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Chapter Thirty-Five

Xavier

L ast night’s jam session was even better than the first. Less nerves, more flow. It’s weird how fast we clicked—like we could read each other’s minds or something, the music pulling us into this electric current. Cam’s layering skills, Tyler’s instinctive control, Liam’s effortless vibe—it all just works. Even between songs, we geeked out about everything from vintage amps to obscure B-sides.

They convinced me to play one of my original tunes, and a few bars in, they were joining in, building on it, until soon we'd created something even better. Raw. Real. Fucking awesome.

We spent half an hour just riffing off each other, pushing each other higher. Cam's got this incredible way of layering guitar parts, and Tyler just knows exactly when to hold back and when to let loose. And Liam… he's the most chill guy and fits into whatever we're doing. To watch him, you'd think he's checked out, but then suddenly he's sliding in and hitting the exact right vibe, adding these subtle suggestions. Or understanding exactly what vibe the rest of us are heading for and anticipating how to get there before we do, so effortlessly, it's almost uncanny.

Between obsessing over that and anticipating my second date with Maggie, I’ve been completely useless all day. Bombed a civics quiz, got called outtwicein English for spacing out, then nearly landed detention for laughing when Mrs. Layman suggested my black eye might be a concussion. I assumed she was joking. Evidently, she wasn’t.

"Hey, Space Monkey! "

Maggie’s voice cuts through the din of the parking lot. She strides up, royal blue parka over an oversized pink hoodie, and jeans with the widest legs I've ever seen in my life. Like, these things could legit cause a windstorm if she walks too fast.

All she told me in her text last night was to meet her at the orange bench outside the main doors of the Lancaster Mall after school today for our date. It's her evening off and the one night I have free this week with no hockey practice or jam session.

"Not to alarm you," I say as she steps onto the curb, "but I think your jeans swallowed an entire family of raccoons.”

She swats my arm, quilted bags swinging in her grip. "Haha."

"No seriously, blink twice if they need help."

"You're hilarious."

"Those pants are hilarious. Do you have to walk sideways to get through doorways?"

She rolls her eyes, pink waves catching the late-afternoon sun. And her freckles… I swear they multiply in good lighting.

"Don’t get me wrong," I shake my head, rubbing a hand over my jaw. "You’re still hot as hell." My gaze flickers to her lips before meeting her eyes again, amused and maybe a little wrecked.

Bingo. Her cheeks flush to the same shade of pink as her hair. But the joke's on me because it just makes her even hotter, and I have no control over the way my body reacts to this girl when she looks like that; flushed and a little bashful, glowing all over. And fuuuuck me. I need a distraction.

Maggie delivers.

"Too bad you're still ugly as a hairless mole rat," she deadpans. Then after a beat, she adds, "Thankfully your personality is growing on me."

I laugh hard. "A hairless mole rat? "

She squints one eye, mock-apologetic. "Yeah… sorry. But this—" She gestures to my face with a slow circle of her finger. "Yeah. It’s just really not good."

"That bad, huh?" I bite down on a grin .

She nods solemnly. "Yeah, I'm sorry to tell you, Xavier Rockwell, but you are tragically unattractive."

I let out a low chuckle, dragging a hand through my hair like it might help me process whatever the hell she’s doing to me. "And you, Maggie LeClair, are tragically addictive."

Her lips pop open, eyes widening before she schools her features. Not soon enough to stop the blush from creeping in again, tinting her cheeks. And those freckles.

Those freckles will be the death of me.

She's the kind of girl who doesn't surprise easily, and I get a quiet thrill knowing I've managed to do it twice already in the last five minutes.

I nod toward the colorful patchwork shopping bags dangling from her fingers. "So, what—we're running errands for our second date?"

"Nope." She grins. "We're going thrifting."

"Thrifting."

"Thrifting with rules." Her eyes sparkle with mischief.

"I feel like I should be worried."

"Oh, you should be." She hands me one of the bags, and I sort of love that it doesn't even occur to her that I might take issue with wandering around in a public place carrying an oversized ugly-as-sin shopping bag that looks like her grandmother made it out of an heirloom quilt.

Her eyebrows lift. "Want to hear the rules?"

"Hit me." I sling the bag over my shoulder.

"Okay. We each get forty bucks to pick out an outfit for the other person. That person has to wear said outfit in an Instagram selfie. With a caption chosen by the outfit chooser."

