The Distance Between US - Lindsey Osorio (book club books TXT) 📗

six-month-old at-home haircut to my ratty Converse. Then he gives me a small nod of acknowledgment. I sense he thinks I’m an assistant to the photographer, and if Xander wants to play along with that, I don’t blame him.

Xander looks between his father and me. If I was so hesitant to introduce Xander to my mom, I can only guess how he feels about introducing me to his father. I keep my mouth shut and maintain a tight grip on the camera.

Mr. Spence spots the open laptop in the corner. The photographer, most likely realizing what that means, says, “They are the raw, unedited shots, but you’re welcome to look at the ones I’ve captured so far.”

Xander stands. “But either way, we’re done.” He walks to the bedroom, and right before he gets to the door, he looks back at me and says, “Caymen,” almost like he had expected me to know to follow him. I give him the Are you sure? look and he holds out his hand. My heart flips and I take a deep breath and walk toward him, but am not stupid enough to grab his hand when I reach him. I just walk past him and into the bedroom. He follows me in and shuts the door.

For some reason I’m out of breath.

The clothes he came here in are hung nicely over a chair in the corner and he walks over to them muttering something I can’t understand. As he slides out of his suit coat and starts to unbutton the shirt underneath, something hits me. What if I’m his signal: another one of the messages to his dad to show that he doesn’t want to be part of his father’s world, a pawn in his game of rebellion? Is that why he started coming around? Hang out with the poor girl. That’ll really get under his father’s skin. I turn to face the wall while he changes.

I slip the camera off my neck and trace my finger over the silver button on top.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m not changing in here. I’ll go in the bathroom.”

But when I turn back around, thinking I’m safe, his shirt is all the way unbuttoned. Regardless of the fact that his clothes are resting over his arm and he’s heading for the attached bathroom, my face reddens at the sight of his bare, nicely defined chest.

Even after the bathroom door clicks shut, my heart continues to beat an accelerated rhythm. I walk slowly around the room, trying to calm it. Xander will not have this effect on me. I won’t let him.

The furniture and bedding in the room are nicer than anything in my house. I let my hand trail over the rich material. When he comes out clothed I ask, “Xander, is this your camera or the photographer’s?”

“It’s mine.”

“Do you think I can borrow it for a few days?”

“Of course. For what?”

“I have a porcelain doll fetish. Thought I could take some high-quality pictures of them.”

He shakes his head. “And let’s try that again. For what?”

“I kind of like the website idea. Maybe it’s time our store has one.” It could possibly save us from financial ruin.

“Hmm. That doesn’t sound like the best way to show your mom you have no interest in the store.”

I shrug. “I’ll just set it up and have her run it. Bring her into the modern world.” Maybe a website could eventually take the place of me. People could place their own orders, we could make more money . . . then my mom could afford to hire a part-time employee. I try not to get my hopes up, because it could take months, but I like the idea.

He doesn’t answer but takes the camera from me and nods his head toward the door, behind which his father exists. How bad is this going to look when we walk out there, Xander fully changed?

He must sense my hesitation because he says, “I don’t care what he thinks, Caymen.”

Of course he doesn’t care what he thinks. He probably wants his dad to think something is going on between the two of us.

“Whatever.” I open the door and try to walk out as casually as possible. My face doesn’t get the memo and blushes. His dad is still studying the shots on the screen in the corner.

I turn back to Xander, wondering where to go. He’s holding the camera up and fires off a shot. I put up my hand. “Don’t.”

“Come on, you have to be on the other end of the camera now. I have to see if modeling is something you’d want to do.”

“Not even a possibility.”

“With those eyes?” He shoots another picture. “It is definitely a possibility.”

It may be my imagination, but he seems extra flirty. I swallow the lump in my throat. “These eyes are about to commit redrum.”

He laughs louder than I’ve ever heard him laugh, confirming my suspicion that he’s doing this all for his dad’s benefit. “Come on, Caymen, loosen up,” he says quoting me.

