Definitely, Maybe in Love

“I have a study group in an hour,” I called back.

“Stopping home for some tofu first?” he asked as he changed direction and started walking toward his car.

“Funny,” I muttered. I heard him laughing.

The Viper’s car alarm chirped twice and its lights winked. Henry ran a hand through his hair. It was extra curly tonight, like he’d let it air dry after a shower.

“Holy-mother-of-sexy,” Mel whispered. “Seriously, Springer, he’s hotter than the friggin’ Sahara. Look at that body and that face…those lips. How can you not jump his—”

“Shut up,” I hissed.

“Are we still on for tomorrow night?” Henry called, pulling open the door of the Viper.

I snuck a quick glance at Mel. She was gawking at me now, waiting for my answer. “Um, yeah,” I said as he climbed in his car.

“Bye, Henry,” Mel sang, her voice high-pitched and childlike.

He regarded Mel blankly. “Right. Take care, now.”

After he closed the door, Mel broke from me and doubled over laughing.

The Viper’s engine roared to life, and Henry revved it a few times, the tailpipe emitting gray exhaust. It wafted up, blending in with the night fog. He backed out of the driveway then straightened out. I couldn’t see him through the dark tinted windows, and after he drove past, I let out an exhale. Mel was still wiggling her fingers after him.

“Stop that,” I snapped, slapping her hand. “He’s going to think—”

“What?” she asked eagerly.

“Nothing.” I laughed, bumping her shoulder. “You’re such a ho-bag.” I was relieved Mel hadn’t circled back to the kissing thing. I didn’t know how I’d explain Thanksgiving morning. Me covered in cocoa powder and Henry with cranberry sauce running down his face…our mouths—

“So you’re going out with him tomorrow night?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Aren’t you going to the lecture on campus? The keynote is the lady who chained herself to the redwood tree. I thought that was right up your alley.”

“I am going.”

Mel took a beat. “Henry Knightly is going with you to the tree lady?”

I rubbed my nose. “He said he was interested.”

Mel tossed her head back, erupting in cackles. “Oh, babe. That is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.” Cold breath billowed from her open mouth like smoke from a chimney. “So if the two of you aren’t talking about all his money or his sweet butt, and you refuse—for some insane reason—to tear off those designer suits and have your way…what do you do?”

“His sweet butt?” I repeated.

“Yes, and don’t dodge the subject. This is fascinating. So? What do you do?”

“Well, when we’re not studying, we talk music sometimes. He was appalled when he learned I’m listening to strictly female singers.” This seemed like a good subject, because Mel perked up.

“You’re still on that all-chick musical kick?” she asked.

“I was until he confiscated my phone on Thanksgiving and added a new playlist. All men.” I made a face.

“Anything good?”

My left hand was in my coat pocket, my thumb absentmindedly running over the face of my phone. I felt a jolt, almost as if my fingers knew what was in there.

“Um, yeah, there’re a couple tolerable songs,” I admitted. “I was going to delete the whole playlist right away but thought it would be rude, since he took the time to load it.”

“Aww, how polite of you. Especially since none of his songs interest you.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, wishing I hadn’t brought up the subject.

“I don’t know, Spring. I’ve seen guys flit in and out of your life. To most of them you don’t give the time of day, and the others, like Alex, you treat like your personal scratching post.”

“Ew.”

“I’ve never known you to be your real self with a guy. Not lately.” She paused. “Not ever, actually. You and Henry have an interesting relationship.”

“We’re not in a relationship,” I countered. Mel was starting to bug me. I walked to the mailbox and wrenched the face open.

“I’ll put on some water for the noodles,” she said, walking up the porch steps.

I nodded as I sifted through letters. A few seconds later, almost naturally, my attention tiptoed across the street. On the second floor, the window of the second bedroom was glowing yellow. Henry left his light on again. I swear he does that on purpose, just to make me march over there and give him another lecture about wasting energy. I sighed and walked inside my house.

When I peeled off my coat and entered the kitchen, Mel was perched on a stool with one elbow on the breakfast bar, her hand cupping the side of her head. I didn’t appreciate her inquisitive eye.

“I’m starving,” I said. “Where’s the food you promised?”

“Pasta water’s on the stove.” She swiveled around on her bar stool. “But first things first, babe.” She lifted her open hand. “Where’s your phone?”

Chapter 15

Stalling wouldn’t be any use, not with the way Mel was staring at me, an impatient gleam in her eyes. Reluctantly, I reached for my coat, wishing I hadn’t shared so much with her on our walk home. I searched from pocket to pocket, though I knew exactly where my phone was located.

“I told you,” I said over my shoulder, hedging, “I think I might have deleted his playlist already.”

By the eager smile Mel was wearing, I knew she wasn’t buying it.

As I pulled out my phone, she hopped from her stool and was at my side in a flash, her palm level before me.

“Fine,” I said. “You can see it.”

She grinned with excitement, grabbed my phone, and ran a thumb across the face. A second later, the lights illuminated.

“Huh,” she said, her finger working the menu. “His playlist appears to be the last set of tracks you were listening to. Crazy, no?” She lifted her twinkling eyes. “Unless you have another playlist entitled Spring’s Education of the Male Voice.”

“Oh, right.” I rubbed my ear. “I was listening to it a while ago…while I was… waiting to see a professor and…and it distracts my thoughts, which, you know, I need sometimes.”

Mel ran a finger down the list of ten songs, just as a sizzling sound across the kitchen caught my attention. I left her and went to the stove to turn down the burner. Water was bubbling and splashing from the pan of boiling noodles. I stirred the contents then checked under the lid of the smaller pot of red sauce. Mel continued to examine the playlist, while I chewed impatiently on the inside of my cheek.

“Interesting array of artists,” she finally offered. “But I don’t recognize any of these titles.”

I stabbed a fork into the middle of the noodles, twisting it around until a hardy serving broke away. “I think he made them up,” I said, folding the noodles in with the sauce, although suddenly I had no appetite. “I mean, track one is the guy from Fleetwood Mac but it’s obviously not called Meet Me in the Tall Grass. And track two—”

I shut my mouth when Mel Cheshire-Cat-grinned. A second later, she spun around to exit the kitchen, jamming in an ear bud.

…

I sat alone at the bar for as long as I could stand it, my dinner untouched on the counter.