Something More Than This (8 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

M
onday, and I’m in full swing already at six o’clock in the morning, driving to the newsroom.

I spent my Sunday on the couch with the NFL’s opening week games on in the background while I did some research on the Barracudas’ next opponent. I always do a smaller piece on the upcoming week’s game and publish it on the newspaper’s website on Wednesday afternoons. A rough first draft is completed by Monday. Then Tuesday I’ll follow up on stats and numbers and confirm my sources. Then, on Wednesday morning, everything is crosschecked one more time . . . and then again for safe measure. All that’s left is to type up my final draft and review it a couple of more times before turning it in. This leaves Thursday open to attend the final practice before the Barracudas play on Friday night. And then my schedule starts all over again.

This is how I spend most of my fall at the newspaper. It’s my busy time . . . and I love it. Then it’s on to soccer and cross-country, followed by baseball.

But I look forward to the football season like a kid on Christmas morning. Because as much as there is a feeling of magic and pure Americana attached to baseball, it doesn’t make me feel the emotions that football does, from heartbreak to pure bliss.

Even though I get to work a little earlier than usual, the office is already at top gear. I walk straight to Dylan’s office instead of my desk to invite him out to lunch today at his favorite spot. And I won’t take no for an answer.

Phoebe, his assistant from hell, isn’t at her command center yet, so I can just walk in.

I hear him on the phone before I see him, so I stay out of sight until he’s done. Trying not to listen, I overhear him say “Rachel” followed by him laughing. Then he’s saying something about maybe getting together this weekend to play some volleyball again if she’s up to it.

Rachel? Rachel from accounting upstairs? That’s who subbed for me this weekend?

Ugh.

Rachel Aguirre has been trying for as long as I’ve been working at the newspaper to get her hooks into Dylan. She’s a tall, leggy blonde with boobs for days. And she’s not shy about showing them off either. She’s been a bit pushy and, for lack of a better word, bitchy when I’ve had to deal with her in the past. Which isn’t often, but every couple of months or so she comes strolling downstairs to my desk to question me about my expense report and the validity of a certain receipt or something . . . I don’t know, because for the most part, I, like every red-blooded male in the office, am staring at her chest. It would be impossible not to since she’s always wearing a low-cut blouse to showcase it. Then she’ll lean over the desk, which I swear she’s doing on purpose to make sure you get a good, long look at the goods. Which I do look at, of course I do. I mean, who could blame me? They’re spectacular. And if Dylan is anywhere in the vicinity, she perks up, adjusting her cleavage and smiling like the devil in disguise to get his attention.

Well, looks like she got it finally. I could have sworn that he’s told me more than a couple of times that he would never, ever, be interested in her. But I guess things change.

“Katy, is that you hovering outside my door?”

I put on a straight face and peek my head around the frame. “Hey, yeah, it’s me.”

Glancing at his wristwatch, he says, “You’re here early.”

“I wanted to get a head start today. But I needed to see you first before you made any plans.”

“Plans? Plans for what?” He looks up, his green eyes bright and cheery through his black-rimmed eyeglasses.

“You, me, lunch. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

He leans back in his chair and goes for the knot in his tie. As he begins to loosen it, he says, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” I tell him. “Plus, we haven’t been to your favorite lunch spot in a while. Figure we’re due.”

Dylan doesn’t say anything, so I naturally start to adjust and readjust my messenger bag nervously. “Come on.” I break the silence. “Just say yes and meet me downstairs at noon, okay?”

Finally, the faintest trace of a smile shows through on his face. It’s small, but I’ll take it. “Okay, sure, I’ll meet you downstairs at noon.”

“Great! See you then.”

I walk out of his office feeling uneasy, even though the fakest smile is plastered across my face. I get the sense that Dylan’s just saying yes to lunch to appease me and that he really doesn’t want to go. But why? He’s never been one to be phony. So today, after seven or eight years of knowing each other, why would he start acting that way out of the blue? Or maybe he . . .

No. No way.

I have to stop letting Mimi’s stupid idea seep into my thoughts. Because that would go against everything our friendship has been based upon. We’re always professional when we have to be and, other times, great friends who give each other advice when needed. And that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

When I reach my desk, I plop down in my seat, still confused. Why would Dylan be put off by my invitation? Wait, was he put off? No, that can’t be right. I’m just imagining things. He was probably in the middle of something and I caught him at a bad time. He had just been on the phone with Rachel.

Is that what’s bugging me? The idea of Rachel and Dylan together? I have to laugh, because why would that bother me? I don’t like her, but as his friend, I want
him
to be happy. And if she makes him happy, then so be it. As his friend, I’ll support him in whatever he decides.

“They’re not picking out china patterns yet or anything, so just stop it already.” I say this to myself quietly and get to work so that lunch will come sooner than later.

After placing our order at the counter, Dylan and I look for an open table, which is a little difficult since Gilbert’s is always bursting at the seams with customers at lunchtime.

“Oh, there’s one.” I point at a two-seat high-top table in the far corner by the window.

We weave through the other tables until reaching ours. Dylan pulls my seat out for me, and I sit down, placing my phone on the table. While I’m lifting my messenger bag strap over my head, he sits across from me and places our assigned number for our order on the table in between us.

“Next time, I’m paying,” he says.

“Next time, if you invite me, sure, lunch is on you. But seeing as
I
invited
you
, it’s on me.”

“Fair enough.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a smile. “So how’s the article coming along?”

“Good, really good, I think.”

“You think, huh?”

“Well, I won’t know for sure until you read it, will I?” Then for whatever reason, I decide to really stick my foot in my mouth. “You’ll see it soon enough. Anyway, how was volleyball?”

