Chapter 8: Grayson

When the final bell of the day rings, I rush out of class and straight to Isabelle’s locker. I can’t shake the image of her face during lunch when she saw me sitting with Brit. And I couldn’t help but notice Isabelle and Cam barely spoke. She’s not at her locker when I arrive, so I wait. A moment later, she strolls down the hallway. My heart races at the sight of her.

“Adding stalking to your list of crimes?” she asks.

“After attempted murder, what’s a little stalking among friends?”

She steps around me to get to her locker. “Well, I suppose it’s good the severity of your offenses is going down.”

I shift so I’m leaning against the locker next to hers. She’s doing everything in her power not to look at me. Her face is flushed, and her eyes are puffy, as if she’s been crying. My chest constricts. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just…I got a lot of stuff going on. That’s all.” She opens her locker and rummages around inside.

I wait until she finishes, and when she closes the door, I hand her a sheet of paper I pulled out of my backpack. This isn’t the reason I sought her out, but I suddenly feel like I need an excuse to be here.

“What’s this?” She looks at the paper and then up at me, finally.

“Notes for our Spanish project. I had a free period, so I worked on it.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “I figure it'll be easier for you to do your part if you have my notes.”

“Oh.” She looks down at the paper again. “Thanks.”

“Sure. You heading home now?”

“Yeah. You?”

I nod, and we walk out to the student parking lot. “So, about today at lunch…” I take a calming breath. “I hope you’re not mad that I sat with Brit. She—”

Isabelle holds up her hand to stop me, and I shut my mouth. “It’s…whatever. It’s fine. You can sit with whoever you want.”

“I know, but you didn’t look too happy, and considering you’re the first friend I made here…” I’m rambling. I’m not sure I’ve ever rambled in front of a girl before.

“I wasn’t happy,” she says, “but it wasn’t because you were sitting with Brittany.”

“Right.” I nod like I understand, but I don’t. I wait, hoping she’ll tell me what’s going on. She’s silent for the remainder of our walk, though, and disappointment weighs heavily on my shoulders. I wish she would confide in me.

“That’s my car.” She points to a blue compact car. “Thanks for walking with me.”

“Someone’s got to make sure you don’t get yourself run over.”

“You’re not behind the wheel, so I’m perfectly safe.” She nudges me.

I laugh and stop beside her car. She tosses her bag into the backseat and then stands near the driver’s side door, fidgeting with her keys. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she wants to hang out—I don’t care where we go as long as I’m with her—but I have to stop myself. She has a boyfriend, and I can’t cross that line, even if we are only friends.

“Drive safe,” I say.

She sighs, and her shoulders droop. “You too.”

Once her car is out of sight, I search for my bike, praying there isn’t a parking ticket stuck to it, or worse, that it’s been towed. Thankfully, it’s right where I left it, no ticket attached. I climb on and drive home. When I pull into the driveway, Dad’s truck is parked near the garage. Wow, he’s already home? That’s a change.

I head inside. “Dad, I’m home.”

“Oh, hey, Grays.” He’s still in his work clothes, which have more grease stains than not. His hair is sweaty and sticks to his temples. “I’m jumping in the shower, then how about you and go grab dinner somewhere?”

“Sure. Sounds good. Hey, care if we go to Parker’s Pizza? I know we had it last night, but I wanna ask about a job.”

“You want to get a job?” Dad’s voice is thick with disbelief.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Delivering pizzas?”

I shrug. I thought he’d be happy I wanted a job. Why’s he being weird about this?

“That’s going to be kind of hard on a motorcycle, don’t ya think?” He raises a brow and gives me a stern look.

Uh…I hadn’t really thought about that. “Why can’t I just use your truck?”

“No way I’m letting you beat on my truck for some part-time job. Uh-uh.”

I drop my backpack on the coffee table. “I’m not gonna beat on your truck.”

“Besides, you have to be eighteen to deliver pizzas.”

“Okay, so then I’ll do something else. I don’t care.”

“The answer is no, Grays. End of discussion.” He tilts his head in that don’t-you-dare-argue-with-me way.

I sigh. “Yes, sir.”

With a nod, he heads toward the shower. Fuming, I take my bag upstairs and gently set it on my bedroom floor. I debate changing my shirt then decide against it before heading back down to the living room to wait for Dad.

