Jock Row

What were we doing thirty minutes ago? “When we were eating?”

“Yes, Scarlett—you’re so unbelievably sexy when you inhale noodles.” Rowdy’s lips pucker and he sharply inhales, impersonating my noodle suckage, the sound it makes, and the sour look on my face when I eat them.

I cock my head, tapping my chin with the tip of my forefinger. “Why, Rowdy Wade, I was going to say the same thing about the way you eat chicken. Nom nom nom.”

I smack my lips like Cookie Monster then tip my head back, pantomiming the way he dumped the carton into his mouth.

“You’re so goddamn cute right now.” He laughs.

I was just going to say the same thing about you.

I cast my eyes downward, kicking at the ground, afraid to give myself away. “You’re just saying that because you like food.”

His hesitation is long. “Sure I am.”

I lift my head. “Was that you flirting with me?”

“Do you think I’m flirting with you?”

“Would you stop doing that? Answering questions with questions? The Sigmund Freud routine is getting stale.” Although, it does make me wonder… “Are you trying to reverse-psychology me into flirting with you?”

“No—but dang, why haven’t I thought of that? I’m going to keep that idea in my back pocket.”

“You do that, slip it right into that back pocket of yours.”

A few people drift out of the house, screen door banging against the frame with a clatter. I slip my cell out of my coat, waking it to check the time.

Nearly midnight. Holy crap.

I stop swinging. Stretch. “I really should get going.”

“Yeah, I should too.” Rowdy rises with me, stuffing those big paws into the deep pockets of his jacket. “It was really fucking cool that you brought food tonight. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

“You need a ride, or…”

“No, I’m good. It’s not far.” I pull at my knit hat, securing it over my ears. “You should probably, you know, make sure everything is copacetic inside.”

“All right then.” Both of us are hedging, shuffling our feet. “Night, Scarlett.” He hesitates. “See you next week?”

I bury my chin inside my coat, bury the fact that I’m grinning. “We’ll see.”

We both know I’ll be here.

FOURTH FRIDAY

“The Friday Where I Put Moist Things in my Mouth.”

Rowdy

The first female voice drifts down the street at a high volume, and I lean farther over the railing to listen better.

“Did it occur to you that maybe he’s not her type? Why are you nagging at her?”

“Read my lips: You. Are. Insane. That boy is everyone’s type.”

“Not her type? Are you being serious right now? Rowdy Wade is so fucking hot.” That voice is definitely not Scarlett’s. “If he paid me even the slightest bit of attention, I’d get pregnant just by looking at him. I can’t believe you haven’t slept with him.”

“Or,” the first voice continues, “maybe he’s just not that into you?”

“God I loved that movie,” yet another voice cuts in, this one distinctively Scarlett’s. “I bet I’ve seen it seventy times.”

“Look at you. I swear, Scarlett, you wear shit like that on purpose.”

“It’s cold out!”

“Bet Rowdy could keep you warm. Once the clothes come off, it hardly matters what you left the house wearing.”

Jesus Christ, why are they so loud?

If I can hear every word, no doubt the fucking neighbors can, too.

Nevertheless, I chuckle, listening to the banter coming my direction from down the sidewalk. The girls are loud enough I hear them before I see them—chattering and laughing, declarations echoing down the very quiet street, the usual weekend activity having been moved to a different location.

There is no party here tonight.

The girls are earlier than usual, clomping down the street in heels, with purpose, shrouded in the dark until they’re illuminated under the first set of streetlamps.

There are five of them, all trussed up like miniature streetwalkers.

Correction: all but one. One of them stands out in the crowd of tight dresses and high heels. Only one of them isn’t heavily made up; all but one stomps in high heels, clicking and determined against the concrete.

Scarlett draws in all my attention in her black and white Chucks, thick winter coat, and black leggings, tote bag slung over one shoulder.

Who would have fucking thought?

I stand straighter at the sight of that bag, wondering what’s inside, my stomach as interested as my eyes just became. I know it’s food because she’s too fucking sweet, and I’m excited. The anticipation has my gut rumbling.

Scarlett’s recognizable laugh rings out for the second time, unabashed and drifting up the block toward the house, making me smile. Making me anxiously shake out the palms of my hands.

Too much nervous energy, I muse, dismissing the actions. I missed my run this morning, that’s all. Nothing else to it.

One hundred feet.

Eighty.

Thirty more. Come on, come on.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, hands crammed in the pockets of my jeans.

Ten feet.

Five.

Her hair is screwed up into two buns atop her head, and as they get even closer, I make out furry earmuffs pulled down over her ears. They’re black, the fur wispy, lightly grazing her cheeks.

The buns and the earmuffs? A goddamn adorable combination.

I could eat her up.

My smile broadens—Scarlett is dressed for a trip to the Arctic Circle, clearly not giving a shit what anyone thinks of her, halting to a stop behind her friends when our eyes finally meet. Stops at the edge of the yard, her tennis shoes stalled at the edge of the walkway, hands hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder.

She props it on her hips and stares back.

Wiggles her brows.

My hands come out of hibernation when I lean forward to brace them on the bannister railing.

One of her friends giggles, high-pitched and way too enthusiastic. “Are you the official welcoming committee now?”

“Something like that.”

Everyone, including Scarlett, is giving their attention to the house behind me, obvious confusion falling on their expressions like fans doing the wave in the stands at a baseball game. And it’s no wonder—the lights inside are off, it’s eerily quiet, and no one is home.

“Where is everyone?” one of the blondes asks, biting down on a hot pink bottom lip. “Why is the house so dark?”

I lift my palms with no offering. “No party tonight.”

Protests of disappointment follow. “But we walked all the way over here—”

“—and my feet are already killing me—”

I interrupt them both. “Party has been moved to the Lambda house, ladies. The night isn’t over yet.”

Someone clears her throat. Another gets nudged in the back, stumbling forward a few feet.

“Are you coming out tonight, Rowdy?” the beautiful Latina blurts out, unable to stop herself. “You can walk with us.”

I glance down at Scarlett to gauge her reaction, our eyes meeting over four perfectly coiffed heads. Silently, she and I regard each other, and I can’t tell in this light what she could possibly be thinking.

“Yeah. I’ll walk over with you.”

I tell myself I’m only doing it to be chivalrous, and because anything can happen between point A and point B, regardless of the safety in numbers system. But, the truth is, I don’t live in the baseball house and had no reason to be loitering on the front porch.

I don’t bother checking to see if the door behind me is locked, or if all the lights are turned off, or if anyone is squatting inside.

Instead, I bound down the stairs to Scarlett’s side, giving her a playful bump with my shoulder, the contact of our bodies making the pit of my stomach turn over despite the heavy jackets separating our skin.

I shiver and obviously need to check myself, because this shit with her is getting so fucking weird.

Shaking off whatever the hell that electric spark was, I help steer the group to the left, down the walkway toward Greek Row. The large houses loom in the foreground, lit up, music so loud the bass can be heard several blocks over. From here, I can see people spilling onto the lawn of the Lambda house, and the desire to head home is strong.