I huff out a laugh, my head dropping back for half a second. Man, this girl is devious. Luckily, it takes a lot to embarrass me, so I'm totally game. And I've got my own devious streak that runs a mile long.

She rocks back on the heels of those hideous yellow boots. "So, are you in?"

"Oh, I'm in." I grin wickedly.

"Scared? "

"Terrified… But you should be even more terrified."

Her grin is smug. "Bring it on, Rockwell."

"You have no idea what you just started, LeClair."

She tugs my sleeve toward the mall entrance. "I can't wait to see you in the sequined jumpsuit I spotted in there last week."

I halt in my tracks. "The what now?"

Her only response is a laugh that echoes through the parking lot.

"No way! " Maggie backs up, shaking her head like I’m holding a live grenade. "Uh-uh. No. No way I'm wearing that. Not in a public post."

I dangle the tiny white tank top between two fingers—cropped, obviously—enjoying the horror in her eyes. The slogan sprawled across the chest? Hot Girl Energy. A masterpiece.

Each step she takes backward, I match, until she’s cornered against the changing room wall.

"I thought you’d go over the top—like sequins or something!" Her voice cracks in desperation.

A laugh bursts out of me. "How would sequins embarrass the girl who wore a cardigan that looked like Oscar the Grouch’s long-lost cousin?"

Maggie groans, clapping her hands over her face, peeking through her fingers like the tank top might bite her. "I’m going to look like the most self-absorbed basic girl on the planet," she wails.

" The horror. " I wiggle my eyebrows, then toss her the camel-colored leggings.

She catches them, then immediately holds them at arm’s length like they’re radioactive. "No . These are so… classy. ” She spits the word like poison. “They’re the pants equivalent of a plain bagel—no cream cheese, no nothing." She shudders. "They’re elevator music in pants form. "

I lose it, laughing so hard my ribs protest. The disgust on her face is priceless. "Yeah, I’m ninety-percent sure they were designed by someone named Barbara who collects decorative spoons."

Maggie gulps in air like the sight of the leggings is physically suffocating her. “They offend me." She purses her lips. "God… do they come with a free Good Housekeeping subscription?"

"Sorry. That promo ended last week," I say solemnly, raking my teeth along my lower lip. "But the good news is they do come with a lifetime PTA membership."

She narrows her eyes at me. "Asshole." Her glare is pure murder. "You’re evil."

"Oh, we’re not done yet." I pull out the pièce de résistance: thick, dramatic false lashes and a velvet scrunchie. "Slicked-back ponytail," I instruct, twirling the scrunchie. "No wisps."

"Pureevil." She snatches the scrunchie. But her lips twitch.

Even if she puts me in a sequined jumpsuit, it’ll be worth it just to see Maggie—creative, unique, definitely not basic Maggie—forced to post a picture looking like a Pinterest board threw up on her.

"Evil?" I grin. "This whole thing was your idea, remember?"

She huffs. “I still hate you right now.” Then throws the scrunchie at my head.

I catch it and toss it back. "Alright. Show me what you got." I brace myself. Yeah, I'm a little nervous. But like I said, I don't embarrass easily.

Her eyes light up with unholy glee. "Oh, Xavier Rockwell…" She stretches out my name. "I have the perfect ensemble for you."

I narrow my eyes. "If you got me lobster pants—"

"I tried!" Maggie gasps, wheezing through her laughter. "I searched every rack. I was willing to blow my entire budget!"

"But?"

She sighs dramatically, then pulls out something worse.

Jesus Christ.

The pants she’s holding up are salmon-colored pleated chinos . The kind that say 'I summer in Nantucket and name my boats after my ex-wives.'

I swallow hard. "Those are… something. "

"Aren’t they, though?" She beams, giving them a shake. "I saw them and thought, ‘Now these just scream Xavier Rockwell.’"

"I’ll bet."

Then she pulls out the peach polo. Embroidered with a tiny silver anchor.

"Oh, wow." I stare at it like it might be cursed. "That’s horrible."

Right?" Maggie’s practically vibrating.

"The preppy trifecta," she announces, producing a pair of leather boat shoes that probably belonged to someone's grandfather. She sighs dreamily. "It'll be like you just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog." Then adds, "But like, the reject pile they wouldn't actually publish."

