How to Quit Your Crush Read online

  In Loving Memory, Thomas Reed Adams

  “Sorry, Dad.” I step off the chair.

  “Why are you apologizing?”

  “Because you put him up with the china we never use.”

  “He can see out the window.”

  I roll my eyes. We go through this ritual every three or four months when Mom decides he needs a change of scenery. “You know, when Dad said he wished he’d done more traveling, this is not what he meant.”

  She swats my arm and then sighs, tipping her head back to study the urn.

  I squeeze her shoulder, glad that I can’t feel the bones anymore. She’s finally putting weight back on. “He won’t be up there for long.”

  A week from Saturday, it’ll be three years since Dad died. Ever since, we’ve been trying to figure out where to spread his ashes. “Troy thinks he should travel between our houses—stay with you, then with him, then with me when I have my own place.”

  “That’s a possibility.” Mom nods.

  Mom always nods, always says, That’s a possibility. I don’t think she’s ready to let him go. I don’t think she ever will be. But it’s killing me, seeing him here, stuck in this house where he died way too young.

  “I think he should be outdoors. In the world. Not stuck in a box.”

  “It would have to be the perfect spot.”

  “That’s what I’m going to figure out this summer.”

  Dad had a bucket list of mountain bike trails across the western U.S. from San Diego to Washington State that he wanted to ride. He kept maps and a journal of ideas. He never made it to a single one, but this summer, he’s going to see them. With me. “I’ll send you pictures from each spot. You’ll help me decide.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Mom. Anywhere is better than next to a gravy bowl.”

  “Your father loved gravy.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are.” She rests her head on my shoulder. My dad was the tall one. Troy, at six-foot two, got his height. He likes to gloat over the three inches he has on me, but I got the more athletic build. We’ve had some epic wrestling matches over the years, though Troy says he’s put on muscle, so we’ll see.

  I miss him. He couldn’t get back for graduation, not with the surf shop moving into its busiest season. But I’ll be out there soon.

  “I love you for what you’re trying to do,” Mom continues. “But I worry about you. All by yourself.”

  “I won’t be by myself. I’ll be with Dad.” A lump the size of a baseball fills my throat. He should be here. Driving his own ass around the country in the Airstream he always wanted.

  He talked about it so much. A few more years and his employees would be in position to buy his air conditioning business. He and Mom would travel, and Troy and I would meet up with them in all these cool places. I didn’t know what I’d be doing—playing baseball, studying design, working on my projects—but I knew I’d be spending vacations riding bikes with Dad.

  The familiar pain stabs at me. It’s like a knife is stuck deep, and every memory is a twist of the blade. It’s not just the memories that hurt. The worst pain is the memories we never got to make. The future we were supposed to have. What kind of a world is it that you can lose so much so fast?

  At least I get it now. There are no promises in life. You have to live for the day and quit dreaming about tomorrow. So I’m going to give Dad the future he wanted. Then maybe I can let it go, too.

  Mom rubs my back, her touch calming, as if she knows where my thoughts are. “Do you have to go this week?”

  “Yeah, about that.” I clear my throat—and my head. “I’m going to stick around Phoenix until next Friday.”

  “Really?” She pulls back, her face lighting up. “Does it have something to do with why you were up before me this morning?”

  “I’m always up before you.” Mom is a high school English teacher during the school year, but during the summer, she teaches night classes on business writing. Her favorite things in the world are:

  1. Me

  2. Troy

  3. Sleeping in.

  (Troy has a slightly different order.)

  “It’s a volunteer thing. Fixing up one of the desert trails near here.”

  She stares at me like I just said I’m performing brain surgery. “You’re volunteering?”

  “I’ve been known to volunteer.”

  “Only if donuts are involved.”

  “It’s not a big deal. It’s two weeks.”

  “You’re getting up at the crack of dawn for two weeks? That’s a lot of frosted long johns.”

  I grab the chair and carry it back to the table. “Sadly, no donuts.”

  Her smile stretches from cheek to cheek. She doesn’t smile enough, but I don’t like the look of this one. “Anthony Adams, is there a girl involved?”

  I groan. “You always think there’s a girl involved.”

  “That’s not a ‘no.’”

  “It’s not a yes, either.” But I can’t quite meet her eyes. “Don’t go turning this into a romance novel. It’s not like that.”

  “What is it like?”

  I can’t admit to a two-week fling. Mom might be five-foot nothing and thin as a dishrag, but she can still take me to the mat with one of her looks. She’d freak at the way that sounds—a fling. Like I was disrespecting a girl. That is not how the Adams boys were brought up. On the other hand, I don’t want Mom thinking I’ve found someone important. She keeps saying I’m too restless, disconnected—whatever that means. She thinks if I find a girl, I’ll magically settle down and get my future on track. Dad was always right on track, and that didn’t guarantee anything. “We’re just hanging out. Chilling.”

  “I hate that word.”

  “Yeah, so does she.”

