Rhymes With Cupid (13 page)

“Yeah, no problem,” he said. “Actually, I was glad you called.” I clenched my hands into tight fists, determined not to point out that I hadn’t, in fact, called him. I’d called Dina, who just so happened to have him on the other line. “Do you have ten minutes to come back to RecordRunner with me? I was just talking to Dina and we couldn’t agree on which music we liked. I was trying to play her some tracks over the phone, but she couldn’t hear very well with all the hair dryer noise at the salon. I’m helping her put together a playlist for the party,” he explained.

“Oh,” I said, my mind racing. So
that’s
why he’d been talking to Dina. That was good. It meant he and Dina would be spending time on the phone and in person over the next few days . . . talking, bonding, listening to romantic songs together. It couldn’t hurt. Maybe, I even let myself speculate, he’d come to pick me up as a favor to Dina. Maybe he
already
liked her and was trying to impress her by looking out for her best friend. My anger at his whole knight-in-shining-armor routine started to melt away. “That’s really nice of you to do the music for Dina’s party. Sure. I’ve got time, I guess. I can help.”

As soon as we got to RecordRunner, Patrick set to work. He borrowed a stool from one of the cashiers and pulled it up to a listening station for me; then he started lining up the songs on the digital sampling screen. “Okay, here’s the deal,” he said, standing behind me. I couldn’t help noticing how, when he reached out to touch the screen, his arms brushed my shoulders. “I’ll play you the first thirty seconds of each one. You say yes or no. We’re done in ten minutes.” He clapped a pair of giant, puffy earphones over my head and put on a matching set before pulling up a stool beside me, so close our knees almost touched.

“Uh-uh,” I said, about ten seconds into the first song. It was some nauseating top-40 thing full of “baby, baby I love you” stuff. “No. No. No.” We went through the next three. He vetoed the fourth before I even had the chance.

“Céline Dion should be banned,” he said. I laughed.

“I couldn’t agree more. Her songs make me want to throw up a little in my mouth. Okay. This one’s a yes,” I said finally. It was Nat King Cole and his daughter singing “Unforgettable.” “Yes again,” I said to Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.” “I’ve always loved this song. I love everything by Van Morrison.”

“You like the classics, eh?” Patrick said. “You’ve got good taste.”

I blushed at his compliment, even though it was silly. I mean,
everybody
who’s heard “Brown Eyed Girl” likes it.

We both agreed on a few Surely Sarah songs, and a bunch of stuff by the Doors. “You forgot ‘Gloria,’” I pointed out as we neared the bottom of the list, reminding him of the song he’d made oatmeal cookies and spatula-danced to. “That’s, like, the rock-and-roll anthem of all time.”

He smacked himself on the forehead so hard that he nearly fell backward off his stool. Without thinking, I reached out a hand to steady him. “Thanks,” he said, laughing at himself as he sat up straight again. It took me a second to realize that I was still touching him, and I quickly dropped my arm.

“Oh no,” I said, turning my attention back to the list of songs on the screen in front of us. “You
do
realize what we’ve just done, right?” He followed my gaze and scanned the screen. About twenty songs on the list had a red strike through them, to show we’d rejected them, and the genre listed beside almost all of them was “soft rock” or “pop.”

“We just took out absolutely every song that Dina requested,” he said, his eyes going wide as he got my drift.

“Except that one.” I pointed out a lame top-40 love song by a band called SugarPop Baby that we’d somehow forgotten to cut.

“Okay,” he said. “How can we fix this?” The look on his face was so sweet; so worried when he thought about hurting Dina’s feelings like that I almost wanted to throw my arms around him and hug him for being so thoughtful . . . but, obviously, I restrained myself.

“It’s not going to be easy,” I said, scanning the list instead, “but we can do this. We just need to pick the least bad ones.”

We started at the very first song again, scoring each of them on a scale of one to ten, where tens were decent, if cheesy, and ones were so sappy they might induce involuntary retching.

“Seriously, Britney Spears?” I said when he suggested keeping “E-mail My Heart,”
a little-known song off her first album.

“Hey,” Patrick said, “in case you haven’t heard, she’s making a comeback. But ‘Lady in Red’?” he challenged in return.

“Trust me,” I assured him. “Dina loves that song.” He hit accept.

Our only real disagreement came when Patrick wanted to include Phil Collins’s “Against All Odds.” “We can’t,” I groaned.

“Why not? Dina put it on the list with a star beside it.” He showed me a piece of loose-leaf paper with Dina’s unmistakable loopy handwriting on it. The I’s were all dotted with little hearts that had smiley faces in them.