I can't help laughing, even as I accept my fate. "So, basically, you want me to dress exactly how youassumedI dressed when we first met?"

"Karma’s a bitch, Rockwell."

I shake my head, still grinning. " Or… you've got some weird Nantucket cardigan kink and you're lusting to see me rock my inner tennis-dad."

Maggie loses it, laughing so hard she doubles over. "Oh, Xave… nothing turns me on more than a guy in a well-fitted cable-knit sweater."

I smirk. "Not as much as I get turned on by a fit girl in a ‘Hot Girl Energy’ crop top."

"So, win-win for both of us, then."

Looking at her, pink hair wild, eyes bright with laughter, I realize I'm grinning for real. "Yeah.Definitely win-win."

Our eyes lock for a second and something passes between us that neither of us is willing to examine too closely right now. Instead, we both change into our paid-for outfits, then exit the changing rooms at the same time after a countdown.

The two of us burst into laughter at first sight. We look like a couple of goons. Okay—Maggie still looks hot as shit. Ridiculous, but stunning.

I just look like a total douche.

Maggie makes us drive to the Welsford Country Club for my photo shoot. Because, of course she does .

She forces me to lounge in a plaid wing-back chair, holding a tennis racket like I own the damn club. Looking so smarmy, I want to kick my own ass.

Seriously. I look like the kind of guy who uses the word 'summer' as a verb.

Then she adds a sticker to the post: Serving aces on and off the court.

And captions it: Wednesday afternoons are for tennis at the Club with the boys and singing show tunes around the piano. #CountryClubLife #ServingInStyle #AcesOnly #ClubCourtGoals #MusicalSingalong

The second she hits post, her smugness shatters. Because less than a minute later, likes and comments start pouring in.

Leah: OMG i love tennis! Jen: The fit [fire emoji] Cammi: tennis is the best [tennis racket emoji] Victoria: fuuuuuuun Welsford Country Club: So pleased you're enjoying the indoor courts. We agree Country Club Life is the best! Seb: wtf bro? this a dare???

A pile of heart emojis. And musical notes and tennis emojis.

Maggie gapes at my phone. " No. No way. These people cannot be serious right now." She jabs at the screen. "Look at this! The Welsford actually reposted it to their stories!"

I'm laughing so hard my ribs hurt. "What did you expect?"

"I expected people to roast you! Instead, they’re all like, ‘OMG tennis is life!’ and ‘Love this vibe!’" She sighs, flopping back dramatically in the passenger seat. "What a bunch of brunch-drunk lemmings."

That sets me off again.

"Stop laughing." But she’s fighting a smile. "This was supposed to be embarrassing for you." She keeps scrolling. "Oh, ha! I knew I liked Scarlett."

I lean over to check out Scarr's comment.

Scarlett: u look like a tool. As in – the kind of knobhead who asks for extra ice in their rosé

"Alright, LeClair." I reach for her phone. "Hand it over. Your turn."

She groans. "Oh my God, this was a terrible idea."

"Too late." I pull up her Instagram.

Maggie’s photo? Duck lips. Side-eye. Leg pop. Starbucks cup in hand.

I type the caption: Sassy, Classy, and a Little Bad-Assy. #FlawlessAF #HotterThanYourEx #AllEyesOnMe #SelfieQueen #NoFilter #SippingAndSlaying #WokeUpLikeThis #TooGlamToGiveaDamn #SorryNotSorry #SelfieGameUnmatched

I add the Paris filter and hit post just as she lunges for the phone. "You used like ten hashtags!"

"Yup." I pop the p.

"And a no-filter hashtag when you clearly used a filter? You can't do that!"

"Just did." I smirk, pulling her phone out of reach.

"That's against the rules! That's doubly humiliating. God, you're such a…a frosty meatball."

I laugh at the insult, then glance at her phone screen. "Ohhh… we have some comments rolling in." I scroll down while Maggie looks on through the narrow gaps between her fingers, hands covering her face.

"Well, we have lots of likes," I grin. "Seems you have some matching-sweater-set lemming followers too, Ms. LeClair." I read on. "Annnd… some fire emojis… eye emojis… hearts, hearts, tons of fucking hearts. More fire… Annnd… I read off the comments, still coming in.

