The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh
Twelve
Frankie
THEN
I didn’t see Walter for the rest of my party. I didn’t see him the next day either. But I only have five days left to discover if I imagined the spark between us. The last forty-eight hours have given me time to think beyond my instant infatuation. If there’s something real between us, maybe Walter is my one-way ticket off Long Island?
It seems like fate when I glimpse him watering our neighbor’s front yard. I don’t know the Schubermanns well and they’ve never had Walter stay with them before. I would’ve noticed. It makes me smile to remember his bluntness when he’d told me why he’s never visited his godparents before, because he can’t sleep in strange beds. No guy would ever admit that for fear of appearing geeky, but it hadn’t fazed Walter. I like that honesty about him, especially with my parents’ lies fresh in my mind from a few days ago.
He’s deep in thought, a slight frown creasing his brow, and I even find that cute. There’s something about him that makes me want to fling my arms around him and kiss him silly, even though I’ve kissed a grand total of two boys before. I’ve never been forward with guys and, for a moment, I second-guess myself. He hadn’t really flirted with me at the party, so maybe I’m imagining we shared a connection? Only one way to find out.
Wearing a skimpy red bikini one of my friends had given me for my birthday, I run down the stairs and out the front door before I chicken out. It’s only as I near him and he glances up, shock parting his lips, that I realize I don’t have an excuse to talk to him. I should’ve at least used the old “can I borrow a cup of sugar” routine from one of those ancient movies my folks watch.
I slow my steps as I reach him, unsure whether to be impressed or disappointed when he keeps his gaze on my face and not drifting south once. “Hey. You’re a good houseguest. Do you have to water the garden for your supper?”
“It beats singing.” He shrugs, like making a corny joke is nothing.
I swear he belongs in my parents’ era. He talks like someone decades older and today he’s wearing ironed khaki shorts and a beige polo top with the buttons done up. But I like that about him. His maturity is appealing after the guys in my senior class who don’t care about anything but football, college girls and keg parties.
“It’s hot out.” I fan my face. “Fancy a swim?”
At last, some sign he notices me as a woman when he glances at my breasts briefly before refocusing on my face. He’s going to refuse, I can see it in his reluctant stare, so I sweeten the deal.
“There’s a stack of leftover food and you’d be doing me a favor, otherwise my folks are going to make me bring it over to the Schubermanns and force feed them.”
He appears horrified by the thought, just as I intended. Either he comes over for a swim or I come over for goodness knows how long and make small talk with his godparents.
When he still doesn’t respond, I say, “When we chatted the other night, you mentioned the Schubermanns visit you. Where is that?”
“Hartford, Connecticut.”
“Nice.”
“You’ve been?”
“No, but I’d like to.” I’d like to live there given half a chance. Anywhere but here. “Are you coming for a swim?”
It takes him an eternity to nod and when he does, his expression says he’d prefer having a root canal than spending time with me.
So much for my plan to entice him.
“Meet you out the back,” I say, making sure I put an extra sway into my hips as I walk away, hoping he’s staring at my butt.
When I glance over my shoulder he is and when I catch him, a faint crimson stains his cheeks.
“I have a girlfriend,” he blurts, and I merely smile.
By the end of this week, his girlfriend will be me.