It's my life.
It's who I am.
"You sure do, boy-o." He stamps and staples my paperwork with a grin that I don't trust on instinct and sends me on my way.
Her silver Lexus is gone when I get to the parking lot, and I tell myself that's a good thing. The last thing I need to involve myself with is an icy-eyed girl named after whiskey with a talent for setting things on fire.
By the time I pull onto the highway, I accept the fact that Evan Williams Lennox was just a blip on my radar. A sexy ass blip, but a blip I have no choice but to forget.
Evan 2
"So you didn't even wait to get his number?"
My best friend, Brenna, is a love-obsessed romantic down to the pulp of her sweet little heart.
I expected to be lectured a little bit because I burned down part of an orchard and got a crap-load of fines and weeks’ worth of community service, but all my friend cares about is the specific shade of blue his eyes were and what, exactly, he said to get me off the floor and into the courtroom.
Sweet, soft, indigo and 'Are you nervous?', for the record, but there is no record, because this guy was just some guy I bumped into at court who is basically an irresponsible drunk brawler.
Not that I have any room to talk.
"How do you know he wanted to give me his number?"
I'm hanging up scores of obnoxiously green plaid skirts and egg-yolk yellow blouses, my daily clothing staples now that I'm enrolled at St. Anne's School for Catholic Girls, the only school that would take a girl with my dubious criminal record and lukewarm grades. I hate the uniform with an intensity that makes me gag, but wearing it is my penance.
And it hurts so much more than kneeling on dried peas for hours ever could.
"Did you wear your navy sheath?" Brenna demands.
I hang the last complexion-destroying blouse and move to my bed. This is an unnatural state of affairs for me. I'm usually a slob and a half. But I can't put Gramma and Granddaddy through anymore bullshit.
"Sweetie, it doesn't matter what I was wearing. But yes, I was. And he is a criminal. Why can you not grasp that?"
Brenna laughs in my ear. "No offense, but you're a criminal, too, Evan. That doesn't mean you really did anything so bad. And it definitely doesn't mean you can't flirt a little. Look, I'd try to encourage you to date some respectable geek, but St. Anne's is all girls and you haven't mentioned a single, solitary guy in months. Months! What shoes did you wear?"
I throw all my makeup in my violet-embellished bag and snap the clasp to close it.
"The red heels."
My ears burn.
The line is quiet for a few seconds as Brenna processes her shock and amazement.
"Evan? You wore the hot-sweet-magic-sex heels? The ones we got in New York City? The ones you swore you were going to wear on your first date with The One? Do you not see what a sign this is?"
Brenna is dangerously close to squealing and I'd bet my last tube of my favorite mascara that she's dancing around in her gorgeous little room, hugging herself like she just watched my fairy godmother change me into a princess for the ball.
"Calm yourself, girl. I wore those shoes because I gave up on all that nonsense. I figured I'd wear them on the one day I knew for sure I wouldn't meet anyone life-changing."
I step out onto the balcony off my bedroom and listen to the hiss and hum of a million insects busy in the deep green of the garden below.
"But you met him." Brenna refuses to be thwarted.
"Okay. I wore the heels and met a guy who was, I'm not gonna lie, hot as hell. But also a criminal. And also did not give me his number or ask for mine, so there is nothing -- listen to me now, Brenna Blixen -- noth-ing going on. At all."
I lean over the balcony and pull a magnolia flower close, rubbing the waxy petals with the tip of my fingers.
"You're going to see him again. I know it. I can feel it. Those shoes are hot-sweet-magic-sex shoes. They work."
Her laugh is gleeful and happy on my behalf, so I don't roll my eyes at her.
But it's hard to resist the temptation.
I steer the conversation on to other things, like Brenna's sexy-sweet boyfriend, her crazy, over-loaded, over-achiever school schedule, and her design business, which has expanded to include bumper stickers and pins.
I love listening to her chatter. Gramma said that one of her biggest disappointments is that I didn't meet someone like Brenna sooner.
Someone who could have helped give me direction.
Someone who could have kept me from doing what I do best: crash and burn.
I'm sad to let the lone ray of sunshine in my otherwise cloudy world go, but I have to say goodbye to Bren and start getting ready for day one of community service. I have such a towering pile of days to complete, I'm not even going to count.
I pull on jeans, a t-shirt, and boots, and pull my hair into a ponytail.
Simple.
Okay, maybe the jeans are perfectly butt-hugging and low-riding enough to still be sexy, and the t-shirt is gauzy and cut in just a deep enough v to give me a sultry feel, and the boots have a tiny heel and are gorgeous, dark leather. But I wear a uniform every single day to school. There's no way I can throw on any old thing, even to do community service. This outfit is the plainest I can manage.
Gramma and Granddaddy are at one of the dozens of golf tournaments they spend all year attending, so there's no one to say goodbye to as I hop into my car and drive to the site.
I'm not exactly sure what I'll be doing, but they
