Page 18 of Mr. Picture Perfect
My mom had been home all day. She didn’t even know what had almost happened to me, to her own son. The last thing I wanted to do was inspire an emotional breakdown in my mother thinking her son almost died today.She’ll find out with everyone else when the story comes out, I had decided. She thinks I’m just going to the Strongs’ for a “newspaper thing”, which isn’t actually a lie.
“Are you quite sure I can’t whip you up a lovely pie or a fresh batch of some adorable Puff-Tootin’ Tarts to take over?”
I could not nor would I dare ask what in the hell Puff-Tootin’ Tarts were. But I was quite sure they had faces, and I immediately wanted nothing to do with them. “N-No thank you, Mom.”
As I headed out the door, she gave me a kiss on the forehead. Burton was already waiting for me, impatiently honking his horn from the curb. “Tell Miss Nadine I said hi!” she hollered out from the front step, nearly chirping.
The whole way out to the Strongs’, Burton sang. I tried to ask him if he knew what the event tonight was about, but was quickly drowned out when he belted (and sustained) a surprisingly high note—which even I must admit was quite impressive and pleasing to the ears. I was left staring at the countryside the whole way.
As soon as we pulled up to the Strong residence and got out of the car, we were met by Tamika, who arrived far ahead of us and had a lot of questions. “So are we running the story from today? Are wenotrunning the story? Why did we stop everything just to come out here for snacks? Did something else happen?”
“Nadine’s got an idea,” sang Burton happily—and cryptically—on his way to the front door. Tamika and I shared a look.
Needless to say, even half an hour later, I still know next to nothing about the reason for us all gathering here. Everyone is standing around the kitchen island with plates of finger foods in their hands. The conversation is flowing—mercifully without any contribution from me, as I am lingering in the back of the living room watching Billy and Tanner’s kids play a video game on the big TV. I recognize the game and have never seen it on such a big screen, so my mind is at once trapped by the far-more-appealing activity of watching the kids play. What sane person would choose anxiety-filled and awkward conversation over watching awesome video games on an enormous TV?
“Not hungry?”
I turn. Cole Harding stands next to me.
Even at a casual gathering like this, Cole looks like he walked right off the cover of a magazine, in his light denim jacket and pair of jeans that fit his legs like they were stitched right onto them.
But it’s more than just how he looks. Or how his lips hang in anticipation of my answer. The way his eyes search mine—curious, attentive, dazzling.
It’s how close he stands. How confidently he approaches me, a guy like him, a guy who already demands such attention when he enters a room, and how he gives me a hundred percent of himself whenever he speaks.
That kind of attention is something I’ve never known.
Not even at home.
“Or is it the selection?” he asks, and my eyes are on his lips as they move. The way they curl just at one corner when he finishes a question, still hanging open ever so slightly. He says something else, too, but suddenly I’m not focused on the words. Just his lips. Just his smooth, shapely, clever lips as they move.
They’re so close to me, too. Did I mention that? Did I mention how close he is to me?
My heart pounds so noisily, I can’t even hear the video game anymore. When his lips curl up, his smooth cheeks turn pink, just a little bit, and his eyes seem to sparkle with interest.
Why is he being so attentive?
Is he like this with everyone? Isn’t it exhausting, to give so much of yourself to other people every day?
Maybe I’m reading too much into this. He just feels obligated to check on me. That’s what it is. As if the incident today has given him a sense of responsibility over me. Or maybe it’s that he thinks I’m always in danger. Like if he wasn’t here right now, the Strong living room ceiling fan might fall on top of my head. Somehow, just his mere presence is protecting me.
Hasn’t he done enough?
Not to mention the pressure of wondering how I’m supposed to repay him for today. Have I ever even been in a situation like this before, being indebted to someone? What do normal people do? Do I buy him chocolates? Tylenol?
“Noah?”
I realize I still haven’t said anything. “I’m, uh …” I think I just swallowed my own tongue. I cough, clear my throat, then nod at the TV. “Just thought I’d …” I run out of words, give up on being a human being, and turn back to the game.
Cole’s voice is soft. “Oh … o-okay.”
He says nothing more. We stand there side-by-side, watching the kids play for a while.
But my concentration is consumed by Cole’s presence. I can’t hope to focus one bit on the video game when he’s standing here, looking the way he is, standing as close as he is, breathing and moving his lips and doing all those distracting, heart-toying sorts of things he seems to do so naturally.
“So, um …” I clear my throat again. “How’s your arm?”
Cole seems confused by the question at first. “Oh, right! This. I guess I owe you an explanation, huh? Forgot that the last time you saw me, I was passed out on Main Street.” He makes a funny face. “That was …nota great first impression to leave you with. Acting all big and confident one second, then … flat as a pancake.”
