Page 15 of Square Waves (Big Fan #2)

XIV

We spend an hour at Indian Rock, and then another one. Eventually the wine is gone, and the sun is setting. Willa and I are lying on our backs, watching the sky’s blue fade, when Leon and Bryce come back to our blanket. “We’re hungry,” Bryce announces. “Wanna get tacos or something?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Willa sits up, shakes the grass out of her hair. “Tacos, Cass?”

“Tacos.” I agree.

The four of us start gathering up plates and cups. We’re all moving slowly, soaking up the last of the summer evening. I can’t remember the last time I felt this unhurried.

Willa decides she’s better off not driving—we’re both pleasantly tipsy—and we all pile into Bryce’s car. The backseat is big enough that Leon and I aren’t touching, but I can still feel the warmth of his body radiating in the space between us.

“You guys have a good climb?” I ask.

He nods, gives me a goofy grin that flashes his dimple.

“Nice.”

“Oh, hey, you’ve got—” He leans over and plucks a blade of grass from my hair. I have to resist the urge to turn into the contact. I glance at the rearview mirror, and I catch Willa smirking at me.

Leon twirls the blade of grass between two fingers. “Did you guys have a nice time lying around?” he asks.

“We had a really good conversation, actually,” Willa says, all innocence. I swing my legs hard enough to accidentally-on-purpose kick the back of her seat.

“We did,” I concede.

“About what?” Bryce asks.

“What success actually feels like,” I say before Willa can try to slip in any little double entendre.

Pulling up to a dive bar with a taco truck parked out front halts the conversation.

As soon as we get out of the car, I’m hit with the smell of onions sizzling in the fat from carnitas, and my stomach rumbles.

Leon insists on paying for the food we overorder, and so I insist on buying everyone a round of beers.

I go inside to grab them while the rest of the group takes our dinner to picnic tables set up out back.

I sidle up to the bar, flicking my hair over my shoulder. It’s a bit of a cheap trick.

The bartender doesn’t notice, but a guy a few stools down does. He’s my age, maybe a few years older, with dark curly hair and big, broad shoulders. He looks like he could bench-press me one-handed if he felt like it.

“Hey,” he calls.

“Hey.” I turn another few degrees toward the bartender, trying to gently convey my disinterest. It’s not this guy’s fault I’m sort of exclusively into lanky surfer types recently.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, a little more loudly now.

“Oh, no thanks.”

“Why not?”

Jesus, he will not take a hint. I pivot to face him. “Because I’m here with some friends,” I say. “And I’m actually buying them—” It’s then that I realize my mistake. Because now this guy has had a chance to get a good look at my face. And to recognize me.

“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re”—he snaps his fingers—“Cassidy Weaver.”

I’ve been experiencing variations on this moment for six years now.

How I handle it depends on who, where, their tone of voice, and the look in their eye.

My usual line for this kind of encounter—casual, glancing—is to smile brightly and say, “No, but I get that all the time. I must just look like her, I guess.” But I’m so startled that it takes me too long to get the words out, and I can tell instantly that it’s not my most convincing performance.

He narrows his eyes, clearly trying to decide if he’s going to argue with me or not. But then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Leon. I step toward him, taking shelter in his body like a ship in a storm.

“Oh, I see,” the guy says. He winks at us. “Nice work, man.”

I flinch. Leon looks down at me, eyes flashing a mixture of indignation and concern. I shake my head. I’m not interested in any sort of redress aside from this dude leaving us alone.

Leon’s mouth thins to an angry line. But he takes my lead and leans against the bar so that he’s blocking everything else from my line of sight. “I was gonna ask if you needed help carrying,” he says. “But clearly you need help ordering. Once again.”

I smile weakly. Roll my eyes for show.

“You okay?” he adds, his voice quieter.

I take a long breath, blow it out slowly. “I’m okay.”

“Was he—”

“Just recognized me. That’s all.”

Leon shakes his head. Then he does something I don’t expect: He reaches toward me, offering the curve of his arm for me to tuck into.

For once, I don’t hesitate. I take the comfort he’s offering and nestle myself against his body. I’ve never allowed myself the simple solace of anything like this: resting my head against his chest, closing my eyes to shut out the rest of the world.

I stay there while he motions to the bartender, orders everyone’s beers. I inhale the smell of him, soak up his warmth, and take the time I need to compose myself. To recover from the shock of being reminded that even when I think I’m safe, if I’m in public, I’m always exposed.

I extricate myself to pay the tab. Leon tries to shoo me away, but I don’t let him. “I’ve got it,” I say.

To his credit, he believes me.

One of the many reasons I don’t date is because of moments like these and how most men handle them.

They puff up, get macho, disregard my desire to escape the situation as quickly and calmly as possible.

They think they’re responsible for me and somehow manage to ignore me—what I actually want and need—in their efforts to be my protector.

I watch Leon’s back as we carry the drinks out to Willa and Bryce. The easy motion of his shoulders, his spine, his hips as he walks. The ease he has with his body and that he felt no need to use it as anything but an offering to me.

He shoots me one last questioning look as we sit down, and when I don’t say anything, neither does he. Willa and Bryce are in the middle of a debate about flour versus corn tortillas, and we slip into that instead.

Once we’ve finished eating, Willa gets one last drink, Bryce heads to the bathroom, and it’s just the two of us again. Leon was so bafflingly cool about the whole thing that I feel compelled to acknowledge what went down. “Thanks,” I say, nodding vaguely back toward the bar. “For, you know.”

“Yeah. No problem.” Leon props an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand, regarding me.

“I hate it when that happens.”

“No shit.”

I laugh. “No, I know, obviously. But especially when it happens in front of other people. It always reminds me—” I cut myself off.

There are too many ends to that sentence.

It reminds me of what I did; it reminds me of how people see me.

It reminds me that even people like Leon, who know the real me, have to know about all of that too.

“I’m sorry it’s still so... heavy for you.”

I have to drop my gaze to the scarred wood of our table.

Heavy is exactly what it is. And the way Leon held me earlier—how easily he took care of me then, how he’s letting me talk about it on my own terms now—it’s the closest I’ve come to feeling like anyone might ever want to, let alone be able to, help me carry it.

The thought should feel comforting. Instead, it’s terrifying.