything I haven’t dealt with before when working at the clinic.

“Keep working your leg, Carmichael,” I say firmly.

“Shoot. What’s the point?” He throws an arm over his face. He drops his leg weight into my hands like he doesn’t care and then bites back a groan. I know it had to be painful and it pisses me off.

“You want to end up an obese dude?” I ask him, laying his leg back down on the table and fisting my hands on my hips.

He lifts his arm off his eyes and drills me with a glare. “What?”

I’ve startled him with my question. Heat makes my glasses fog up, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Oh, does that make you mad, Carmichael? The idea of you not having this gorgeous body to tempt all the ladies with?”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“If you don’t get your body to the point where you can run and exercise, you not only risk injuring yourself again doing stuff not nearly as dangerous as playing football, the caloric intake you’re accustomed to because of football is going to blow you up. Let’s see how all the ladies love you then,” I snicker. “So you can wallow in the cruddy hand you’ve been given, or you can actually start to help yourself.”

“What’s this supposed to be, like ‘tough love’ or something?”

“Or something.”

He doesn’t say anything and I cross my arms over my chest. I’m not going to help him if he won’t help himself. Then again, my job as a physical therapist volunteer is to help get his body back as much as possible. It would hurt me to know that defeatism kept him from doing that. I firm up my will. Even if he doesn’t want this for himself, I want it for him.

Suddenly I’m not intimidated by his good looks or his fancy house anymore. He’s just a kid who had a tough break and can’t see his way out of it.

I lean over his frowning face and poke him in the chest with each point I make. “You’re supposed to be a champion, remember? You’re supposed to lead by example. Don’t tell me that underneath all those muscles and pads was a wuss.”

He grabs my poking finger, growling. “Who do you think you are?” I gasp and pull away because his hand on mine does something tingly to my senses, but he isn’t going to win this one.

“Someone who cares about you, more than you care about yourself, evidently. And considering I don’t care about you that much, that’s pathetic.” I step back, crossing my arms again. “So what’s it going to be? Are you going to try and recover or are you going to whine like a child and put yourself more at risk?”

His face turns red and he glares at me. It’s somewhat frightening, and I can only hope my goading works. I wonder if this is how coaches feel sometimes.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?” I ask him. The question is rhetorical. “Good. Use it.” I point to his leg. “Let’s get to work.”

I move toward him again as if he’s going to comply (because I BELIEVE in the power of suggestion). When I begin to lift his leg, he helps me. Or I help him, depending on how you look at it. Either way I’m pleased, but I’m not going to say anything for now because when you win a battle like this, it’s inadvisable to say anything that might appear like gloating.

We finish twenty minutes worth of leg exercises that have me impressed again by the muscle definition in his legs and thighs. I have him stand up and start doing the standing exercises, using the wall to help him keep his balance. Many of the exercises he can only barely manage to do, but if we do them every day, the hope is that the other ligaments will reattach on their own and start healing while the other muscles do their thing.

“How are you doing, tiger?” I ask as I notice his face is starting to break into a sweat and his wince is becoming more noticeable. “You’re not supposed to be pushing it too hard with an injury.”

“Yes, coach,” he says, smiling at me over his arm.

“Ready to do some English?”

He snorts and takes a hand off the wall. I stand up straight, thinking he wants me to get his crutches, but to my surprise, he throw his arm around my shoulder.

“Help me get to the bed?” His voice is laced with laughter at my squeak of protest. I decide to take Rachel’s advice and enjoy the feel of his lean, muscled body flush against mine.

We hobble to the bed, where he first sits and then starts to collapse until he realize that’s a bad idea what with how his knee doesn’t want to bend. He scooches back on the bed until he’s sitting up against the head board.

I grab his backpack and take out the ipad that has the majority of his homework assignments. I also pull out the work sheet his English teacher gave me.

“I thought we might start off working on this.” I hand it to him and then look around his room. “You have a laptop tray or something?”

