Very Wicked Things

I twisted my lips, feeling like he was putting too much pressure on me, just after he’d offered me money and I’d accepted. The silence bloomed bigger and bigger between us, and I just wanted it to end. I wanted my Spider back.

When in doubt, deny.

“Let’s go eat somewhere,” I announced. “How about Italian?”

He sighed, but then grinned, his shoulders dipping as he turned to me. “Vespucci’s sound good?”

Vespucci’s had been my first date with Cuba. But he didn’t matter. “Sounds great.”

Fifteen minutes later, we walked in to a packed restaurant.

He clasped my hand on the way to our table, and I let it ride, anxious to see where it led and how it made me feel. I mean, we’d held hands lots of times, but this smacked of something deeper.

And so. The waitress took us to our seats. Right next to Cuba and Emma’s table.

I stopped mid-stride, causing Spider to bump into me. He quickly apologized, then slid his eyes over to where mine stared.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Can we sit somewhere else?” he asked the hovering waitress.

She shrugged, looking around at the full tables. “It’s a Friday night. This is it.”

He turned to me. Letting me pick. “You wanna get out of here or stay?”

Cuba glanced up, a flicker of pleasure on his face as our eyes met. But when he saw my hand in Spider’s, he stiffened and glared.

“We’re staying,” I told Spider.

“I forgot you guys came here,” he murmured. “You sure?”

“Italian food trumps ex-boyfriends every time,” I muttered, sliding into the red vinyl booth.

The waitress stuck the menus under our noses and flounced off in her tailored black and white uniform. I studied the list of food, not seeing any of it really.

I tried to not look at them. I wasn’t successful.

And Cuba wasn’t either, because he stared at me way too long for it to be casual.

When Spider’s phone suddenly rang, he mouthed it was his father, and got up to take the call in the lobby. Leaving me alone.

I sneaked a glance at Cuba, not surprised to see he was making quick work of a filet. He was a big guy. Emma, who seemed unnaturally pale, ate plain pasta. Odd.

And because I couldn’t help myself, I tuned out the conversations to the left of me, focusing instead on Cuba and Emma’s seemingly intense discussion.

“…when did the doctor…” Cuba murmured, his voice going in and out.

“…ultrasound…only six weeks give or take…” she mumbled.

What? Ultrasound? But that would mean…no way.

“…tell parents tonight…” he said.

“…don’t leave me…” she sniffed, weepy-like.

Not what I expected. And confusing. But I wasn’t slow, and as I recalled the way they’d been whispering at school and combined it with the conversation here, I came to an inevitable, horrible conclusion.

I sank down in the booth, legs weak, arms like jelly, and my chest aching.

And no. Just no. This couldn’t be happening.

Why did I care?

Because it was final, the huge THE END for me and him.

And as that thought settled in, I felt paper-thin, like a small breeze could blow me away and rip me apart, spreading bits of me all over the place.

I leaned my head back against the booth and closed my eyes. How perfectly fitting to find out Emma was pregnant at this restaurant. And even though I didn’t want to remember the night he’d brought me here, it all came back…

He’d sat down with me at lunch the next day after I’d left his jacket on his Porsche, an expectant look on his face.

“What?” I’d snipped, trying to eat. Again. “You didn’t think I’d give in that easily did you? Guys give me their jackets all the time.”

He smirked. “Just enjoying the chase is all, Dovey. I like it.”

My patience evaporated, and I leaned over the table, invading his space this time. “Catch a clue. I am not interested. Capisce.”

He gave me a heavy-lidded look, “Ah, Italian. Which reminds me, there’s this restaurant called Vespucci’s. Would you like to go sometime?”

I stood. Too much. I wanted to say yes, and it frightened me. “Thank you but no.”

He followed me as I walked to class, and once again the entire female population watched us leave. And, I let him walk with me, his gait seeming to match mine. Spider was still in detention, so I didn’t have anyone else to keep me company.

The next three days were the same, him sitting at my lunch table, me talking in monosyllables, and then him walking me to class. I blew him off at the door each time, not giving him a chance to hand over his jacket or suggest I wait for him after football practice.

Slowly but steadily though, I got used to him sitting across from me, his hungry gaze watching every move I made, like I fascinated him. When he wasn’t paying attention, I’d run my eyes over him, taking in the bunched muscles and messy hair.

But, like a dangerous jungle cat, he played me.

On Friday, and after the fifth day of him pursuing me, he didn’t show as usual. I got antsy, my eyes searching the cafeteria, looking for him. He wasn’t at the jock table or in line for lunch. But, I knew he was at school because he’d cornered me first thing when I walked in the door this morning, asking if he could borrow my notes from class. Cuba had perfect notes. And he knew that I knew he had perfect notes. It was just his way of getting up close to me.