“It just . . .” I stalled, not sure what to say. Dina had told me the story a million times about how that song had come on the radio once, and Damien had asked her to slow dance to it even though they were just alone in her bedroom. She always finished by saying it was the sweetest thing ever and she’ll always cherish the memory. Usually by the end of retelling it, she’d be wiping tears from her eyes and honking her nose into a Kleenex. But I couldn’t tell Patrick that. He might think she was still in love with Damien and lose hope. “It might . . . make her sad,” I said. “Because she likes that song, but she’ll have nobody to dance with.”

Patrick shrugged, like he couldn’t figure out what the big deal was. “I’ll ask her to dance when it comes on,” he said, like it was that simple. And maybe it was. I bit at my lip, not sure why tears had suddenly sprung to my own eyes. I was happy for my friend, after all—for both of my friends. Maybe it was because Patrick was so thoughtful . . . so careful about Dina’s feelings and so willing to include the songs she loved on the playlist, even though he hated them. He treated her so differently from the way Matt Love had treated me. Maybe I was just jealous I’d never found that kind of love.

Patrick hit print on the screen and went to collect our list, which thankfully gave me a second to pull myself together; then he was back, gently lifting the earphones off my head.

“Oh God,” I said, catching a glimpse of his watch. I grabbed his wrist to make sure. “It’s one thirty. I start work at two.” I’d already missed a day of work for the furnace that week and been late because of my run-in with Matt Love. If I was late again, Mr. Goodman would officially freak.

“No problem. I’ll download the rest. I just want to buy this one.” He held up the Van Morrison CD. “Then I’ll drop you at work.”

“But you’re not going that way.”

“I’m going to pick up my friend Jax at his house to bring him over for a band rehearsal, and I’m not working today, so not really, but I’ve got time.”

“What about the groceries?”

“Give me your house keys and I’ll put them away for you after I get Jax.” He saw me hesitate. “You can trust me,” he went on. “Plus, if I steal anything, you know where I live, right?” He had a point.

“Okay,” I said reluctantly, then added, “thanks.”

“Sure,” he answered. “I owe you, anyway. If you hadn’t been here to help me, I might have bought this one.” He held up a Michael Bolton CD.

Obviously, he was kidding. “The top eleven would
not
have approved,” I said, shaking my head at the CD. Even Dina thought Michael Bolton was cheesy, and that was saying something.

“Exactly,” he said. “See what I mean?” He put an arm around me. “Lucky thing I’ve got you on my side.” His touch felt familiar and warm and not at all weird. I didn’t shrug him off or pull away—but then, I barely had time. A heartbeat later, he’d let go. “Give me a sec,” he said.

I watched him at the cash. He talked with his hands, making big gestures in the air as he and the sales guy compared notes about some new release they’d just heard. You could tell just by watching him: He was friendly. A genuinely nice guy when you got right down to it. So, maybe he had a tendency to tease people (or maybe it was just me) a bit too much. And maybe he was playing the field a little by giving out all those valentines, but so what? Once he really got to know Dina, they were going to be perfect for each other. He was considerate, too, which was something Dina deserved after putting up with oops-I-got-drunk-and-didn’t-return-your-call-for-sixteen-hours Damien. Patrick knew I was in a rush, so he only talked to the cashier for a minute. Then he turned to me, smiling.

“You driving?” he asked, holding out the car keys.

I reached for the ring, then twirled them around one finger, liking the sound the keys made as they hit against one another—like wind chimes, only solid and practical instead of delicate and sweet. “Sure,” I answered. “Why not?”

Chapter 13

I
t turned out that Patrick had some pretty decent navigation skills. He directed as I drove through alleyways and parking lots most of the way to the mall, avoiding all but one stoplight and making it there with a full five minutes to spare before my shift started. Dina—her hair freshly highlighted and blow-dried straight—pulled into the parking lot right behind us, waving.

“Hey,” she called, climbing out of her car. The light reflected off her sleek locks and, with the snow flying all around her, she looked like some kind of Italian ice princess. I didn’t miss the fact that Patrick did a double take when he saw her. I tried my best to hang back, lingering near the car door as they talked about the soundtrack for the party.

“That sounds awesome, Patrick,” Dina said, batting her big brown eyes as he gave her the rundown of the current playlist. “Oh. And since you’re going with mostly older songs, you know what you should add? ‘Lady in Red.’ My parents danced to it at their tenth anniversary. I think it’s
so
romantic.” Patrick shot me a quick, almost undetectable look of gratitude from the other side of the car.

“Already on the list,” he said, which made her grin and blush like crazy.

After that, the afternoon passed in a blur. Since it was the last weekend before Valentine’s Day, the store was packed with people buying sentimental cards and tacky stuffed toys. Using our boxes of somewhat-stolen chocolates, we managed to sign up twenty more people for the customer loyalty program (earning another $100 toward Dina’s second panda). Four people even bought enough cards to earn their very own singing Cupids. “We’re down to the last five dolls,” Dina said after checking the storage room. “At this rate, they’ll be gone by tomorrow.” If I’d had time, I would have done a happy dance.

