Page 23 of Dirty Sweet Valentine
Even though Jared’s apology doesn’t sound all that sincere, if I’m being honest, it’s myself I’m actually mad at. After all, everything he had said in that doorway was true.
I sit down on the chilly back step, and shake my head. “It’s not your fault. I should have come clean earlier. I shouldn’t have even planned it in the first place.” It would have been a really shitty thing to do. I see that now. Even if I hadn’t expected to get with Kira again, how could I do that to anyone, let alone a girl I’d gotten it on with?
Yeah, I’ve fucked up. Fucked up bad. “Now what do I do?” I ask, more to myself than Jared.
But Jared has an answer regardless. “Um, say farewell and bang one of the fifty other hotties that hit on you this week. I can still get you Wanna Blow’s number.”
I shoot Jared a glare that I hope reads, die now.
Instead, it must have read, lovesick, because Jared says, “Shit, you like this one.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Yeah. I really do.” God, I’m pathetic. I’ve only known the chick for about a day and I’m already this into her—major pathetic. I don’t even know how to find her again. But yet again, I failed to procure her phone number. Except for knowing that it wasn’t at home, I have no idea where she lives. I don’t know the classes she was taking and, at the rally, the next Cherry Savers meeting had been announced for a whole month in the future.
And even if I do find her, how can I ever fix this?
With no one else around, I look up at Jared, as if he’d have a solution to my problem.
“Hey, I can’t help you on this one. I’m a player, dude. I don’t do any of that romance stuff.” Jared sits on the step next to me. “But my grandma used to always say that whatever the thing was that got you into the trouble in the first place is also the thing that is often the solution.”
I start to ask what the fuck that’s supposed to mean when it hits me like a ton of bricks—an idea to reach out to Kira and apologize at the same time. “Jared, that’s brilliant.”
“It is?” Jared probably isn’t called brilliant too often. He seems to adjust to the title fast. “Of course it is. I’m great with advice.”
“I’ll be in my room the rest of the day,” I tell him, eager to start on my plan. “I have an article to write.”
Eight
I hadn’t been sure the editor of the UNC paper would accept my article. After all, I hadn’t written about campus life as requested, but I believe the piece I’ve come up with will be of interest to the student body.
The editor reads it in front of me, without so much as an eyebrow lift to indicate his approval or disapproval. When he finishes, the editor sets his copy on his desk and says, “It will run in the next issue which comes out Thursday. We rotate our editorial writers, so your next piece will be due two weeks from now.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Getting a job on the paper had been my original goal for writing the article, but now it’s my chance to get Kira’s attention. If the editor had decided not to print it, it would be back to the drawing board.
With the first part of my plan in place, now I just have to sit back and wait.
Sure as the editor had said, my piece appears in the next issue. But Thursday comes and goes with no word from Kira. Friday brings no word from her either. By Saturday, I’m beginning to lose hope. I thought for sure I’d have heard from her by now, if I was going to at all. So maybe this is it. She doesn’t forgive me. And I’ve lost my chance forever.
Claiming too much homework, I stay behind when the rest of the guys go out to play Frisbee golf on Saturday afternoon. Truth is, I know that if by some miracle Kira is going to reach out to me, it would be at the house, and I don’t want to miss her. How pathetic am I to keep wishing?
Pretty damn pathetic. But it doesn’t change anything.
Deciding fresh air would be beneficial to my mood, I sit on the front porch trying to work on a paper for my Disabilities in Learning class. But my mind is too wrapped up in Kira to get anything done. Maybe she hasn’t seen my piece. Maybe she had seen it and it hadn’t made a difference. Maybe she hadn’t been as interested in me as I’d thought in the first place. But that couldn’t be the case—I’d felt the connection between us.
Hadn’t I?
Each time a car pulls into the busy gravel lot next door, my ears perk up. Each time I’m rewarded with disappointment. Kira isn’t coming. Better give up the dream and face the reality.
But then, after nearly an hour of unproductivity as the air grows chillier around me, the sound of a familiar engine pulls me from my moping. The guys had walked to their destination. Can it be…her? I listen to a single door slam shut and hold my breath while I wait for the driver to appear.
And then there she is—standing at the end of the front walk, a copy of the newspaper clutched in her hand.
Fuck, have I fallen asleep? Because she looks just like a dream.