“No.” He watches me get up and go over to his bookcase. I’m pleasantly surprised to see he has a whole collection on woodworking that has me seeing him as more than just a jock. I pull out the biggest thin book I can find on his shelf and bring it over. It’s a fifth grade year book. As I walk over to the bed I flip it open. The first picture I land on is mine. Yuck. Flip the page. Now here is something worth smiling about. He was a heartbreaker even then. He just had no idea the maximum effectiveness of those smiles.

“What?” he asks, seeing me smiling.

I flip the book around and show him. “You were anything but dweeby. Look at this.”

He looks at the book, his head cocked to the side and then cringes when he finds himself. “Look at those glasses!”

“Hey,” I poke him with a finger as I sit on the edge of the bed. “Clark Kent has glasses, and so do I.”

“On the other hand, Clark Kent was superman and you’re a girl, so neither of those scenarios really apply to me.”

“Wow, I never thought you were that shallow, that wearing glasses would matter so much to you.” To be honest, I was kind of starting to get offended.

“They don’t.”

I laugh in disbelief and turn away from him. “I think it’s fair to say they obviously do.”

“Trust me, they don’t. I can prove it.”

I laugh, looking up at the ceiling in frustration and then turn to him. “Okay, how – ”

His lips cover mine, gentle and firm. My mind panics at first, but then I’m in shock and blissed out as I return the kiss.

One of his hands comes up to cup my jawline while the other cradles the back of my head, tangling in my hair. He is so gentle and tender, it makes me feel like I am precious and important to him.

I know I should stop because, what does this mean? But I can’t think about that now. There is just him and me and this amazing moment.

He brushes my mouth with feather soft kisses before he withdraws. He sits back, but catches the fingers of one of my hands in his. I don’t open eyes because I don’t want to wake up and have him tell me he’s not interested. I’ve liked him for too long for this to be just a kiss.

“Wow.” His voice comes to my ears breathy, rough, and lower than normal. He is not unaffected. I open my eyes. He studies me, an intensity in his eyes that makes me catch my breath. I can’t say I’ve ever had someone look at me like that before, but I’ve seen it a couple times with him now. Now I can put a name to it and I don’t know whether or not I should be disconcerted that the hottest, most popular boy in school who I’ve been crushing on for forever wants me.

I’m scared, but also flattered. Either way, though, I don’t know if either of those mean anything. Does he like me? Does he think I’m like every other girl that will fall for him? Am I? I don’t know. My mind can barely process my thoughts because I’m still so lost in the sensation of my first kiss.

“You kissed me,” I whispered.

He bites his lip like he’s regretful, but not quite. “I did. Can’t say I’m sorry.”

“Do you kiss all the girls you like then?” I ask, my brows knitting together. I know this sounds offensive, but I have to know what this was. Did it mean anything to him?

“Some girls just want a good time.”

And he’s willing to give it. Of course, he is. I turn away from him at the answer and gently withdraw my hand from his and rise from the bed. I can’t bring myself to look at him yet. I feel like such a fool. My arms hug me as I look out at the pool without seeing it. “Not this girl. I think we should really focus on keeping this professional from now on, okay?”

To my chagrin, my voice wobbles as I say the words, so we both know it wasn’t easy for me to say.

“Claire-“ he begins, but I ignore him and march across the room to the chair that he kicked over. I wheel it over next to the bed and pass him the ipad, looking anywhere but at him. Wow, I’m an idiot.

“I’m going to use the bathroom and grab some ice for your knee while you look this over, okay? I’ll be right back.” I run-walk out of the room and into the hallway where the spare bathroom is. I splash some water on my face to get my watering eyes under control. The mirror reflects back a girl on the tall side with double blonde braids on either side of her head. She has a Norwegian look that might be considered girl next door pretty. And now she has a red nose to go with her red eyes.

Stupid Claire. Getting your hopes up for him. He’s everything you aren’t – bold, funny, fun, relaxed, popular, handsome, wealthy. You should be dating skinny hot nerds with a weakness for lattes and poetry readings, not football players built like greek statues. Come on, Claire, get it together.

As far as pep talks go, this one kind of sucks.