By quarter to six, things had slowed down, and even though he wasn’t working a shift at the Keyhole, and even though I’d technically already driven that day, Patrick came back to get me for my lesson. When I saw him, I ducked into the back room so he’d have to talk to Dina first. I peeked out the door and, as soon as they looked deep in conversation, snuck back out and pretended to be dusting the Precious Moments shelves one aisle over from the cash. They couldn’t see me, but I could hear every word they were saying.

“All right. So, with these four valentines, that makes fifteen cards,” Dina said. I could hear the slight sticky sound of the happy face stamp we used as Dina filled in the squares on Patrick’s customer loyalty card. “Your total comes to fifteen dollars and seventy-four cents. And this adorable little guy is yours.” A Cupid doll started to sing. Dina giggled. “Do you know who you’re going to give it to?” she asked.

I could hear the rustling of plastic as Dina bagged his cards.
More
cards! Fifteen valentines in total! Playing the field was one thing, but this was a bit ridiculous, even for Patrick.

“Yeah. I’ve got someone in mind,” he answered. “I think this Cupid is going to make them really happy. Or, I hope so, anyway.”

I fumbled with my dust rag, nearly dropping a figurine of two big-headed angels hugging a teddy bear between them. He
had
to be talking about Dina. Nobody else in their right mind would want such an irritating doll.

And if I had any doubts about his feelings for her, they had vanished by the end of our driving lesson that day. The snow that had started while I was grocery shopping was still falling, only now the temperature had gone up a bit, changing the small flakes to wet, sleety stuff that seemed to freeze as soon as it hit the ground. The walk across the parking lot alone was treacherous.

“Maybe we should cancel the lesson for today,” I suggested as I held on to the trunk of a parked car to steady myself. Even the talk radio station we listened to in the store was saying that driving conditions were bad and that extreme care should be taken.

“Hey,” Patrick answered, taking a running start and sliding across an icy patch on his boots. “This is nothing. I’m from Canada. This is how we do winter.” He slid to a stop, then turned to face me. “You’ll have to learn to handle these kinds of road conditions, anyway.” I sighed. Clearly I wasn’t getting out of driving. “We’ll stick to the side streets, okay?” he offered. “We’ll take it slow. What if we work on braking?”

“All right,” I agreed, getting into the car. After all, when it came to driving, stopping had to be the safest part.

He directed while I drove carefully out of the parking lot and took a left into the small subdivision just behind the mall. Everyone must have been holed up inside to wait out the storm, because the streets were deserted. “All right,” Patrick said. “See that stop sign? You’re going to want to start braking as smoothly as possible, beginning way back. Slamming on the brakes too soon will make you skid. You can’t be too careful when it’s icy like this.” I tried it. “Good,” he said. “You’ve got it. Just keep practicing.”

I signaled right and drove slowly toward the next stop sign. “So?” I said casually as I started to brake again. “Dina’s hair looked really great today, didn’t it?” Then, so I wouldn’t seem too obvious about it all, I added, “Her colorist is supposed to be awesome. I’m making an appointment there, too, I think.” We came to a safe stop, and I glanced over to see his reaction. After all, I’d seen his eyes go wide when he’d noticed how beautiful Dina looked. If I could just get him to admit it, I’d know for sure that he liked her.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t mind your hair how it is now.” He fiddled with the heating vents. “But, yeah. I guess Dina looked really nice today.”

I accelerated gently. “I know. But then, she
always
looks really nice.”

“Yeah. She’s pretty.” I spotted another stop sign halfway down the block and headed toward it. Okay, so he liked her hair. He thought she was pretty. This was all good, but it didn’t necessarily mean that he liked her, did it? He probably thought lots of girls were pretty. Fifteen girls, to be exact.

There was a blue car coming up behind us now, moving pretty fast. I slowed down even earlier than normal, braking gently like Patrick had taught me, so the driver would see my lights and do the same. I came to a safe stop, then signaled left and started to turn the wheel. I tried to think of a subtle way to find out for sure. After all, Dina would kill me if I let Patrick know she had a huge crush on him.

Turns out I didn’t have to worry though. Patrick was one step ahead of me. “Hey,” he asked suddenly, “is she single?”

So, he liked her. I had my answer. “Yeah,” I replied. I felt a lump rising in my throat for no good reason. “She’s single.” What was my problem, anyway? I didn’t want a boyfriend under any circumstances, plus, I should have been happy for Dina. Patrick was a great guy. She was a great girl. They’d be twice as great together. I glanced in the rearview mirror again to avoid having to look at Patrick. The last thing I needed was for him to notice the devastated look cross my face and to ask what was wrong. I was just blinking back my tears when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the blue car that was still coming behind us.
Right
behind us. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d stepped on the gas. Hard. We lurched forward turning left across the intersection.