Drea: love the 'fit Marianne: slay Ryenne: wtf r u wearing?? Beck: hawt Laney: no way u posted this of ur own free will Silas: #SelfieQueen #LiveLoveLaugh #OnFleek #ClicheAF – Did i miss any? Chris: Dare??? Liam: [fire emoji] Sierra: do u need saving??

I clutch my ribs, laughing.

"I think I'm going to die," Maggie moans.

"Okay, but fair warning—if the funeral is open casket, you're wearing that outfit."

She smacks my arm. "You're such a floppy pancake."

"Thought I was a frosty meatball."

"You're both."

" You're fucking adorable."

She freezes. " What? "

"You heard me." I smirk, handing her phone back. "You… are adorable."

She watches me for a second, nose scrunched. Which makes her look even more adorable. Also draws my eyes to those freckles again. Nothing adorable about those; they're flat-out hot.

She tilts her head. "I don't know what to say to that."

"Then don't say anything."

We lock eyes, something passing between us, and if either of us had the balls to call a spade a spade, we'd call it attraction.

Fuck it.

I slide my tongue along my lower lip. Swallow. "I wish I could kiss you right now," I tell her.

Her eyes stretch a little wider and there's a brief flicker of surprise, but she doesn't look away. "I wish you could too. "

I grin. "Fucking rules."

"Yeah." She smiles, and she looks almost bashful.

I was kind of hoping she would disregard her kissing rule, but I also kind of love that she doesn't. Because it's so her. Steadfast and tough and true to her values. Also, random. Kinda quirky.

I lean in and pull the scrunchie from her ponytail, and her pink hair tumbles out in chunky waves around her face. I toss the scrunchie over my shoulder into the back seat.

"Hey!" she laughs.

"There." I grin back. "Much better."

"God, what will they say at the next PTA meeting?"

I chuckle, then let the smile fade as I meet her eyes. "Thanks… for the date. I had fun."

"Me too." Maggie fidgets with her phone. "Even though I might need to book a couple therapy sessions to deal with the trauma of that Insta post."

"A couple hot yoga classes and some green tea and you'll be fine."

"Hey, I actually like green tea!"

"No one likes green tea." I roll my eyes. "And anyone who says they do is lying."

Maggie's laugh fills the car. "You're such a snooty sausage."

"You do an awful lot of name-calling. Maybe pick one and stick with it."

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "What would be the fun in that?"

"True. Name-call away."

"Thanks, Stud Nugget. I will." She shifts in her seat, shoving lightly with her hand against my knee. "So… third date? You game?"

"Damn straight." I lean back against the headrest. "I'm holding out for that third-date kiss."

"That's a lot of pressure on a girl."

Something about her words doesn't sit right. I reach over and nudge her knee the same way she just did with me. "You know I'm joking, right? I don't want you to feel any kind of pressure." I tilt my chin down slightly, my gaze serious. " There doesn't even have to be a kiss or… anything. If you're not feeling it." I flick my eyes over her face, slow and deliberate. "Seriously. I mean that."

Her smile softens and she studies me for a second with this look that makes me feel like she gets the sincerity in my words, and it feels like a connection.

I can't help wondering if maybe this is how it feels to start something that changes everything.

Finally, she shrugs, her smile ticking up in a way that's familiar. "It's fine." She licks her lips and I'm not even sure she realizes what a turn-on it is. Then she says. "I made the rule; I'm not worried… It'll be worth the wait."

Man, I love her confidence. Makes me like the anticipation even more.

"So." I glance over her shoulder out the window, then back at her. "I guess the next date is my turn to plan."

"You don't have to."

"I want to… I kind of like the whole 'date' thing."

We go over timing, and plan for Saturday evening, when she has the night off. Once I've dropped her off and I'm driving to meet the guys to jam, I'm already thinking ahead, planning the next date. I'm determined for it to be perfect. Because this isn’t just another girl, another distraction. This is something I can’t mess up. I don't want to disappoint this girl who has high standards and high values and high hopes for everything she does.

And I hate that my father's words from the other day pulse like a threat in the back of my head with that realization; in response to my determination not to let her down.

"I'm starting to think that being a disappointment is simply your natural state, boy."

I remind myself that those words are just his opinion. But man, do opinions have a way of making themselves feel like the truth. And if that's the case, then I’m in trouble with this girl. And I’m not even trying to stop it.