Chapter Ten: I Hate The Doorbell
Chapter 10: I Hate The Doorbell
It's 5:50 a.m., and Operation Get Shawn Henderson Out of My House has commenced.
I get up and make the guest bed, and then trudge into the bathroom and wipe down the counter and the shower, straightening out the rug and throwing out the plastic wrapper of Shawn's toothbrush.
When all is in order and the evidence gone, I march up to where Shawn is sound asleep on the sofa.
It's a loveseat and too small for him. He's lying there rolled up into a ball, completely defenseless, his dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks, and his pink lips parted in the smallest of pouts. He doesn't have that snide, self-important expression he always wears, and he looks so much better without it.
I watch him and enjoy the silence. This is the first moment in our entire acquaintanceship in which I'm not irritated in his company. Looking at him now, so innocent and childlike, makes it easy to forget how much of a douchebag he actually is.
I hate to ruin the moment, but time is short and I want him out of here.
I take a step back, shifting my weight to my left leg, and prod him in the ribs with the toes of my right foot. He squirms and tries to roll over, but he's on a sofa, not a bed, and he simply comes crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
I snort as he groans, blinking up at me, and I don't give him too much time to gather his senses. "Get up now. Get your shoes. You have two minutes to get out of here."
To my relief, he acts without a word, gathering up his stuff, and as I begin climbing the stairs, he's right behind me. From the top of the stairs, I scan the basement, making sure everything is in order, and turn off the light.
I face the door of the basement and draw a deep breath, placing my hand on the doorknob. Carefully and slowly, I open it just a crack and peek through. After several seconds, I exhale and open the door wide.
I creep out with Shawn keeping close to my back. I pause to scan the living room, too, and motion for him to follow. We quietly steal into the kitchen. I slowly unlock the back door, knowing that the key tends to creak if turned too quickly.
"Go over the hedge to the neighbor's and come to the street from there. That way, my mom won't see you when she opens the curtains," I whisper to Shawn urgently. He looks at me attentively with wide blue eyes, examines the low hedge I mentioned, and nods.
I don't know what his act is now, and I don't care. As long as he gets out of here and all this will just be another bad dream, I'm fine. "See you soon, Fee," he whispers, and brushes past me to get out the door. I'm ready to close it with my hand on the doorknob.
He pauses in the doorway, turns his head to me, and then, almost nonchalantly, almost as an afterthought, plants his lips on mine.
I should've known he'd do something like this. I retreat against the door, and he takes that as an invitation to press in, deepening his kiss. His tongue parts my lips and slides over my front teeth, brushing against my own tongue. He angles his hips to mine, and I pinch his elbow, meaning to push him back.
But I sort of don't.
I allow his tongue to dart deeper into my mouth, lingering, savoring. My breath is caught in my chest and I shudder. I can't believe I'm just letting this happen.
And that it feels so good.
He pulls away to show me his grin of triumph and rushes outside. He looks back at me just before he leaps over the neighbor's hedge and winks.
I watch him leave. It's fine. He can have this one little victory.
I'm ambivalent about kissing. I've tried it out several times over the years. I've even practiced kissing with Esmeralda. Kissing alone without lust or emotions backing it up is just wet. I've had kisses in the past that were downright unpleasant when the other party thought that eating half my face or biting off my lips was appropriate practice.
But Shawn . . . he's a good kisser. He didn't get to where he did in the girl department without learning a trick or two. His lips were the right amount of firm and soft; his tongue had felt smooth against mine. I'm still hot as hell from before and cursing my body for burning with pent-up desire.
I liked it. I want more—and that makes me furious.
I close the door and lock it. Then, I pad across the kitchen and the living room and creep up the stairs. I can hear my parents' muffled voices from their bedroom down the hall, and then I open the door to my room and duck inside.
It was easier than I thought it would be. I sigh with relief.
Mission accomplished.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I hop down the stairs, dressed and ready for school, and find my parents sitting in the kitchen. "Morning, sweetie," Dad says weakly, mustering up his best fake smile. As always on a day of a court appearance, he looks awful. "Sleep well?"