“Oh God,” I said, slamming on the brakes. But the car didn’t stop. Somewhere behind us I heard a screeching sound. Our tires spun on a patch of ice and slid sideways. Patrick reached for the wheel to steer us out of the skid, but it was useless. The road was too slick.

“Try shifting into neutral,” he shouted. I did. The car slowed, but kept sliding until it stopped with a thud, half the front bumper buried in a snowbank.

“Elyse? Are you okay?” Patrick asked. I was still clutching the steering wheel as if my life depended on it.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m okay.” He glanced back. “God, that was close.” I turned to see what he was looking at. Across the street, and about twenty feet back, the blue car that had been following us was up on the curb—inches from a huge tree. “I’ll be right back,” Patrick said, climbing out of the car. “Hey!” he shouted as he jogged across the street. “You all right in there?”

I covered my mouth with my hand to keep a sob from escaping. What had I just done? I could have killed us both, not to mention the person in the blue car. I should have been concentrating on driving instead of on my friend’s love life and my lack thereof. That was it. I was clearly unfit for the roads.

I looked back again. A man in a trench coat was getting out of the blue car. He and Patrick walked around to the front, checking for damage. I breathed a small sigh of relief. At least the man was walking. He was okay. Nobody had been hurt.

Nodding their heads, they started back toward the red car where I was still sitting, barely breathing. Patrick opened the driver’s-side door. “Don’t worry. Everyone’s okay,” he told me. “This is Stu.”

“Hi, Stu.” I waved weakly. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t seem to hear me, though. “I’m sorry,” he said almost at the same time. “I should have been going slower with this black ice. Things could have been a lot worse if you hadn’t accelerated and swerved out of the way.”

Swerved out of the way? Me? All I’d done was hit the gas, much too hard, and not even on purpose. I’d known the blue car was close behind me and coming pretty fast. But that wasn’t why I hit the gas. Or was it?

Stu and Patrick walked around the red car then. “We won’t know until we get you out of there,” Stu said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think there should be much damage.”

Twenty minutes later, between a snow shovel the very resourceful Stu kept in his trunk, some pushing, and a lot of tire spinning, Patrick had managed to back the car out of the snowbank and onto the road. The front was a little dented. Nothing else seemed to be broken, but Patrick and Stu exchanged numbers, just in case.

When we were ready to go, Patrick opened the passenger-side door for me. Obviously, after what I’d just done, I shouldn’t have been expecting him to let me drive—and honestly, I didn’t
want
to drive—but it stung all the same.

“I’m canceling my road test,” I said as soon as we’d started to move.

“What?” He looked over at me.

“I’m dangerous. Look what just happened. I nearly totaled your car.”

“Didn’t you hear what Stu said?” Patrick asked. “You just saved my car from being rear-ended. I didn’t even teach you rear collision avoidance yet.” He seemed to be searching his brain. “Did I? You just knew it instinctively. I should be thanking you.”

I stared at him incredulously. “No, you shouldn’t. You should be furious with me. I nearly killed you.” He actually laughed. “Why aren’t you mad?” I demanded. The one time Matt Love had let me drive his car I’d accidentally scraped the paint on one of the doors pulling out of the narrow alleyway near his house. He’d nearly had a heart attack.

“Because you’re okay. I’m okay. Even the car is more or less okay. I can hammer those dents out in about two minutes. Hang on,” he said, pulling into a McDonald’s parking lot. “I’m buying you a milk shake.”

“What? Why?” I stared at him.

“To celebrate your awesome winter-driving skills,” he answered, “and your upcoming road test. You’re going to walk into that panda party on Friday as a licensed driver,” he said. “There’s no doubt in my mind.” He got out and came around to the passenger side. “Come on,” he said as he grabbed my hand to pull me out. “Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?”

I couldn’t understand it. I’d just crashed his car, and he wanted to buy me a milk shake? Was there something wrong with him? Or—the thought suddenly occurred to me—did he still have feelings for me? I pushed the idea away as quickly as it surfaced, though. After all, what had his exact words been in my basement? “My crush on you is ancient history?” What was
much
more likely was that he was being nice to me so I’d put in a good word with Dina—my pretty, single friend. He must really,
really
like her, too. More than he liked his car, even—and that was saying something for a guy Patrick’s age.

“Chocolate,” I answered, letting him help me out of the car. My legs were still wobbly. And maybe it was the beginning of a bruise from being thrown against the seat belt in the accident . . . but I kind of doubted it. My chest was aching in an all-too-familiar way. As if my heart was breaking, just a little.