An hour later, we end up at Parker’s Pizza. I half expect a normal pizza joint with uncomfortable tables and booths, but Parker’s is so much more. It has a full menu along with a pizza and salad buffet, an arcade complete with a fully stocked prize counter, and large, flatscreen televisions placed strategically throughout the dining room.

“Looks like we get dinner and entertainment tonight,” Dad says, slapping me on the back.

“Yeah, I guess.” I glance around again, taking everything in. Maybe I can get a job as a waiter instead of delivering pizzas—that should make Dad more receptive to the idea of me getting a part-time job.

“Welcome to Parker’s. Oh, hey, Grayson,” Vick says.

“Hey,” I say, giving him a nod. “Vick, this is my dad, William. Dad, this is Vick. He’s a friend from school.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dad shakes Vick’s hand, and they exchange pleasantries.

I want to ask Vick if I can talk to his boss, but after the way Dad reacted, I figure it’s best to keep my mouth shut until I talk to Dad about other options. I tune them out and look around the restaurant. My eyes widen at the sight of a head full of familiar reddish-brown hair. Is that really Isabelle? I can’t be absolutely certain without seeing her face, but every instinct I have is telling me it's her. What are the odds?

“You two can sit wherever you want. Plates are on the buffet, and here are your cups.” Vick sets two plastic cups on the counter.

“Thanks.” Dad pays for our food, hands me a cup, and then makes a beeline for the buffet.

“We should find a table first.” I head for the dining room before he can object. The place is busy, and a lot of the tables are occupied so I wander around for a moment, intentionally making my way past Isabelle’s table.

“Grayson?” she says.

Play it cool. Smiling, I stop in front of her table. “Oh, hey, Isabelle.”

“What’re you doing here?” She shifts, and her gaze darts around nervously.

“Having dinner with my dad. You?”

“Same.” She nods at the older gentleman sitting across from her. “Dad, this is Grayson Alexander. He’s new to school. This is my dad, Dennis.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say. My dad stops beside me. “This is my dad, William. Dad this is Isabelle Carson and her dad, Dennis. Isabelle and I go to school together.”

“Why am I not surprised that the first friend you make is a pretty young woman?” Dad laughs, and I glare at him.

Isabelle’s cheeks turn pink.

“It’s nice to meet both of you,” Dad says. “And now we’ll leave you to eat in peace.” He nudges me, but I don’t move right away.

“Why don’t you two join us?” Dennis offers. “Come on, Isabelle. Move over here next to me.”

I wait for her to object, but she doesn’t. She picks up her drink, plate, and silverware and moves to sit next to her father. Dad and I sit across from them. Isabelle’s gaze is focused on her half-eaten food. Is she upset we’re sitting here? Should I offer to find another table? Dad is already talking with Dennis about work and football and how we’re adjusting to life in Michigan.

“Excuse me, I’m going to get some food.” I stand with my cup in hand. I make my way to the buffet, grab a plate, and pile it with food. Then, I fill my cup with soda. On my way back to the table, I pass my dad, who is on his way to get seconds. My stomach does a flip at the realization I have to sit with Isabelle and her dad—alone—until my father gets back. This should be interesting. I sit and dig into my food. Maybe if I keep stuffing my mouth, her dad won’t ask me any difficult questions.

After a couple moments of tense silence, Dennis asks, “So, how are you liking Michigan so far?”

“I like it a lot.” I take a sip of soda. “It’s a lot like New York with the weather and stuff.”

“I’ve been to New York several times for work. Nice place.” Dennis nods.

Thankfully, my dad returns, and he and Dennis resume their conversation, taking the focus off me. Isabelle’s head is still down, but she’s no longer eating. She’s staring at her lap. What on earth is she looking at? A second later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Isabelle sent me a chat request on TTYN—Talk to You Now—a popular messaging app. I accept and read her message. awkward much?

Her username is BibleBelle, and that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. just following your lead.

“How many times have I told you? No cell phones while we’re eating.” Dad gives me a stern look.

“Sorry, sir.” I clear my throat and tuck my phone back into my pocket.

“Kids these days.” He shakes his head.

“Want to go to the arcade?” I ask Isabelle.

She turns to her dad, and he nods. “Let’s go.” She stands and tosses her napkin on her plate.