"I've had better nights," I say while getting milk from the fridge and a bowl and a spoon from the drawers.
"Me too." My dad never gives me time to ask his questions back at him. He always asks me how I am just to tell me how he is.
I examine Dad's breakfast when I sit down at the table. Baked beans, egg-white omelet, one piece of toasted rye bread. I nod, satisfied that at least at home he's eating right.
Dad sags with relief when his breakfast passes inspection.
My dad had a small heart attack over the summer. I don't trust him to not die suddenly, so I went over everything the doctor wrote and planned his meals for him. He usually listens to me; he's more afraid of me than of dying from heart failure.
What does that say about him? Or about mankind in general?
My mom looks up from her huge mug of black filter coffee, determined to show some kind of involvement in the conversation, but she just isn't a morning person.
She grunts like a caveman. Dad and I look over at her. She looks back into her coffee.
We accept Mom the way she is. It's the effort that counts, after all.
I pour milk over my cereal and crunch my breakfast in silence. Just another morning. Another weekday begins. The whole issue with Shawn never happened. I can't let my guard down, especially after that kiss. Even now, he's doubtlessly plotting his next move.
And he's likely going to step up his game.
But for now, I—
Ding, dong.
The doorbell causes the three of us to freeze and shatters the budding normalcy of this morning.
"Who could it be at this hour?" my mom asks in her sleepy zombie voice.
Who, indeed! I let my spoon fall from my fingers and set my palms flat against the tabletop. I eye the butter knife. Would it make a good murder weapon?
"It's probably Mr. Jacobs asking about the cat again," Dad says, getting to his feet. Mr. Jacobs from down the street loses one of his cats every week, and they keep ending up in our yard for some reason.
It isn't Mr. Jacobs, I know.
I silently get to my feet and follow my dad to the front door.
Ding, dong, goes the bell once again.
"Coming," Dad calls, taking the last few steps and opening the door.
There stands Shawn Henderson, gloriously ruffled hair tossing in the autumn breeze, and shadowed blue eyes.
"Morning, Mr. Green," he says with the brightest smile I've ever seen him wear. It's the smile of a champion who's one step closer to his destination. It's not about getting laid; for him, it's all about winning the game. That's what makes a player, a player. He thinks this is checkmate.
"Shawn! What a surprise! What brings you here so early in the morning?" My dad doesn't care what the answer to his question is. He's excited about the novelty of the situation. "Lizzy, it's Shawn, Bobby's boy." He turns around to report the shocking news to my mom.
Mom hobbles up to the door, coffee mug in hand—of course she can't leave it on the table. She forms an emotional attachment to her coffee. "Shawn," she coos.
"Mrs. Green, I've come to pick up Sophie for school," he says with a smug grin.
My eyebrow begins to twitch. Shawn sees this, and his smile deepens.
"Come in!" Dad cries excitedly.
"Isn't that Sophie's T-shirt?" Mom asks, suddenly fully awake. "And what happened to your face?"
The adorable puppy printed on my "Friends on Four" T-shirt stares at me with large, sad eyes from where it's plastered across Shawn's broad chest. I got it when Esmeralda pushed me into volunteering at a dog shelter freshman year. Hey, even potential sociopaths adore puppies. He couldn't go to school covered in blood, and it's the only T-shirt I own that's big enough to fit Shawn.
I hate him, but there's a touch of respect too. This is the work of a person truly dedicated to his goals. I'm sure now that it was all an act. All of it, from the 4:20 wake-up call to right this very moment. All an elaborate scheme to bring me to this outcome. He knew my weaknesses and how to exploit them.
And I fell for it.
"The bruise is just from basketball practice yesterday. And actually," Shawn says nervously. His smile becomes bashful as he steps up to me and hangs his arm over my shoulders, pulling me close against him. "Sophie and I are dating."
Oh.
Well.
Damn.
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