“Yeah.” She closed her eyes.
“Well, shit. Are you still in love with him?”
“No!”
“Are your special places tingling?”
“Excuse me? No. No, that’s...of course not. I mean...he broke my heart. First love and all that crap. A long time ago.”
“Yeah, well, I’d give anything to have Bryce look at me the way Lucas was looking at you.”
“We were fighting.”
“I’d give anything to have Bryce fight with me that way.” Paulie raised her eyebrows.
A change of subject was definitely needed. “Okay, so tonight’s Bryce encounter didn’t go as planned,” she said. “The good news is, you got his attention, right? That’s the first step.”
“The first step in his filing a restraining order against me, maybe.”
“Oh, come on. Bryce probably doesn’t know what a restraining order is.”
“He’s not dumb, Colleen.”
Colleen winced. “No, you’re right. Sorry. Anyway, you were memorable, so it’s not all bad.”
As she and Paulie talked, there was another voice in her head. Common sense, call it. Don’t fall for those eyes again. Don’t notice his hands, or his mouth. Those are just tricks. We’re not doing this again.
Already, it felt like she was in a whole lotta trouble.
THE FIRST TIME she ever saw Lucas Damien Campbell, Colleen fell in love.
Not that she was a believer in that kind of thing.
Even at the tender age of eleven, when her mother had sobbed through yet another sappy romantic comedy, Colleen pointed out the fact that the characters had known each other for only six days, so it was a little hard to buy into the whole everlasting soul mate philosophy. In seventh grade, Tim Jansen sent her a letter full of hyperbolic compliments (“your eyes are shinier than a mirror,” which Colleen thought was creepy and hoped wasn’t true) and anguished love (“I feel like my heart will explode when you smile at me”). She patted his hand and said he probably should take up a sport to channel some of that energy.
High school was no different, though the boys abruptly grew taller...despite the abundance of hormones, despite her abiding love for Robert Downey, Jr., Colleen remained above the fray. No, she’d rather hang out with her brother, laugh at his friends, and watch Faith and Jeremy, the perfect couple, with fondness and a satisfying bit of melancholy. By the time she was a senior, virtually every boy in Manningsport had asked her out and received a kindly “no.” Love—especially the sloppy, frenching-in-the-halls type—was not meant for Colleen Margaret Mary O’Rourke.
“What do you mean, you’re not going to prom?” her mother asked one night around the family dinner table. Con was going with Sherry Wong, a mathlete like himself. “Hasn’t anyone asked you?”
“Nine guys have asked her, Ma,” Connor offered, taking another shovelful of mashed potatoes.
“It’s not for me,” Colleen said easily. “Drama, rayon dresses, crepe paper, the inevitable tears. I’ll pass.”
“That’s my girl,” Dad said with an approving nod. Connor sighed, and Colleen could feel his mood drop several degrees. It was no secret that Colleen was their father’s favorite.
People like them, Dad said once in a while, were too smart for that. Just what that was, Colleen wasn’t sure, but she was flattered to be included. Her father’s approval was everything. Connor was smart, too—smarter, at least according to his grades, but “we think alike,” Dad would say.
Pete O’Rourke was still handsome enough to get stares from women of all ages—black Irish, the same clear gray eyes Colleen had, unlike Connor’s blue. He was the youngest of his family, widely viewed to be the star of the family by his older sisters, who fussed over him at family gatherings, getting him plates of food as if he were an invalid, cooing over his latest real estate coup. In town, men shook his hand, laughed loudly at his jokes, came to him for advice—Dad owned six of the fifteen commercial buildings in town.
Mom was still sappily infatuated with him, which Colleen found both cute and annoying. When his car pulled into the driveway, she’d rush to ditch her slippers, shove her feet into heels and put on lipstick. If he commented on her appearance, “Jeanette, is that a new hairstyle?” She’d flush with pleasure. “Oh, thank you!” she’d say, not quite noticing that it wasn’t exactly a compliment. And Dad would give Colleen a little wink of collusion, which made her feel simultaneously guilty and clever.
Mom never finished college, knocked up in the great tradition of the O’Rourke family. She worked part-time for an interior designer and actually could’ve joined the firm; her boss quite liked her, but she always said no. “Your father is such a good provider,” she’d say.
Slightly overweight, she’d go on fad diets before the holidays or the annual Manningsport Black & White Ball, get her hair done, buy a new dress...but still, Mom always looked a little older, a little frumpier, a little less certain than Dad. Pete O’Rourke was, there was no mistaking it, one of those guys who got better with age, Manningsport’s version of Pierce Brosnan: the graying hair, the extreme good looks.
To Colleen, the best compliment she could get was that she was her father’s girl. Except when Mom said it, for some reason; there’d be a slight and rare tinge of bitterness in her voice. Then again, Mom loved Connor best. It was only fair.
So yeah, a high school romance, prom, and all that...leave that for the other girls: Theresa and Faith, who’d marry their high school honeys, no doubt. Let other girls worry over boys (or girls, in the case of Deirdre and Tiffy). Colleen would give advice to the girls, deflect advances from the boys, cheerful and observant and not at all lonely...not with a twin and a best friend and adoring father. It was exactly how she wanted things.
And then she met Lucas Campbell.
It was big news, of course. Manningsport had a tiny year-round population; just about any change was cause for excitement.
“Kids,” said Mrs. Wheaton, their beleaguered English teacher, adjusting her corduroy (ouch) jumper, “we have two new students joining our class shortly.” She consulted her paperwork. “Bryce and Lucas Campbell. Uh...cousins, it says here. Please be nice.”
“Is Bryce a boy’s name?” Tanya Cross asked. She wasn’t tremendously bright.
“Yes,” Mrs. Wheaton asked. “Now, getting back to Hamlet. Does anyone have an opinion on Ophelia?”
No one bothered answering. A ripple went through the class. Two new members of the senior class? Jeremy Lyon had transferred in last summer, and look how totally awesome he was! Could lightning strike twice? The girls began either whispering to or ignoring each other. Posture: improved. Hair: tossed. Legs: crossed. Lips: licked.
The guys in the class exchanged glances, aware that two new roosters in the henhouse would shift the dynamic. Well, not all the boys. Asswipe Jones was sleeping (hungover, probably), and Levi Cooper stared at Jessica with that hot look of his. Jeremy was running a hand through his own dark hair.
As for Colleen, she didn’t need to sit up or lick or cross. She already had it going on. (False modesty—not one of her flaws.) Still, she too glanced at the door. Just because she didn’t want to date anyone didn’t mean she didn’t want to be acknowledged as, yes, the prettiest girl in high school, the funniest and the most sought-after.
The door opened, and in came the newbies.
There