Definitely, Maybe in Love

“Oh, my holy mother of crap.”

At least Mel was talking now, if only rhetorically. It was the ten minutes of preceding silence that was really getting to me.

“Are you joking?”

Her outbursts from the living room were similarly irritating. Finally, after her third eruption, I took my bowl of vegetarian spaghetti and walked into the living room. All the lights were out. Mel was curled at one end of the couch, knees pulled in. She didn’t notice me, too busy concentrating on whatever song was playing, a confused expression wrinkling her face. I could tell by the way she moved her finger across the face of the phone that she’d started that particular track over. A smile pulled at a corner of her mouth.

I lowered myself into the arm chair across from her, taking a bite of noodles, chewing slowly, watching her advance to the next song. It played for about five seconds before her jaw dropped. Tearing one ear bud from her head, she called toward the kitchen. “Springer! Get your butt in here, pronto!”

“I’m sitting right here.”

Mel shrieked and jumped.

She stared at me as I calmly took another bite of noodles, chewed, swallowed, then dabbed the corners of my mouth on a napkin.

“So you…you do realize what this is,” she said at last.

I thought for a moment then shrugged, slurping in a single noodle.

“Have you asked Henry about these songs?”

“I thanked him when he gave me back my phone the next morning, but he hasn’t brought up the subject since.”

“Spring.” She rolled her eyes. “For someone with all your brains, you can be exceptionally dense.”

She’d lost me.

“Babe.” She held up the phone. “These are make-out songs.”

Now was my turn to wear the stunned expression. “No, they’re not.”

“Babe.” Her voice was unbelieving as she pointed down at the thin, silver rectangle in her hand, as if its mere existence were evidence.

“Henry Knightly did not make me a playlist of make-out songs,” I maintained.

“Yes, he did.”

I snagged the cell out of her hand. “No.” I stared down at it. “There’s no Marvin Gaye or Prince or…or Barry White.”

“Is that your idea of kissing music?” she asked. “Not very original. Not like Henry’s list. Shhh, new song.” She pressed a hand over the one remaining ear bud. “Daaamn.”

She had it all wrong. I knew this, because I knew Henry. At least I thought—

“He’s a genius,” Mel blurted. “These are way more subtle than Marvin Gaye. Trust me.” She skipped to the next track. “Ohh, double damn. Come here.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me down beside her. “Put this on.” She jammed an ear bud into my head then started a song. “Listen to this while picturing Henry, then I dare you to look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel like straddling him.”

I did as she asked, if only to ease my own mind. When I felt the first uncomfortable sputter of my heart, I glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, head back, fanning her face. “Minty freshness,” she murmured.

More like cranberry sweetness, I almost corrected.

“I’m deleting these,” I snapped, pulling out my ear bud. I went to grab my phone, but Mel held it over her head, out of reach. “Melanie Gibson,” I said through gritted teeth. “Give it to me.”

She stood up and shook her head, her brown ringlets bouncing as she took a step back. “I’m probably totally wrong about it,” she insisted. “I’m sure your nice, respectable, Republican neighbor didn’t mean anything by it.” She smiled like an idiot.

Choosing not to continue the debate, I walked my half-eaten dinner into the kitchen and dumped it down the sink.

Later, after Mel left for home, I sat in the dark living room, tucked in two ear buds, and played track one, with Mel’s theory on my mind. Before the end of the first chorus, my throat had gone dry and I stared down at my phone, amazed at how completely dense I’d been all this time. I skipped to track two, then three. By the time I’d listened to the entire playlist, my palms were sweaty and a funny, impatient feeling spun inside my stomach and chest. It might have been lust, it might have been panic.

Either way, I did not feel in control of my emotions. And I needed to be in control—that was the whole point of my making all the big changes last year. I was taking control, steering my life. And if Henry’s choice of a simple Rob Thomas song from ten years ago made me feel so severely out of control that I really did want to straddle him instead of study, then it needed to go.

Right before I left for campus, I plugged my phone into my computer and deleted all ten tracks.

Chapter 16

The muffled curse from outside my window made me laugh.

“You okay down there?” I called.

“Fine.” The hammering started up again.

I snickered and packed a pair of jeans and two sweaters into my duffel bag. No Doubt was quietly streaming from my laptop on the floor.

With only the moon and a small flashlight to guide him, Henry was outside, having volunteered to fix the loose rung on the rope ladder that hung outside my window. Then he went on to MacGyver some hooks to keep it secure against the house. Every once in a while the hammering would abruptly stop, and I’d hear murmurs of swearing.

After about twenty minutes, Henry’s fingers curled around the edge of the sill, and he was halfway through my window, hammer between his teeth, like Rapunzel’s prince. Once inside, he slid the glass closed.

“You’re sure it’s done?” I asked skeptically, hefting my bag toward my open bedroom door. “If you’ve booby trapped it to unravel under my weight, I’ll sue.”

“You’d never win,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’d bury you in technicalities.” He set the hammer on the ledge of the window, glanced around the room, and rubbed the back of his neck. He seemed distracted, which was odd for Knightly, though this glimpse into his awkwardness was not entirely unappealing.

“The burden of proof is on the state,” I defended, wondering if a little more lawyer talk would make him more comfortable.

“Precisely my point, I’m good friends with the D.A.’s office.”

“Aren’t you the legal eagle,” I said, crossing the room, pushing in drawers as I passed.

“All packed?” he asked, finally stepping away from the corner by the window. He’d been in my bedroom once before, so I figured his preoccupation had nothing to do with his surroundings.

“All packed, you?” Henry nodded. “Do you want a soda or something? There’s plenty downstairs.”

He shook his head. “Do you?” he asked abruptly, like he’d suddenly remembered his manners. “Or would you like to go out? Get something to eat?”

“It’s almost midnight, Knightly.” I pointed at the neon red numbers on the alarm clock. “We’ve both got to leave at the crack of dawn.”

“True,” he said, finally smiling, though he still seemed preoccupied. “I’ll go.” A bit hesitantly, he turned toward the window.

“You can use the front door, everyone’s awake downstairs. I think they’re going out later. Or you can stay up here for a while. Hang out, if you want. Unless you’re tired.” I fanned my face. “I’m wide awake. Leftover adrenaline from my last final.”

“Same here,” he said. We turned in unison toward my window, hearing sounds of night-before-vacation soirees down the street.

Henry smiled again, more genuinely this time. “Definitely staying.” He shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath was a black sweater with gray, blue and green argyle diamonds on the front.