  Mom’s eyebrows lift, an invitation to tell her more. Not happening. She knew something was up last month. I’d been gone a lot and then…not. I thought I’d done well hiding it, but Mom doesn’t miss much. I finally told her there had been a girl, but she’d ended things. Like a good mother, Mom still hates the nameless, faceless girl. If she knew it was Mai and that I was seeing her again knowing it would end, Mom would be on the phone making an appointment with the counselor we saw after Dad died.

  “It’s two weeks, that’s it,” I tell her. “I have to be at a campsite by Saturday morning. You know the tradition.”

  “Coffee at sunrise.” She sighs. “Dad’s favorite part of camping.”

  I smile as the memories flicker through my mind. All the times he had to work late and we’d leave for a camping trip so late in the day we’d end up fumbling around in the dark to set up our tent. But we couldn’t leave the next morning. Had to have coffee at sunrise with his boys and Mother Nature. I press a fist to my chest. My heart might be broken, but it still aches.

  The camping trips started when I was five. Dad, Troy, and me. Mom wasn’t allowed. She pretended to be hurt, but you could tell she liked us going. She’d take pictures of us in our grungy camping clothes as every year Troy and I got taller and taller. Dad had started to get thinner in the last two, but none of us knew why back then.

  Now Troy and I go every year on the anniversary of Dad’s death. Troy can’t go with me this year, but that doesn’t mean I’m not making the trip. Thankfully, the trail project finishes up next Friday. Gives me plenty of time to load up the car, head out that night, and wake up Saturday morning for bad coffee over a camp stove. Holding on to the tradition feels like another way of holding on to Dad.

  “I’m still going to worry about you,” Mom says.

  “I’ll worry about you, too.”

  She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she walks to the fridge. “Want some lemonade?”

  “Sure.”

  She pulls out the jug, and I lean my arms on the c
ounter. “I thought I’d tackle one more project before I go.”

  “Which is?” She fills two glasses with the pink liquid.

  “Clean up the front yard.”

  She slides a glass toward me. “What do you mean, clean it up?” But she knows what I mean.

  “There’s too much stuff.” I take a long drink, realizing I’m probably a little dehydrated from this morning in the desert.

  “You mean your art.”

  “It’s not art. It’s junk.”

  “I happen to think it’s beautiful. And I’d be happy to bring it in if I can display the new pieces you’ve finished.”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  She looks like she wants to yank at her hair—or maybe mine. “They’re good, Anthony. I don’t know why you won’t show anyone.”

  I roll my eyes. “My mom the art expert.”

  She rolls her eyes right back. “What about the piece you started last year?”

  I slide back my empty glass. “You mean the one covered in a towel?”

  “Why is it covered is what I want to know.” She refills my glass.

  Because maybe it’s no better than everything else I’ve ever made?

  “Because I’m still working on it.”

  “Not as far as I can tell. Why don’t you show it to Garvey? Get his opinion.”

  Dan Garvey is the general contractor I’ve been helping out since I turned sixteen. He does a lot of remodel work, but the guy is also a talented welder. Custom-makes built-in shelves, tables—does incredible iron work on staircases and fireplaces. “Maybe when I finish.”

  “Does that mean you’ll work on it before you go?”

  “I’ll think about it, Mom.”

  But I won’t. What’s the point? It’s just messing around. Besides, I have something important to do. I look back at the urn on the top shelf. Dad had planned on so much. Everything except the cancer. Those last days when he was too weak to move, I’d read to him from online travel blogs. We went to a lot of far-off places, but we couldn’t escape death.

  You can make all the plans you want, but there’s no guarantee. It can all be over so fast. Dad’s words, close to the end.

  I made a promise to myself. I wasn’t going to wait. I wasn’t going to follow a step-by-step plan, moving from Point A to Point B. I wasn’t going to put down roots and settle in for a future I might not have. I was going to live now.

  Live for each day.

  Right now, that means a trail project and a fling with Mai.

  Like life, that will be temporary, too.

  Chapter Eight

  Mai

  I’m not sure what to wear to a fling. I’ve never flung before.

  It’s not as if I have a lot of options. I’ve never been into fashion. Josie says my closet is like a nun’s: lots of black and white. Tonight, I’ve gone wild and chosen a gray top over black shorts and eco-friendly rattan sandals. I stare at myself in the mirror.

  I don’t look sexy, hot, or fling-worthy.

  I turn the tube of lipstick around in my hands. Brilliant red. The name spoke to me. Brilliant. As if it was a good idea to buy red lipstick in the first place. I bought it after spring break. After I met Anthony. It was one more thing that was completely unlike me. Add it to the list:

  Saying yes to pool chicken.

  Calling myself Killer.

  Going to a baseball game to drool over a player.

  I wince.

  Kissing him in his car after graduation.

  That’s the one I can’t stop thinking about. The others I could blame on a harmless school crush. I’d given myself permission to experiment, and then I’d done the sensible thing and broken it off.

  So why did I kiss him?

  Why do I still want to kiss him?

  I stare at my reflection as if I can explain it to myself. I’ve always been too smart to let my heart rule my head.