But, no. She isn’t a dream. She’s real. And that’s better than any dream I could imagine.
I don’t know what to say, and my breath hasn’t really returned anyway so speaking is pretty much out of the question. Besides, I’d had the last word when I wrote that article. It’s Kira’s turn to speak.
She’s quiet, though, as she walks up to where I sit on the steps. She turns the paper to face me, the picture I’d snapped on my phone at the wishing tree prominent on the page. “You wrote this?” she asks.
Well, obviously. It says by Chase Matthews right under the headline: Greeley’s Shoe Tree.
I nod.
Kira turns the paper back to face her and begins reading out loud. “In a hard-to-find location on the back roads of Greeley exists one of the town’s little known highlights—a shoe tree where sneakers are recycled for wishes.”
Skipping past a few paragraphs, Kira continues, “While at first, the idea of wishing on shoes seemed odd to this reporter, further reflection thinks the tradition is actually apropos. The wishes we hold in our heart come out of our day-to-day routines. What other objects are more closely tied to our daily lives than the shoes that we walk in? They carry us wherever we go. Why shouldn’t they be the items that we’d expect to carry us to our dreams, as well?”
Kira pauses, glancing over at me.
Does she think she doesn’t have my attention? She does. She always has.
She skips to the end of the piece. “Even if you don’t have a pair of shoes to dispose of, I believe the tree has power simply by being in its presence. The wish I made standing at the shoe tree came true in the most beautifully fulfilling way. Most writers would take this time to caution the readers about being careful about what they wish for. My caution, however, is different: be careful what we do with our wishes when they do come true. The shoes on the tree may carry us to the place we dream of, but our own feet can carry us back away. From personal experience, I can attest that any wish can be canceled as easily as it is made, usually because our ego gets in the way. I’m hoping that even canceled wishes can be made again.”
It was as close to an apology as I could have written in an article meant for the entire student body. Of course, it had really only been meant for Kira.
She folds the paper and sets it on the step beside her. Still not looking at me directly, she says, “I should be mad that you’ve disclosed my favorite secret spot.”
Shit! I hadn’t thought of that. But I hadn’t written exactly how to get there—I don’t exactly know myself. “God, Kira, I’m sorry—”
She cuts me off, “But I’m not.” She swallows. “It was a good article. Thank you for writing it.”
It doesn’t seem like a fitting time to say, “You’re welcome,” when there are other things I need to say. “Kira, I was an ass. Completely out of line. I shouldn’t have ever considered outing you, and I understand how that could make me someone that wouldn’t ever deserve your time and attention.”
She shakes her head. “Whate
ver. Like I’m all that special.”
“You are a princess.”
She smiles. It’s encouraging that I can still joke with her.
“You are that special,” I continue. “And I regret that I even considered exploiting that.”
“I may have overreacted.” She puts her hand on the step between us.
Hoping that’s a message, I place my hand over hers. “No. You gave me what I deserved.” She doesn’t pull away—in fact, she turns her palm up to clasp mine properly.
She pivots to meet my eyes—God, those beautiful brown eyes are entrancing. Especially when they are empty of the anger and hurt that had filled them the last time I saw them. I’m not sure what emotion I see in them this time, but whatever it is, it makes me feel warm all over.
“I think you deserve a whole lot more.”
I try to hide my disappointment. I suffered greatly this whole week wondering if I’d ever get a chance to be with Kira again. I’d go through more, if I had to. She’s worth it. “Any punishment you think I should have, bring it on. I’ll endure it. Just don’t say I can’t see you again.”
She laughs. “You don’t want to know what kind of punishments I can come up with. Let’s see…” She taps her lip with her finger as she appears to think of cruel and unusual methods of torture.
For some reason, I’m not worried.
After a second, Kira shakes her head. “Actually, that’s not what I meant. I meant, you deserve a lot more good things.”
I can think of a few good things that I’d like to have, but that I’m not necessarily worthy of. “I don’t deserve you. But that won’t stop me from wishing for you over and over.”
“Stop wishing. I’m here.” She squeezes my hand.
How can such a simple gesture be felt all the way down in my balls? The electricity between us is high voltage.
She turns her body toward me so our knees are touching. Maybe she’s as eager for more contact as I am. “I saved myself for you, remember? I’m yours for the taking.”
