Home > Anything You Can Do(6)

Anything You Can Do(6)
Author: R.S. Grey

“God, you look different,” she spouts, waving her hand from the top of my blonde hair to the tip of my ballet flats. “I mean, you used to be pretty in high school, but you never quite knew what to do with all that hair and those freckles. I’m glad you don’t cover them up.”

I touch my cheek, a little shocked by her candidness. “Thanks.”

“Y’know, I saw Lucas the other day,” she continues. “Moving his stuff upstairs.”

My body hums. I tell myself it’s the caffeine kicking in, though I haven’t taken a sip. Must be the fumes.

“Oh?”

This is news to me; I assumed he would be moving back in with his parents temporarily. Lucas and I lived next door to one another our entire lives. Our proximity didn’t matter much when we were younger, but as soon as we entered high school, that changed. There was no escape. We knew each other’s every move. No boy ever picked me up for a date without Lucas lingering outside, somehow ruining the moment. Checking the mail, mowing the lawn, washing his car—innocuous activities that did little to hide his true intent: to get inside my head and ruin the moment.

I wasn’t quite as bold. I used the perch at my bedroom window to spy when the moments presented themselves, like when he kissed Carrie Kocher on his front porch when we were fourteen. I’d been glued to the pane of glass, watching and trying to suppress my gag reflex. How can she stand it? I’d wondered.

I reach for my coffee, examine the milky brown color, drop it, shuffle it a little to the left, and then look back to Hannah. She is wearing a little smirk and then she leans down close so the barista can’t hear.

“He’s still the hottest thing to come out of Hamilton High.”

If I’d taken a sip of my coffee, I would have performed a spit take all over her face.

“I take it from your reaction you two still don’t get along?” she continues.

I’m not shocked she remembers our rivalry. I think the Bush administration was briefed about our antics at one point.

“Can someone that arrogant get along with anyone?” I joke, trying to push the blame where it belongs: on Lucas.

She laughs. “You were the only one to have a problem with him. We never could figure it out. There was even a rumor going around that—”

I laugh loudly and aggressively. I need her to shut up and go have her baby somewhere.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you, and I need to get back to reading…”

She takes the hint and steps back. I wish her luck with her pregnancy and then go back to pretending to read my journal. It’s only when she walks out that I realize I never asked her what she meant by “moving his stuff upstairs.”

I’d heard they were putting lofts in some of the second stories along Main Street, but…surely he isn’t right above me right now. My spine trembles and I slowly raise my eyes to the ceiling, as if expecting drops of blood to drip on my forehead like in a horror movie.

Instead I see only exposed ductwork and wiring, and I feel like a fool. I’ve thought about Lucas for longer than I care to. It feels like I’m already losing a competition that doesn’t even exist, so for the next few minutes, I pretend I’m back at Duke, a million miles away from Lucas. The daydream does wonders for my nerves, and I can almost imagine a world in which he doesn’t exist.

After I’ve settled into the Oscar-worthy impression of calm I’m determined to exude, a door opens outside, adjacent to the coffee shop’s front entrance. I scrunch my brows and lean closer to the window, watching in slow motion as a man walks out onto the sidewalk. A man I’d hoped to avoid for a lifetime, or at least another five minutes. A man who is the very bane of my existence.

Chapter Four

My mouth dries. My hands shake. My stomach plummets and then flips over and over like a rollercoaster set to MAX SPEED. Technically, I’m getting my wish—I’m seeing him before he sees me—but my wish has changed and I want him to disappear, to go back up to his hidey-hole and stay there forever.

His back is to me and I begin an assessment of him that’s purely scientific. His hair is dark brown, thick and trimmed by someone who knows what they’re doing. He’s wearing navy slacks and a crisp white button-down. His brown leather watch matches his belt and shoes. At some point over the years, a woman must have taught him how to color coordinate, presumably before he chopped her up and turned her into jerky.

He turns to look both ways before crossing the street. He doesn’t do it because it’s what his mother taught him—I know he’s looking for me, ensuring I’m not waiting with a souped-up Ford Bronco, prepared to mow him down. For a few seconds, I’m provided with a view of his profile. Of course. I curse time and testosterone. 11 years have taken his chubby cheeks and sharpened them to hard lines. They’ve stretched his tall frame and blown it up like a muscled balloon. Without a doubt, he eats protein and has a gym membership.

In high school, he preferred contact lenses. Now, he is wearing thick black frames like he has an audition for some new superhero movie after work and he’s trying to step into the role early. Pathetic. They suit him.

Once he’s sure the coast is clear, he takes a step out onto the street. Soundlessly, I rise and tail him like an undercover cop. When I slip out of the coffee shop, Lucas doesn’t turn, but he immediately spots me in the reflection of the plate glass that fronts McCormick Family Practice—my hair is too bright to go unnoticed. Our eyes lock in the mirrored surface and neither of us turns or wavers. We’re the only ones out on the street; I could scald him with Dr. McCormick’s coffee and claim it was an accident. It would be his word against mine, and I’m adorable, but this coffee already has a purpose.

   
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