My curiosity has been driving me crazy since I heard him on the phone with Rachel. As a friend and friend only, I need to know what and how that even came to be.

“It was good, great actually. We won the tournament.”

“You and Rachel?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners while his mouth curls slyly to the side. “Now how would you know that?”

“Like you didn’t know I was listening this morning.” I lean forward a bit and then ask, “So it’s true then? You and Rachel? How did that happen?”

He goes to answer but is interrupted by the server bringing us our lunch. His, a giant burger called “The Godfather,” which is his all-time favorite thing to eat. And mine, a grilled chicken breast sandwich with a side of sweet potato fries. They both look absolutely mouthwatering, so we dig right in.

“So?” I ask impatiently after a couple more bites.

“So?”

“You were telling me about Rachel.”

“Was I? I’m pretty sure you asked about the tournament first.”

I sigh in mock frustration. “Fine, tell me about the tournament.”

“We killed it actually,” he says this with a huge grin. “She’s really good, you should see her play.”

For a second I’m nervous that he’s looking to permanently replace me from the expression on his face. It’s a cross between proud and smug. Before I even tackle that part of the Rachel issue, I have to know how he even thought about calling on her to sub for me in the first place. And why hasn’t he said a word about it until I asked?

Oh my God, I’m turning into nosy Mimi.

This can’t be good. But here goes nothing.

I reach for a fry and stuff it in my mouth while I’m asking, “Are you guys dating?”

But it comes out sounding like a bunch of mangled jargon.

Dylan’s eyebrows inch together as he tries to decipher what I just asked him. It’s cute to see him so confused. I can tell the moment he gives up because he puts down his burger, then wipes his mouth. Carefully setting his napkin on the table, he asks, “What did you just say?”

Afraid to ask again, I go to grab a fry and use the same technique to hide behind. But he leans across the small table and reaches out to gently take my wrist in his hand.

“Fine,” I say, defeated. “Are you guys dating now?”

“Why do you ask?”

“We’re friends, right?” I ask. He looks confused by my question but nods anyway.

“What does us being friends have anything to do with Rachel?”

I lean forward until my face is inches from Dylan’s. At this distance, I get an up-close-and-personal look at his eyes. For the first time in all the time I’ve known him, I have to admit to myself that I can get a little lost in them. They’re so bright, like an open field of fresh cut grass in Ireland. Not that I’ve ever been to Ireland, but the pictures I’ve seen obviously do it enough justice since it’s stayed with me so vividly. Now I’m picturing myself running up a hill onto said random field. And then my arms go out wide and I spin and spin like Julie Andrews and sing to the sky for no reason whatsoever.

“Katy?”

I blink a couple of times. “Yeah.”

He shakes his head with a smile at my momentary break with reality. I watch his eyes go to where he’s touching me, and then he lets go of my wrist. “To answer your question, no, we’re not technically dating.”

Inwardly, I’m relieved. But that still doesn’t quench my curiosity of how he ended up with Rachel on Saturday. I sit back in my seat a little more comfortably and decide not to ask anything else about it. Dylan, after a second or two, goes back to eating his lunch, so it would seem that the subject is dead and buried. However, in my head, that’s a whole other story. I see them together: Holding hands, and everything seems innocent at first. Then the vision explodes into this flash of images of him pulling her close to him and kissing her. No, that’s not quite right either. He’s ravaging her mouth as her hands thread and pull wildly at his hair. My pulse trips in my throat as the images keep on coming. Each one more vivid than the one before it.

What is wrong with me? Why am I thinking about this? And why the hell does it bother me to the point that I’m embarrassed to even look at him right now.

It’s not like I have never been around Dylan when he’s dating someone. But as Mimi so thoughtfully brought up recently, he hasn’t dated anyone in long while. And why is that exactly? Now that I’m thinking on it, we haven’t discussed other people too much lately . . . ever, if I’m being honest about it with myself. That bothers me even more. Because what kind of best friends don’t share those parts of their lives with each other? Not very good ones, I think. If it were Mimi, I’d tell her everything. Then again, she would probably force me to anyway. But with Dylan, it’s different . . . it’s always been different, hasn’t it?

When I lock eyes with him across the table, it’s as if he’s trying to hijack the thoughts running through my mind. The ones that are chock-full of him and Rachel. I wonder if he can tell how much it bothers me, how much I don’t want to admit that it does, and how much I wish being with him right now didn’t feel off-kilter. Suddenly the table feels much smaller than it is. The sounds of the people around us one by one start to fall away until it’s completely silent.

Then Dylan looks away and breaks the quiet. “How did it go with . . .” He searches his memory, then says, “Conner. How did it go on Saturday with Conner?”

As if a secret signal was radioed out from Gilbert’s, my cell phone starts to vibrate on the table between us with an incoming call. The screen shows “Conner.”

Dylan looks to the phone, then at me with a smile, and says, “Speak of the devil.”

“I’ll call him back later.” And I go to silence it. But Dylan waves me off and tells me it’s okay to take the call.

I manage to swipe the screen just in time and say hello.

“Did I catch you at a bad time, Shadow?”

I look at Dylan, who’s now staring out the window, trying not to listen in to my conversation. Which is impossible to do since I’m sitting right across from him. His eyes shift to me and I hold up my finger and say to him, “I’ll be off in a second.”

“What was that?”

That comes from Conner.

“No, not you, I was talking to Dylan.”

“Who’s Dylan?” Conner asks.

“My boss. We’re out to lunch.”

“I’m sorry, I should let you go then.”

I fidget in my seat a bit. “No, it’s okay, what’s up?”