I follow her into the arcade, and other than a couple of younger kids playing a basketball game, the place is empty. I pull a twenty out of my wallet and feed it into the token machine; then I divide the tokens equally between us.

“So, what game do you want to lose first?” I ask.

“Well, considering you’re going to be the loser, you pick.”

She’s smart, funny, beautiful, and she’s competitive, too? Is there anything about this girl that isn’t perfect for me?

“All right. That one.” I point to a motorcycle racing game.

“That’s not fair. I’ve never driven a motorcycle. You have.”

“I’ll give you a lesson before we start. Deal?”

Isabelle narrows her eyes as if trying to figure out if I’m lying or trying to trick her. “Okay. Deal.”

The game is set up so there are two bikes contained within a dome structure. She climbs on one and drops two tokens into the slots to get the game started.

“Scoot forward.” I motion with my hands for her to move. When she does, I swing my leg over the seat and settle in behind her. These bikes are intended for only one person, so there’s not much room.

She chooses one player, and the game starts. I place my hands over hers on the handlebars. Her hands are softer than I expected.

“This button makes you go, and this one makes you stop,” I explain.

Nodding, she pushes the button to go, and on the screen, the bike lurches. She yelps and slams on the brake button.

I laugh. “It’s just a game, Belle. Relax.”

She twists her head to look at me. “I guess just Belle is better than Belle the Bible Thumper.”

“Then, from now on, you’re just Belle.” I grin.

Her gaze drops to my mouth, but then she quickly turns her attention back to the game. “All right, so what am I supposed to do on this stupid game?”

I blow out a breath, but my heart is still racing so hard and fast, I’m convinced she can feel it. “The trick is to find your center of gravity and use it. Sitting upright puts you off balance. Lean forward.” I gently push her forward until she’s in the right position. “Good.” I once again cover her hands with mine. “Now, press the go button.”

She does, and the bike on the screen takes off quickly down the straight road. Ahead, a curve looms. I don’t say anything because I want to see what she’ll do. She cranks the handlebars to the right, and the bike wipes out. I laugh, and she playfully elbows me.

“What did I do wrong?” she asks.

“You’re driving like it’s a car. It’s not. You need to use your body.”

She continues the game, and this time, when she approaches the curve, I move my hands to her waist. I have no business touching her at all, let alone like this, but I can’t deny how nice it feels.

“Lean into the turn,” I say, guiding her body to the right. “And then straighten.”

She does exactly as I say, and she maneuvers the turn like a pro. I watch over her shoulder while she continues the race. This close, the scent of her floral perfume wraps around me, and I inhale deeply.

The race ends, and she comes in sixth place. She straightens, bringing her back flush to my chest. “Good job, just Belle."

She gathers her hair and drapes it over her right shoulder then twists her head to the left, so we’re face to face. “Thanks for the lesson.”

“You’re welcome.” My voice cracks, and I momentarily freeze at our proximity. My gaze lingers on her mouth, my thoughts consumed with kissing her. “You’re a fast learner.”

“Well, you’re a good teacher.” She smiles.

I feign shock. “Is that a compliment?”

“Nope.” She laughs.

“Of course not. Want another practice run?”

“No, I think I got it.”

“You sure?” I raise a brow.

She hesitates and rubs her palms on her jeans, grazing her hand over mine, and I instinctively tighten my grip on her. Her sharp intake of breath sets my heart racing.

“I got this,” she says.

“All right. Your loss.” Reluctantly, I get off her bike and climb onto the other one.

Isabelle scoots back and wiggles on the seat like she’s trying to get comfortable. She’s got a boyfriend. She’s got a boyfriend. She’s got a boyfriend… I focus on getting the game started. She beats me off the starting line, but I quickly and easily pass her. I’m in the zone, hyper focused and determined to win. But then there’s a tap on my rear wheel, and I spin out of control. Isabelle zooms past me.

I glance over, and she’s giggling like crazy.

“You’re such a cheater,” I say.

She laughs harder. A moment later, she crosses the finish line—in first place. She pumps her fists and lets out a victorious whoop. I shake my head, but I can’t stop smiling. Even if she did cheat to win, I don’t care. Seeing her like this—face flushed, eyes sparkling, hair a mess, and happy—is so much better than winning any game.