Perfect Couple

“How can you not remember putting your hand on a girl’s ass?” I insisted.

“I dated her on and off all summer. I’m sure I’ve put my hand on her ass plenty of times. This one instance doesn’t stand out.”

“I’ve dated Kennedy for six weeks and he’s never put his hand on my ass.”

“Kennedy is from another planet. That’s my only explanation for why he doesn’t see you’re hot.”

I frowned hard. When Mom caught me making that face, she warned me, only half-jokingly, that I’d better lighten up or I’d get wrinkles. I smoothed my brow and relaxed my jaw, then sighed. “You know I don’t have a lot of experience with this, Brody. If you’re lying to me, I wouldn’t get it.”

“You think I’d mislead you for fun?”

“For a little thrill, yeah.”

He gave me a slow, clear-eyed, disappointed look.

Then he picked up my hand and placed it on his shirt. His heart raced under my fingertips.

“That could be excitement from misleading you,” he acknowledged. “Or, just possibly, you turn me on.” He held my gaze as he leaned toward me.

I met him more than halfway. I kissed him. He uttered a soft groan and put his hands in my hair. His mouth was soft and warm and sweet. My whole body glowed so brightly that I decided Kaye and Tia had sold this making-out business a little short. It wasn’t just the addictive physical sensations, but also something that shifted inside me, in my heart.

He let me go, panting again. He rubbed his rough thumb back and forth across my bottom lip. “My God, Harper.”

“I’ll break up with Kennedy at school tomorrow,” I said hoarsely.

“Do you want me to be there?” Brody asked.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Kennedy’s never been into me. I doubt he’ll mind. He’ll probably feel relieved.”

“I seriously doubt that.” With a final sigh, Brody said, “I’d better go. Calculus calls, and if I’m out too late, my mom will call too.”

I scooted off the bed, then held out both hands to help him off—which was a joke. He probably weighed almost twice as much as me. I led him by the hand through the house and out to his truck behind the B & B.

“Now that I think about it,” I said, “how’d you know I live in the house out back instead of the big Victorian?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I knocked at the B & B first. One of your guests came down in a bathrobe and told me where you live.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll hear about how cute you are at the guests’ breakfast tomorrow.”

“Aw, shucks.” He laughed. “Speaking of tomorrow, will you come with me to Quarterback Club for dinner? It’s a bunch of old people who raise money for the team and invite someone from the community to speak about how violent sports enrich our lives.”

“Fun!”

“Yeah. The football players go, and their girlfriends, and the cheerleaders, so Kaye will be there.”

“And Grace,” I guessed.

“And Grace,” he agreed, “but I’m not with Grace.”

He didn’t add, I’m with you. But he didn’t have to. It was finally sinking in that I was the star quarterback’s girlfriend.

“By the way,” he said, opening the door of his truck, “do we still need to take a new Superlatives picture, or was that just a ploy to go out with me?”

“Both,” I admitted. “I wanted an excuse to see you again. But we do need to take another picture. The one from the Crab Lab doesn’t go with the others I’ve taken. We don’t have to do it tonight, though. We have time.”

And when I said this, I believed it was true.

12

THE NEXT MORNING, THE LOCAL TV news was tracking a hurricane headed for central Florida. Two rooms of guests in the B & B announced at breakfast that they were leaving. Mom explained that the hurricane wouldn’t hit us just because it was moving in our general direction. The storm was still five days away. Anything could happen before it made landfall. It could peter out, or stay strong but veer toward Alabama. If Floridians packed up and left every time a hurricane headed our way, we’d be gone from August to October.

The tourists weren’t convinced. The TV news had really done a number on them, pointing out that the Tampa Bay area was way overdue for a direct hit from some kind of Hurrigeddon. They packed their cars and hit the road right after breakfast, determined to make it out of town before everyone else got the same idea and the hurricane escape routes were immobilized with gridlock. Whatever.

The terror was infectious, though. At school, people were tense, talking about the coming storm and the Yankee transplants in town who’d decided to drive inland for a long weekend, just to play it safe. Maybe the charged atmosphere affected me, too, and that’s why I sounded so on edge when I told Kennedy during journalism class that I didn’t want to see him anymore. He sensed my weakness, and that’s why he said what he said next.

He crossed his arms and demanded, “Is it because of Brody?”

I glanced around the room. Mr. Oakley was out of town. His son played for the Gators, and he and his wife had driven to an away game up in Georgia. We had a sub who babysat for the school a lot. Her agenda was to spend the whole period texting on her phone unless someone actually started shouting, in which case she sent the offenders to Ms. Chen’s office.