  And yet here I am. I have things I should be doing. Important things. Dad’s folder of articles, for one. I tried to read today, but none of the words would soak in. How am I supposed to concentrate on algae use in the creation of bio-plastics when all I can think about is Anthony? I see him and every one of my neurons explodes.

  Guilt stabs at me. Mom and Dad were so excited tonight about Grant. About how we’re both going to be in college so close together. Mom asked casually-not-casually if I knew he was single. Enough to make me wonder if there isn’t some matchmaking going on. I know it’s not serious. They want me focused on school now. But I know they love Grant, and if I ended up with him down the road, they’d love that even more.

  If I told them about Anthony?

  By the way, there’s this guy from school I never mentioned. He’s really hot. Looks great in a baseball uniform. He thinks college is a waste, and his greatest ambition is to chill. I’m going to plan a fling with him for the next two weeks.

  It’s such a bad idea, even I can’t believe I’m going through with it. What is wrong with me? I’m a strong, rational woman. I control my own destiny.

  So why can’t I control this attraction?

  I straighten my shoulders. This is why I said yes to Anthony’s idea. Why I need to go through with it. I have to regain the control I’ve lost. Regain myself.

  My gaze falls to the tube of lipstick I’m still holding. I twist until the color peeks out. I can picture Josie shaking her head at me. I wish she were here. I hate not telling her, but I’m embarrassed to admit what I’m doing. I’ll tell her when it’s over and I’ve gone back to being The Real Mai. The Me-Mai.

  Did I seriously just think that?

  The quicker this whole thing is over, the better. I smooth my hair until not a strand is out of place. I’ve worked out a complete plan. By the time this fling is over, we’re going to hate each other.

  …

  Library chairs are not made for comfort. Neither are these study tables. I never realized they were so small. Or maybe it’s the way Anthony seems…too big. He pulls out the chair, spins it around, and sits, leaning his chin over the back.

  “You can’t sit like that.”

  “Why not?”

  I thought the library would be a safe, neutral spot to meet, but as I look around, I’m rethinking. We’re getting stares from surrounding tables. I’ve never gotten stares in a library before. “This is like my church. You have to show respect.”

  He spins the chair around again. His look says Killjoy. I’ve seen that look often over the years. I don’t flinch. It’s about time Anthony sees the serious, ultra-focused me. The real Me-Mai.

  Lord, I’m doing it again.

  I wait until the other people have gone back to their computers and textbooks then clear my throat. “I’m agreeing to this plan to annihilate our attraction, but only if you agree to follow some simple rules.”

  “Some what?” Anthony has made it clear he hates rules. Another way in which we’re totally incompatible.

  “I’ve written them out.” I unfold the piece of paper with my careful handwriting. I didn’t want to type it on the computer. I’m not leaving a paper trail.

  He pulls the paper toward him with one hand. His nail beds are stained with dirt or maybe oil. There’s a white scar across his middle knuckle and smaller scars by his thumb. Even his hand is so different from mine. From my brother’s. My father’s. His pinky taps along the edge as he reads, the heavy cuff lying across his wrist.

  OFFICIAL RULES

  1. Two weeks, ending one week from Friday.

  2. We alternate dates.

  3. Either person can end it at any time.

  4. No one else can know.

  5. No kissing.

  His lips curve in a smile as he leans back, resting his elbows on the back of his chair. I can see every inch of his biceps as they flex. Stupid biceps. Stupid everythi
ng else that’s tanned and toned. I’m not shallow enough to melt at the sight of a good-looking guy. I care more about shared values and common life goals.

  Or at least I will once this fling is over.

  I clear my throat. “We’ve already agreed to Rule 1. Rule 2 is—”

  “I’d like to jump ahead to five.”

  “Shocking.” I raise one eyebrow, a trick I perfected after many hours in front of a mirror. I think it makes me look smart. And intimidating.

  Anthony smiles, unintimidated. Okay, so maybe not. It’s one of those slow smiles that’s somehow both incredibly sweet and insanely hot. It makes me want to leap across this desk and dive on his lips.

  “Kissing should be allowed,” he says. “We’ve always kissed.”

  “Which is the problem,” I say. “We were too focused on our chemistry. If we want to get over each other, kissing does not help.”

  “Except that we still want to kiss, so we’ll be thinking about kissing.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “And if we’re thinking about it but not doing it, we’ll want to do it more.”

  His gaze zips right to the pit of my stomach and starts it fluttering. I press a hand there. My stomach never fluttered, ever, before Anthony. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s the way it works.” He meets my eyes again. “That’s why we need to kiss more, not less. We should talk about second base.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I don’t know what that means.” I’m brilliant in many ways, but we both know the sport of baseball is beyond my comprehension. I went to my first game in March because of Anthony, and I saw nearly every game after that—including Cholla’s win at State two weeks ago when Anthony hit a home run.

  I did learn a few things. Like how Anthony’s biceps looked catching the ball. How his back muscles rippled when he hit the ball. How his pants hugged his butt when he slid into second base. That is the extent of my baseball knowledge.

  I’m an embarrassment. I admit it.

  “Second base,” he explains, “are those things we did in my backseat that rainy night in April.”