Every Little Thing

16

How Reed continues to make random appearances in my life is beyond me, and yet here he is. In my kitchen, talking with my mother like they're old friends. I watch, uncertain, as he starts unloading cartons of milk, a pack of Oreos, vegetables and packaged meats. He sets these things out on the counter in a neat row, while Mom moves them to their respected spots in the fridge and pantry. I subconsciously wonder if this is all some strange kind of dream.

"It's a funny story, Evie," says my mom, even though I haven't done anything to spark any sort of conversation, "Reed here saw me walking with my groceries down the block—"

"More like wrestling with them," he jokes, and she laughs. I turn to him, a smile appearing on my face involuntarily as he directs a flash of teeth at me.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," she concedes, and then continues with, "Anyways, he offered to help me, and I recognized him from your school, but I had no idea you two were friends!"

She says the last word with such pleasure that it makes my stomach flip. Friends. That's it.

Stop it, I order myself, and force a half-hearted smile.

"Yeah," I say weakly. Reed, turning from the last grocery bag, catches my gaze. In his expression, I hear the question, spoken loud and clear.

You okay? Those blue eyes ask me, and I smile and nod, wishing that I was.

"Anyways," Mom says, filling the empty silence with more chatter, "Thank you for all the help, Reed. It's actually really nice of you; chivalry these days..."

As she rattles on, talking more than she has in the past six months, I watch him. His easy smile. His kind gaze. His friendliness, willingness to help, ability to read me like an open book.

Oh, hell, I think. It's only getting worse.

And it's true. Dammit, it's true.

Because every time he looks at me, my stomach somersaults, and every time he says my name, something inside me lifts, and when he speaks to me, there's that little voice inside my head that insists that this is all I need, that all I need is Reed Bishop in my life and all will be well.

As it turns out, not falling for someone is easier said than done.

________

"Come back for dinner," Mom says, after we've finished putting up groceries and Reed is heading out the door. I freeze, and his hand stills against the doorknob. He glances over at me with a raise of his brows, and I lift a shoulder with a half-smile.

"You don't have to," I say, quietly, "I mean, if you don't want."

His eyes drift from me to Mom, who stands behind me. She continues with a cheery,

"Well I have to pay you back somehow, don't I?"

Reed hesitates, letting out a laugh. "It was my pleasure, Ms. Moore. Honestly, groceries are hardly something worth reimbursement."

"Come on," my mom insists, her voice now somewhat pleading, "Just ask your parents; I'm sure it'll be fine—"

"Mom," I say, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, "Maybe Reed doesn't—"

"Sure," he says then, interrupting me with a smile. "I'll come. What time?"

I turn to my mother, who is beaming for the first time in ages. Her eyes meet mine and she gives me an overexcited smile before replying,

"Around six-thirty. Is that okay?"

"Perfect." Reed smiles at me, and then opens the back door. "See you then."

I follow him out as Mom starts to prepare, pulling out ingredients in a frenzy. The door closes behind us, and I cross my arms to keep from freezing. Reed just smiles at me.

"So," I say, clearing my throat after a while, "Is helping out your friends' mothers in the grocery store a new habit of yours?"

"Albeit I was thinking up an excuse to come see you, you should have seen her. The woman was carrying those things like a Trojan, Evelyn, I swear."

I can't help but laugh at that, mainly because it's true. Reed's face softens when I do, as if he's been holding in a breath and has just let it go.

"Okay, then," he says, "Six-thirty."

"Don't be late," I joke, elbowing him as I add, "And I expect your Sunday best."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Mom always had me slick back my hair on Sundays. Not my best look."

"Hm," I say, in mock contemplation, "I don't know—the whole greased-down look is really making a comeback."

"Is that so?"

"That's the word on the street."

He smiles at me then, a short, sweet thing that makes my insides turn to mush and my heart race in a steady thumpthumpthump, rattling my ribcage.

"See you soon, Evelyn."

"Yeah," I reply, in an attempt to unstick my voice from the back of my throat, "See you then."

________

I've gone through three outfits by the time six o' clock rolls around, and that's when Mom starts calling for help in the kitchen. I stick with the jeans and top that I'd had on originally and decide that it might be for the best. That he probably won't notice anyways.

I practically skid down the hallway, wincing as I find Mom stirring a pot of food feverishly, smoke billowing from its contents in large, gray puffs.

"Mom!" I exclaim, as she accidentally drops her dishrag onto the stove, which causes it to promptly catch on fire. I put it out quickly, and try not to gag at the smell.

"Interesting dish," I say instead, and she lets out a bark-like laugh.

"Funny. Oh, God, Evelyn. This is supposed to be chili. Does it even look like chili?"

She scoops up a heap of the stuff, and it takes everything I have not to observe its uncanny resemblance to tar. Instead, I shake my head, and she buries her head in her hands.

"He's coming in thirty minutes! We both know I can't cook; why did I think this was a good idea? Oh, God, what are we going to do?"

"Calm down," I say, turning off the stove and waving my hand in the air, trying to clear it of smoke. "Just throw it out, okay? Throw it out and while you're cleaning up, I'll order takeout. He won't know the difference."

She looks at me blankly for a split second, and then the gears in her mind connect. She nods, frantically scooping the ruined chili into the trash can and scrubbing at the kitchen counters. I pick up the phone and dial the nearest Italian restaurant.

Thirty minutes later, the chili has been disposed of, the kitchen is clean (except for a few pots and pans we left out, making it seem as if we cooked the meal ourselves), and we have distributed large portions of spaghetti and salad across three plates. I make sure to stuff the evidence—receipt, boxes and "thank you for coming" bags—in the trash can.

Mom glances over at me quickly as we watch Reed's car pull up in the drive, a gray minivan with a dent in the bumper.

"I feel bad for lying," she says, and I wave a dismissive hand.

"Reed won't care either way. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

She laughs then, out of giddiness or relief, I can't tell.

"It is kind of funny, isn't it?" She laughs again, and I do, too, because it's been so long since she's actually laughed—much less sat down to have dinner, or attempt to prepare it. Then she looks at me and says, "Reed's a good boy. I hope you two stay friends."

Me, too, I think, but smile instead.

________

If Reed knows about our faux-dinner scandal, he doesn't show it. Instead, we keep up lively conversation and he compliments my mother on the food and we all have a generally good time. The table is small, only seating four, so my mom sits across from the both of us. Every once and awhile, his knee will bump mine, or our fingers will accidentally brush, and I'm brought back to that night at Wham, when we had just started talking, just barely exploring our newfound friendship.

And look at us now. Him, at my house, having dinner with my mother and I.

I wouldn't have imagined it in a million years.

And yet here we are. Eating takeout spaghetti and having adult conversations, Reed with his clever remarks and me with my constant clumsiness, accidentally knocking over things just to have him pick them up for me, my elbow knocking the fork out of his hand, his laughter at my pink-tinged cheeks as I apologize for what seems like the thousandth time.

And throughout the night, I see something within my mother shift-her expression, at first pleasant and polite, has turned to adoring and warm. Her posture is less stiff, her shoulders relax, and her eyes dart between us constantly, a smile gracing her lips every once and a while, especially in the moments in which she doesn't realize I'm looking.

And something within me caves as I realize that she has not looked like this, so full of hope and light, for as long as I can remember.

I will do anything, I realize, to keep that look on her face for as long as possible.