Page 3 of Batty About You
“Our mothers would be besties.”
“They so would. Like mother, like son.”
“Well. I don’t think they’d havequitethe same relationship as we do. Do you?” That breathy, sensual note that makes me hard is back in her voice.
I’m a horny college student. A virgin college student. Kelly probably—
I can’t think about that. We’ve written every month, and our letters and postcards have become emails, texts, and, finally, phone calls. I know she went to prom with someone. I know she hasn’t told me everything, and it’s none of my business... but I feel sick at the thought of someone else being with her.
Do her little hints mean that she’s more than just a sweet, flirty friend?
Time to break curses and map out my own destiny. This is America, where big cities shake off superstitions.
I hope.
“You’re right.” I make my voice as firm and commanding as possible, mentally telling myself to avoid words that’ll make me sound like a snake. “I don’t think they’d be as devoted as I am. Don’t think they’ve been dreaming of this moment.”
“Oh. Oh, Bogdan.”
“Kelly. I’m sorry I’ve always avoided meeting. It was distance, and money, and also... well. You’ve sent me your picture.” Kelly’s ultra-strict parents always kept her off of social media and only let her have an old-fashioned flip phone for most of her life, but I’ve seen her senior picture and a few since then. “I know how gorgeous you are.”
“Stop.”
“No, let me finish.”Damn it.I swallow the long, drawn-outsssI didn’t intend to release. “I’m not handsome. I don’t deserve a beautiful, talented, incredible girl like you. I’m happy and thankful just to be your friend, but—”
“But I want you to be more,” she supplies.
I swallow, nodding slowly. “Right. That’s what I want.”
“No. Boggie... I’m saying that. I want us to be more. I’ve been waiting for you to come see me. And... I know this makes me sound like a super creepy stalker, but I’ve been on your high school’s website and scanning every orchestra and band picture I could find. You’re one of the ten oboe players your school has had over the past four years—and since most of them have been girls... Well, let’s just say that I know you’re either adorable and pale with bushy eyebrows, a really hot guy with dreads and a nose ring, or a picture-perfect preppy white boy. I’m willing to work with any one of those options.” She ends with an adorable giggle.
“I’m the bushy one.” I look at my arms and chest, now covered in soft, thick brown fur. “I’ve got fur.”
“Novio, all the men in my family are growing full mustaches at thirteen—and some of the women are, too.”
“I would love you even if you had a full beard, Kelly,” I blurt.
Ohhh, God. Why??
My mother told me that Halloween was the day that I had to guard against, that old, dark magic would be at play, that evil forces would vie for my soul. (Evil forces are apparently catnip to some of my ancestors, and vice versa.)
She didn’t tell me I would be a romantic time bomb on any random day in October.
Kelly’s gasp lingers in my ear. I work up an apology—which is hard to do when you don’t want to say the letter S, and “I’m sorry” and “I apologize” both have that fatal sound.
“I would love you if you were bald or looked like Bigfoot,” she replies, another soft, adorable giggle melting me. “And... I’m glad about the mustache thing. I know it’s going to happen at some point. I’m going to be the kind of woman who needs to get lasered.”
I look down at myself. “Or we could just be natural together. I always feel like things just happen naturally between us.”
“Well, that’s true. I was so worried about writing to a stranger. What kind of sadist thinks an awkward and shy teenager is going to be able to write more than two sentences to some cute high school boy she’s never met?”
“You thought I was cute?”
“Yes!”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me you looked up my picture?” I demand.
“So you didn't think I was a stalker and dump me. I mean... Damn.” Kelly heaves a huge sigh. “Okay, so I used to tell the mean girls at the bus stop that I had a boyfriend, and of course, I told them it was you. I never showed them your picture—because I didn’t know which oboist was really you, but I talked about you all the time. My family thinks... My sisters think I’m in love with you,” she whispers. “Because I talk about you allthe time. And we’ve been writing to each other for seven years, which is literally a third of my life. Also, you’re the one guy my parents like.”
