eyes.
“This’d better be good.” Charlie’s voice teases my ear, bringing me back to reality, where I realize his hand has slipped over mine. He gives it a squeeze.
I sit back, relaxing into my seat as Maria sings to her hills. I scan the faces of the audience in the glow of the stage lights. Looking back, I see the four seats behind us are empty. “That’s odd,” I say, my voice low. “Millie said the show was a sell out. I wonder why our box is half full?”
Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I think I see something flash in Charlie’s eyes. He moves toward my ear as the singer’s volume rises.
I shake my head, unable to hear him. He opens his mouth again, but my hand on his shoulder stops his words. “Thank you.” I beam, and my eyes travel to the stage and back to him. “Thank you for tonight.”
His teeth look even whiter in the darkness of the theatre as his mouth spreads into a warm smile. Charlie rubs his thumb over my hand, then lifts his arm. I lean in so he can wrap —
My head jerks behind me as people shuffle into the empty seats, and I catch a whiff of a familiar citrusy perfume.
I twist all the way around in my seat, dread seeping through my body.
Chelsea Blake.
I swallow hard and face forward, pulling my hands into my lap and scooting as far away from Charlie as my seat will allow.
I think I hear him whisper my name, but between the blasting trumpets and the roar in my head, I can’t be sure. I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t e-mail Mr. Diamatti’s grandson and cancel his Friday night appearance. Bring on Mr. Italian Beefcake. If I even go to Charlie’s party, that is.
Chelsea leans down, her face between us. “Hey, guys.” She smacks her gum, and it’s everything I can do not to grab her long blonde hair and pull her over the seats and onto the floor. “Charlie, thanks for the tickets. My dad really appreciates the night out.”
I turn my head where she is not in my peripheral vision and focus on the stage. I would bawl, but it’s just not worth it.
He can have her.
But he can’t have both of us.
At the end of the play, Captain Von Trapp holds his Maria close, and together, with the children, they sing. One couple finally reunited.
And another . . . definitely over.
Chapter eight
DING-DONG!
My stomach does the rumba, followed by a quick cha-cha.
He’s here. Brian Diamatti, aka Joey Farmer, is here.
God, forgive me. I know this is dishonest. But what could I do? Frances opened this can of worms.
I jump off my bed and race downstairs. I have to get to the door before James or Millie. I mean, they know he’s coming. Well, that is, they know I’m riding to the party with Frances, Nash, and a friend . If they don’t meet this friend, though, then they won’t ask questions like, “Is this a double date? I thought you liked Charlie — why are you taking a boy to his birthday party?”
After Tuesday night, I ignored Charlie for the rest of the week. He texted me and tried to talk to me at school, but I just shut him down. I don’t even want to know. Don’t care.
But if Brian is as cute in person as he is in the picture, then it will be a good dose of “in your face” for Charlie.
Halfway down the stairs, I hear the door open and Maxine’s voice.
“Why . . . hello, young man.”
I halt at the bottom step.
“Do come in.” Maxine’s voice takes on an odd airy quality. He must really be something to look at. “My granddaughter will be down shortly.”
I’m torn between savoring the moment of Maxine calling me her granddaughter — like I’m the real deal — and charging into the living room before she continues talking and says something embarrassing like, “Katie still secretly watches Hannah Montana .” Or “She has yet to pass all of her driver’s test, but third time’s a charm!”
I ease into the kitchen and head toward the foyer.
Can’t wait to see what my Date of Duplicity looks like.
“So . . . you’re Italian?” I frown
“This’d better be good.” Charlie’s voice teases my ear, bringing me back to reality, where I realize his hand has slipped over mine. He gives it a squeeze.
I sit back, relaxing into my seat as Maria sings to her hills. I scan the faces of the audience in the glow of the stage lights. Looking back, I see the four seats behind us are empty. “That’s odd,” I say, my voice low. “Millie said the show was a sell out. I wonder why our box is half full?”
Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I think I see something flash in Charlie’s eyes. He moves toward my ear as the singer’s volume rises.
I shake my head, unable to hear him. He opens his mouth again, but my hand on his shoulder stops his words. “Thank you.” I beam, and my eyes travel to the stage and back to him. “Thank you for tonight.”
His teeth look even whiter in the darkness of the theatre as his mouth spreads into a warm smile. Charlie rubs his thumb over my hand, then lifts his arm. I lean in so he can wrap —
My head jerks behind me as people shuffle into the empty seats, and I catch a whiff of a familiar citrusy perfume.
I twist all the way around in my seat, dread seeping through my body.
Chelsea Blake.
I swallow hard and face forward, pulling my hands into my lap and scooting as far away from Charlie as my seat will allow.
I think I hear him whisper my name, but between the blasting trumpets and the roar in my head, I can’t be sure. I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t e-mail Mr. Diamatti’s grandson and cancel his Friday night appearance. Bring on Mr. Italian Beefcake. If I even go to Charlie’s party, that is.
Chelsea leans down, her face between us. “Hey, guys.” She smacks her gum, and it’s everything I can do not to grab her long blonde hair and pull her over the seats and onto the floor. “Charlie, thanks for the tickets. My dad really appreciates the night out.”
I turn my head where she is not in my peripheral vision and focus on the stage. I would bawl, but it’s just not worth it.
He can have her.
But he can’t have both of us.
At the end of the play, Captain Von Trapp holds his Maria close, and together, with the children, they sing. One couple finally reunited.
And another . . . definitely over.
Chapter eight
DING-DONG!
My stomach does the rumba, followed by a quick cha-cha.
He’s here. Brian Diamatti, aka Joey Farmer, is here.
God, forgive me. I know this is dishonest. But what could I do? Frances opened this can of worms.
I jump off my bed and race downstairs. I have to get to the door before James or Millie. I mean, they know he’s coming. Well, that is, they know I’m riding to the party with Frances, Nash, and a friend . If they don’t meet this friend, though, then they won’t ask questions like, “Is this a double date? I thought you liked Charlie — why are you taking a boy to his birthday party?”
After Tuesday night, I ignored Charlie for the rest of the week. He texted me and tried to talk to me at school, but I just shut him down. I don’t even want to know. Don’t care.
But if Brian is as cute in person as he is in the picture, then it will be a good dose of “in your face” for Charlie.
Halfway down the stairs, I hear the door open and Maxine’s voice.
“Why . . . hello, young man.”
I halt at the bottom step.
“Do come in.” Maxine’s voice takes on an odd airy quality. He must really be something to look at. “My granddaughter will be down shortly.”
I’m torn between savoring the moment of Maxine calling me her granddaughter — like I’m the real deal — and charging into the living room before she continues talking and says something embarrassing like, “Katie still secretly watches Hannah Montana .” Or “She has yet to pass all of her driver’s test, but third time’s a charm!”
I ease into the kitchen and head toward the foyer.
Can’t wait to see what my Date of Duplicity looks like.
“So . . . you’re Italian?” I frown
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