Gathering up my courage, I find the Johnsons’ number in the thin town directory again and dial. Ethan answers almost right away.
“Oh, hey,” I start, hesitant. Calling someone, (i.e., a boy,) feels weird, like I’m pushing the friendship to another level, but Ethan doesn’t sound fazed at all.
“Hi, Jenna. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. I actually need some advice.” I check the hallway for signs of Fiona and then retreat back onto the porch.
“Go ahead.”
“I’m, umm, trying to get Fiona out of the house tonight, and I wondered if you knew anything she’d go for.” I keep my voice low. “You’ve known her for years, right?”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s easy.”
“It is?”
I’m still thinking of chloroform and blindfolds when he says, “Sure, we’ll just play some Rock Band.”
I pause. “Like, the video game?” The thought of Fiona plus social interaction does not compute.
“We do it all the time,” he says. “She’s pretty vicious when it comes to the drums.”
“I can imagine that.”
“So I’ll set it up?” Ethan offers. “Tonight, our place?”
“Perfect.” I grin. “I’ll explain everything later.”
Susie is sitting in her makeshift office, frowning at a spreadsheet when I poke my head around the door. “Hey, are you going to be around tonight?”
She looks up. “Sure, maybe.”
“Well, I was thinking,” I begin, crossing my fingers. “If you’re not doing anything with Adam, then maybe we could spend the evening together — watch a movie or something.”
“That sounds nice.” Susie smiles at me weakly. “It’s a date.”
After that, all it takes is a quick call to Adam, requesting his presence this evening for a “special surprise,” and everything is set. Well, almost everything . . .
With my trusty notebook and thin-tipped marker, I get back into planning mode, quickly jotting down a list until I’ve got every angle covered. Since there are no romantic restaurants in Stillwater — and the greasy burgers at the pub really don’t count — I decide a home-cooked meal is the way to go. Unfortunately, event planning in Stillwater is kind of a different challenge compared to planning something back home. To start, there’s no handy mall packed full of design props: the hardware store is about all I’ve got, and it doesn’t have much going for it in terms of atmosphere — unless you count camping lamps and mosquito-repellent incense sticks as part of the perfect ambiance.
Thwarted, I move on to groceries. I figure a tried-and-true classic is a better bet than some ambitious haute cuisine project that could leave me with burned pans and empty plates. Then I see the full range of the tiny corner grocery store: frozen food packages and canned goods. Bracing myself, I begin a careful hunt of the dusty shelves. If Jeremiah B. Coombes can conjure a three-course meal out of some tree roots and a stray rabbit, then surely I can make something. . . .
“Let me guess: pasta carbonara.”
I bump into Reeve as I’m browsing the aisles in futile search of fresh herbs. He’s wearing a black vest that somehow makes his eyes look darker than usual, his faded jeans slung low from a plain nylon belt.
“Umm.” I pause, my mind going blank. We haven’t really been alone since that weird scene at the lake. I follow his gaze to my basket of bacon, cream, and cheese, and collect myself. “Oh, right! That’s the plan, anyway. It’s Susie and Adam’s anniversary,” I explain. “I thought they deserved something special. Only, my cooking skills . . .”
“Are something like your kayaking skills?” He smiles quietly. A smile! I’m so happy he’s in a friendly mood, I don’t even take offense.
“Something like that,” I agree, before adding shyly, “What about you — a taste for pickles?” His basket is full of them, along with gherkins and some pickled beetroot.
Reeve makes a face. “Not me, my mom. She’s into her craving phase. Last week she was grossing us out with morning sickness; now she wants vinegar and onions.”
“She’s pregnant? That’s great, congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He nods, looking around before adding, “She’s not due for a while yet, hence the crazy food combos.” He pauses. “I heard about the Rock Band night.”
“You’re coming along? Great!” I hear my own voice come out, way too enthusiastic. I cough. “I mean, it should be fun.”
“Maybe.” He assesses me shrewdly. “This group thing wouldn’t have anything to do with those dinner plans . . .”
“You got me,” I admit. “I’ve got food and Fiona covered; there’s just the location left. The house is such a mess. I think I’ll be spending the afternoon sweeping sawdust shavings.”
“Have fun with that.” He laughs, almost sarcastic, but still good-natured enough that I don’t feel attacked.
“I’ll try,” I reply, spotting the box of chicken stock behind him. “Could you?” I gesture. He ducks, and I reach past his head to get it.
“Well, I better deliver these, before she starts wanting something else completely. Maybe I’ll see you tonight?”
I nod. “I’ll drag Fiona there kicking and screaming.”
“Now that I will turn up to see.” He gives me another grin and then saunters toward the checkout, but something makes me call after him.
“Reeve?”
He turns back, questioning.
“I, umm, I’m sorry. If I . . . offended you or something.” The words spill out of my mouth in a rush, and I can feel that heat as my cheeks begin to color. “With all that stuff about the environment? I didn’t mean . . . I mean, I didn’t . . .” I trail off, lost. I don’t know how to put it. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say; I just feel like I need to say something.
Reeve looks away, awkward. “Uh, don’t worry. I shouldn’t have . . .”
“But I —”
“You didn’t . . .” He shifts uncomfortably, a muscle in his arm twitching as he swings his basket back and forth. “You know, it’s not your fault. I kind of overreacted.”
“Oh. But still . . .”
We stand there, looking anywhere but at each other for a moment. Then I snap out of it. “I, umm, should probably get back to . . .” I wave my basket as some kind of evidence.