Not much beat the moment we came from behind to win the game—Sheet Cake’s first of the season. It sure was nice having the Bobs nod their approval, even if they did also promise they’d be giving me their notes at practice tomorrow morning.
And those are just the football highlights. All of them paled in comparison to the moment Lindy grabbed my face and kissed me. My foot lands a little heavier on the gas pedal at the memory of her hands, her lips, her closeness …
Unfortunately, I’m not fast enough. By the time I make it home, all the lights are off and everyone is asleep. Even Elvis, in a corner on the porch.
You only had one job, Lucky Shirt. ONE. JOB.
Disappointment floods me as I walk through the quiet house. It’s not an easy crash coming down from the high of Lindy’s kiss and our big win. I was really hoping to talk about what it meant. Or maybe just kiss some more, then talk. Kiss, then talk. Talk, then kiss. Kiss, talk, kiss. Talk, kiss, talk, kiss. The order doesn’t matter, so long as there is talking and kissing. But I guess I won’t be getting either tonight.
Why do I have the feeling that tomorrow she’s going to pretend like the kiss never happened?
I glance at the TV Lindy bought me, a small sign—literally, the thing is tiny—that she cares. When my big flat-screen arrived, I hid it in the barn. Her gift means more than a screen size.
I climb the steps slowly, skipping the super creaky one near the top. Then again, maybe I could use it to my advantage …
Backtracking, I put both feet on that step and shift my weight back and forth until it makes a screechy creak that could wake a mummy from its tomb. I pause to listen, but only hear Lindy’s steady breathing. Does she HAVE to be such a sound sleeper? I give the creaky step a few more bounces until I hear Amber groan downstairs.
Fine. I give up. Lindy sleeps deeper than the dogs. Noted.
Changing into pajamas, I leave my not-so-lucky shirt on the closet floor so it can think about what it’s done. Every night in this house has continued to be torture. Beautiful, exquisite, gut-wrenching torture. Tonight, though, I feel like Odysseus, needing my crew to tie me to the mast so I don’t heed the sirens’ call. Only, I don’t have a crew, a rope, or a mast.
What I do have is a fully charged phone, a strong Wi-Fi signal, and the pen name Lindy has been writing under. I’m sure she never meant for me to find the printed-out article with her secret writing name, just like I never meant to snoop in her office when I left the mail on her desk.
I knew it was Lindy the minute I saw the byline. And boy, did it give me a thrill. I mean, Birdie Graham? Birdie, as in, Lindybird—the nickname I gave her. And, duh—Graham. As in ME.
Now, if I could only get her to change her actual last name …
I locate Birdie Graham’s latest post and can’t stop the grin spreading across my face. Four Underrated Parts of a Man, huh? Well, well, well. What a fascinating topic for some late-night reading.
Settling in for what’s sure to be scintillating literature, I begin to read.
From The Neighborly App
Subject: Flaming Squirrels
LindyLouWho
For your viewing pleasure, I give you: Flaming Squirrels. Consider this video a cautionary tale about lack of grill maintenance.
1BigBass
This only gives me more reason to hate squirrels. Also, they’re not so bad grilled. If he’d just left them in there for a while, you’d have had dinner.
BagelBytes
I hope you got rabies shots! I also hope you had permission to post this video.
DeltaDeltaDelta Even when being attacked by squirrels, Patrick Graham is a total hottie. It had to be said.
Vanz