“You want me to buy you dinner?” He doesn’t sound opposed to the idea, so I take this as a positive sign.
“I do,” I say without hesitation, visualizing chips and salsa and a giant margarita. “I definitely want you to buy me dinner, Caleb. And a drink. Maybe two.”
“I’m not twenty-one yet,” he says.
“You will be soon,” I remind him, knowing for a fact that he turns twenty-one in August.
“Right and your birthday is in February,” he says. “You’ll be twenty-three.”
It should not charm me that he remembers my birthday. It shouldn’t charm me at all.
“I’ve always liked older women,” he continues. “They’ve shown me a thing or two over the years.”
I roll my eyes. Hard. “Gross. You just ruined everything.”
“Did that get me out of buying you dinner?” He sounds hopeful.
“Nope. You’re still on the hook for buying me some tacos and a margarita,” I say.
“Damn,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound upset. Not at all.
I think he’s pleased.
Five
Caleb
Yet another argument with Gracie that felt more like foreplay. Is she really that pissed I told Noelle we were a couple?
Yeah, okay. Probably. But shit, what was I supposed to do? That girl wouldn’t get off my dick. She was practically planning our wedding. I had to say something to stop her from chasing after me.
Looks like declaring Gracie as my girlfriend might’ve done the trick.
We argued, but now Gracie is happy with me paying for her margarita, which she is currently sucking down like a champ. We’re at the Mexican restaurant of her choice, a place I’ve never been to, but I’m digging the chips and salsa so I’m good.
The restaurant is busy, and there are big screen TVs everywhere, broadcasting the same baseball game. The San Francisco Giants, the local favorite. “I used to play baseball,” I say to Gracie.
Her gaze fills with interest. “Really? When?”
“Started out playing T-ball. Played league for a while. Even played the first two years of high school, but quit after my sophomore year. Got tired of it. Wanted to focus on football instead,” I explain before I grab another chip and dunk it in salsa.
“Were you any good?” she asks.
I grin. “I was fucking great, if you must know. My coach tried to convince me to stay on the team, but I wouldn’t.”
“You could’ve continued both and been a double threat,” she points out.
“It was a lot of work. Too many practices. I wanted to have fun the last two years in high school. Not practice all the time,” I admit.
“Hmm. Well, I guess this is where I admit I played basketball,” she tells me, her expression vaguely mortified.
“No shit?” This doesn’t surprise me. She’s pretty athletic. She runs a lot in the early morning, though I’m not a fan of that. More that I don’t want her to get hit by a car or attacked by some creep or whatever.
Gracie nods. “In middle school and most of high school. I was on the track team too. I lettered in track all four years.”
“You weren’t a cheerleader?”
“No. Sorry to ruin that fantasy,” she says with a smile, just before she reaches for that drink again. Her glass is half empty and the margarita was huge in the first place, so girl is gonna get lit here real soon. And Gracie is always a good time when she’s got alcohol in her.
“You’d look good in a short skirt,” I tell her, not holding back.
“I look even better in short shorts and a tank, running like a beast around the track,” she says with a laugh. “I was fast.”
“I bet.” She’s always running away from me, that’s for damn sure.
“I’m still fast.”
“I don’t doubt you. You’re also pretty strong.” I’ve seen her out on the dock. Most girls are afraid to move the boats because it means they have to drive them, and some of the pontoon boats are huge. Long.
Like my dick.
Damn, I even make crude jokes in my head.
Gracie hasn’t hesitated once out on the dock. We were crazy busy last Saturday with all the boats coming back in, and we needed help because we were falling behind. She jumped right in and steered one of the bigger patio boats we rent out straight into its slip. I was impressed. All the guys were. We paused in the middle of whatever we were doing and burst into applause once she jumped off the boat, and I even whistled at her.
She smiled and bowed, looked awfully pleased with herself.
“Thanks,” she says with a smile, her hands curved around her giant glass. “You’re pretty strong too. Do you work out?”
She bats her eyelashes at me, and I know she’s kidding.
“We start conditioning next month,” I tell her and when she frowns, I continue, “the football team.”
“Will that cut into your work hours?” she asks.
“I’ll just have to rearrange my schedule. It’ll get really busy, juggling both, but I don’t have a choice,” I say. “I need the money.”
“I get it. I need the money too,” she says with a sigh.
This is what we have in common, Gracie and me. Besides the whole we can’t commit thing, we also come from middle-class families. Normal families who make average incomes and do average things. It was easy for me to be jealous of one of my best friends when we were in high school. Jake Callahan comes from money and fame, with his mega rich ex-NFL quarterback dad, and he had everything he could ever want. Constant access to exclusive football training, besides the natural ability he inherited from his father. Plus, Jake always had the best clothes, the best car, the best everything.
I resented him for it for a while, though I never talked about my feelings to anyone. I know our friend Diego resented him too. He comes from even less money than I do. But Jake never acted like a jackass around us. He never bragged either. Hell, he shared his wealth, and his father was cool enough to take the time to actually coach us. I learned a lot from Drew Callahan. He’s still coaching our high school football team, though that’s also because baby Callahan is currently on the team.
Talk about lucky, having the Drew Callahan coaching us.
That’s how I turned my head around. I wasn’t jealous anymore. I took advantage where I could. And I realized Jake Callahan was a dope friend who took care of his crew no matter what. He became one of my closest friends. Man do I miss that guy.
We all do. He’s currently at USC, killing it as their star quarterback. He’ll be drafted by the NFL for sure.
“I bet you were ridiculous in high school,” Gracie says, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on top of her fist as she contemplates me. “A complete player. Popular. All the girls chased after you.”
“Wrong,” I say. “I chased after the girls.”
“I’m sure it was a mutual thing,” she says.
I shrug, but don’t say anything. Honestly, I was awful. In the early years of high school, I went through pretty much all the girls in our class, making them mad or frustrated or they’d end up flat-out hating me. With the exception of Baylee, who I messed around with on the side the entirety of our senior year, never once admitting to anyone that we were together.