pained or impassioned. He looks very un-Nate-like, as if he’s not sure who I am or what to do with me.
It’s a good thing for both of us that I recognize the truth about this disturbing collision of our worlds. “Nate, I’m not your kind of girl,” I say, not unkindly.
He turns my hand over, so we’re palm to palm. The bewildered look gives way to something warmer. He inches closer, simultaneously pulling me toward him. “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide who my kind of girl is?”
“I don’t like shoes.”
“You have cute toes.” A dimple appears.
Shit. “I’m disruptive in math and don’t play nicely in sandboxes.”
“I’ll have my little brother say a Rosary for your soul.” Another dimple.
“Nate, I’m being serious.”
“Me, too.” His eyes are a dark, steamy chocolate, every hair on his head in place. Everything about Nate is perfect. He’s charming, smart, kind. Everyone likes him. And that’s the problem. I’m not everyone. I’m not good at sharing paint. I don’t know about tree-acquisition rules. I’m not one of the herd.
His fingers twine with mine. The heat must be burning off all the oxygen in the cab of the truck, because I’m light-headed.
A pair of headlights slashes across the windshield. Bronson pulls up in his red Mustang, which is filled with Nate’s sporto buddies. The muscles in Nate’s hand tense and harden. The Mustang lets loose a loud honk. Nate drops my hand and slides back to the driver’s side.
My lungs expand, and finally oxygen rushes to my brain.
I lunge for the passenger-side door. Nate doesn’t reach for me. Instead he stares at the roof liner of the truck. “Let me walk you to the door. It’s getting late.” No more dimples. No more steamy eyes.
Welcome back, Mr. Polite and Proper.
He’s also an ass.
I shake my head at my own asslike behavior. “I’m in a made-for-cable teen-angst movie.”
“Excuse me?”
I jerk my hand toward the Mustang. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“Why would you think that?”
My fingers fumble along the truck door for the handle. “On a deserted rocky shore or the dark cab of a pickup truck I’m fine for a quick grab and feel, but when your buddies show, I’m not the right kind of girl.” I find the handle and yank. The door groans open, and I stumble out of the truck.
NOVA WON’T GO, SO I WALK TO THE BEACH.
This morning there will be no dolphin watching or working on the sea-swallow nesting site.
Either would be a bad choice, as I might run into Nate. Running into Nate would mean I’d have to talk to Nate, and I’m not sure what I’d say to him.
We’re two separate species, Nate. You’re a member of Sporto Popularus, and I’m classified as Art Nerd Rebelum. No intermingling of species.
Or … When you lace your fingers with mine in a whisper of a touch, my heart booms and my pulse pounds, and I can’t breathe, therefore risking death by asphyxiation.
Or the ever popular and appropriate … Asshole.
Which is why I’m walking to the beach in search of the Del Rey Fun and Sun Rental Shop. Every item on the top half of Kennedy’s bucket list is of the do-gooder variety, and after last night in the truck with Nate, I decided I needed a break from good. This morning I skip to: Ride a bicycle built for two.
Business is hopping at the Fun and Sun Rental Shop this sunny Sunday morning.
“I’d like to rent a tandem bike,” I tell the woman behind the counter.
“Sorry, I rented out our last tandem about half an hour ago. Can I interest you in a beach cruiser, caster board, or unicycle? We have so many choices.”
“No, thanks.”
I try Beach Bikes and Beyond, Toby & Trey’s Bike Emporium, and Cheap Wheels. All rent tandems, but all are sold out. The Del Rey boardwalk stretches three miles along the Pacific Ocean, and I stop at every shop that rents things with wheels. At mile two, one of my flip-flops breaks, and I toss them into the trash.
Near the end of the
It’s a good thing for both of us that I recognize the truth about this disturbing collision of our worlds. “Nate, I’m not your kind of girl,” I say, not unkindly.
He turns my hand over, so we’re palm to palm. The bewildered look gives way to something warmer. He inches closer, simultaneously pulling me toward him. “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide who my kind of girl is?”
“I don’t like shoes.”
“You have cute toes.” A dimple appears.
Shit. “I’m disruptive in math and don’t play nicely in sandboxes.”
“I’ll have my little brother say a Rosary for your soul.” Another dimple.
“Nate, I’m being serious.”
“Me, too.” His eyes are a dark, steamy chocolate, every hair on his head in place. Everything about Nate is perfect. He’s charming, smart, kind. Everyone likes him. And that’s the problem. I’m not everyone. I’m not good at sharing paint. I don’t know about tree-acquisition rules. I’m not one of the herd.
His fingers twine with mine. The heat must be burning off all the oxygen in the cab of the truck, because I’m light-headed.
A pair of headlights slashes across the windshield. Bronson pulls up in his red Mustang, which is filled with Nate’s sporto buddies. The muscles in Nate’s hand tense and harden. The Mustang lets loose a loud honk. Nate drops my hand and slides back to the driver’s side.
My lungs expand, and finally oxygen rushes to my brain.
I lunge for the passenger-side door. Nate doesn’t reach for me. Instead he stares at the roof liner of the truck. “Let me walk you to the door. It’s getting late.” No more dimples. No more steamy eyes.
Welcome back, Mr. Polite and Proper.
He’s also an ass.
I shake my head at my own asslike behavior. “I’m in a made-for-cable teen-angst movie.”
“Excuse me?”
I jerk my hand toward the Mustang. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“Why would you think that?”
My fingers fumble along the truck door for the handle. “On a deserted rocky shore or the dark cab of a pickup truck I’m fine for a quick grab and feel, but when your buddies show, I’m not the right kind of girl.” I find the handle and yank. The door groans open, and I stumble out of the truck.
NOVA WON’T GO, SO I WALK TO THE BEACH.
This morning there will be no dolphin watching or working on the sea-swallow nesting site.
Either would be a bad choice, as I might run into Nate. Running into Nate would mean I’d have to talk to Nate, and I’m not sure what I’d say to him.
We’re two separate species, Nate. You’re a member of Sporto Popularus, and I’m classified as Art Nerd Rebelum. No intermingling of species.
Or … When you lace your fingers with mine in a whisper of a touch, my heart booms and my pulse pounds, and I can’t breathe, therefore risking death by asphyxiation.
Or the ever popular and appropriate … Asshole.
Which is why I’m walking to the beach in search of the Del Rey Fun and Sun Rental Shop. Every item on the top half of Kennedy’s bucket list is of the do-gooder variety, and after last night in the truck with Nate, I decided I needed a break from good. This morning I skip to: Ride a bicycle built for two.
Business is hopping at the Fun and Sun Rental Shop this sunny Sunday morning.
“I’d like to rent a tandem bike,” I tell the woman behind the counter.
“Sorry, I rented out our last tandem about half an hour ago. Can I interest you in a beach cruiser, caster board, or unicycle? We have so many choices.”
“No, thanks.”
I try Beach Bikes and Beyond, Toby & Trey’s Bike Emporium, and Cheap Wheels. All rent tandems, but all are sold out. The Del Rey boardwalk stretches three miles along the Pacific Ocean, and I stop at every shop that rents things with wheels. At mile two, one of my flip-flops breaks, and I toss them into the trash.
Near the end of the
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