Page 24 of Mixed Signals
I flick open the message and find a picture of Caleb, his face half in the frame, most of it taken up by a bear claw with a monstrous bite missing. His cheek bulges with fried pastry dough, the crinkles by his eyes deeper with his smile.
A softohcomes out of my mouth without permission.
And he thinks I’m the dangerous one.
A laugh bursts out of me.
I text right back.
SIX
CALEB
“You are full of surprises,”Layla tells me, her hands propped on her hips as she stares at our destination. I’m staring too, but I’m more focused on the banner that is barely hanging on. Its listing slightly to the left,Skate It Easystenciled in neon letters.Skating rink and fun parkin bold just below.
But then Layla bites her bottom lip and I’m distracted for a solid twelve seconds.
She swivels to look up at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before. Solid score on originality.”
A swell of unease punches me right in the chest. “There’s scoring involved?”
“Oh, definitely. You said you wanted feedback and I intend to be very thorough.”
“I was hoping you’d forget about that part,” I mumble, more to myself than her. I’ve been a solid, tangled up mess since I stormed into her bakery and demanded her phone. I haven’t quite calmed down since. “What else am I being scored on?”
A sly smile curls the edge of her lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would, actually. That’s why I’m asking.”
She shrugs. “Tough cookies.”
“Not even a hint?”
She shakes her head.
I rock back on my heels and shove my hands in my back pockets. It’s a good look on her, this smile—the teasing. Much better than that sad, reserved look she was wearing at the beach bar that dimmed her light and made her seem small.
I guess I’m doing something right, if I can make her smile like that.
Some of the anxiety strumming in my chest fades.
Only to rocket right back up when a group of teenagers rush past us. I frown as I watch them dart in through the doors. There shouldn’t be anyone but us here tonight. I called in a favor and reserved the rink for the two of us.
I thought I had, anyway.
I distinctly remember having that conversation on the phone with Oliver, the owner. Promises were made. Dates were set.
The doors to the roller rink open and a burst of noise echoes out. Teenagers screaming and something that sounds vaguely like Flo Rida.
I guess promises were not made. Dates were not set.
Oliver had simple instructions. The rink private for one hour. The sound system hooked up to my phone. Two pairs of skates and dinner behind the snack bar.
26,000 hormone-addled teenagers were not included in that directive.
I frown at the door.
“Is this—” Layla is confused. “Is this not what you had planned?”