I cross my arms and glare at him. He takes one more shot with a laugh and then walks to the hutch, puts the camera in its case and then hands it to me. “Go crazy with your dolls.”

“Thanks.”

Xander’s focus changes to something over my shoulder. When I turn around I’m surprised to see his dad behind me. “I thought you were here with the crew. I didn’t realize you were one of my son’s friends.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Blaine Spence.”

I take his hand. “Caymen Meyers,” I barely choke out. I’m still shocked he wanted to meet me at all. Did he want the camera back?

“Good to meet you,” he says, seeming very sincere. Was he using reverse psychology on his son? Then he turns to Xander. “Alexander, a lot of those pictures are great.”

Xander’s face instantly hardens. “Good. So I’m done, then.”

“I’d like you to work with the designer on a web layout and flyer.”

“I don’t have a lot of time for that, what with school and stuff, but maybe I can find some time in a few weeks.” He puts a hand on my lower back as if trying to direct me out of the room fast, and I jump in surprise but then let him guide me toward the door.

“Nice to meet you,” I call behind me.

“Alexander.”

He stops. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Mr. Spence emphasizes the s on the word, and Xander’s jaw tenses.

“Yes?” Xander emphasizes the s even more.

“Your mother’s benefit is in four weeks. Your presence is required. And you will have the flyers ready for that night.”

We step out into the hall, and Xander says, “I hope you’re taking notes. I’m so much better at pissing off my family than you are.”

“I’m taking notes.” Find the last person on earth my mom (or in his case, dad) would want me to date and pretend to be dating him. Of course, my mom would actually have to know about it. But that’s where we differ. I’m not using Xander. “Extensive notes. When my mom tells me to do something”—I point over my shoulder to the door we just exited—“I do it and pretend to be mad about it.”

“So rude.” He shoots me a half-smile, which I’m angry about because I thought that bit of sarcasm was at least worth a full smile.

He hits the Down button on the wall next to the elevator. “So, photography? Your future?”

“On the maybe list.”

“I thought you might like it because you said you like science, which requires observing things and noticing detail. You’re good at that and those traits serve well when looking through a viewfinder.”

I look up at him in surprise.

“What?” he asks.

I realize I must be staring at him in shock and turn back to look at the blurry reflection of us in the gold elevator doors. “I . . . thanks . . . for noticing.”

He shrugs. “I’m trying to find something you’ll actually like. So you’re up next.”

“Yes, I am. And since we’re all into this matching up the career day to our traits I guess I should find a career for you that involves ironing T-shirts or using lots of hair product.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I use very little hair product.” We ride the elevator back down. “So next Saturday, same time?”

I try to mentally picture the calendar on the back counter of the store. I don’t remember if there’s a birthday party written in. “Yeah . . . yes,” I correct myself, giving him a smile to let him know I found his dad’s correction irritating as well. “I think that’ll work.” We wait while the car is brought around. “Oh, and wear your crappiest clothes.”

Chapter 16

 

I meet Xander on the curb Saturday, trying to avoid the same situation as last week. My mom seems to be buying the “kid from school” routine and until she forces me to introduce him I’m going to stick with it. He turns off the car and gets out before he realizes I’m standing there.

He’s wearing nice jeans, an even nicer T-shirt, and some loafer-type shoes.

I point at his clothes. “Seriously? Didn’t I say the crappiest clothes you have?”

He walks straight up to me. Normally he’s a whole head taller than me, but with him in the gutter and me still on the curb, my eyes are level with his chin.

“Hi to you, too.”

I haven’t seen him for a week. He was traveling for some sort of business stuff with his dad. For a minute I think he’s going to hug me and my breath catches, but then he looks down at his outfit. “These are the crappiest clothes I have.”

I give him a shove, satisfying the urge I had to touch him. “You’re full of crap.” But I know he’s serious. “Okay, we’ll have to make a pit stop on the way there.”

We drive several blocks, and I point to the Salvation Army parking lot. “First stop, new outfit. Come. Let us reclothe you.”

We step inside and the musty smell that only exists in the presence of old furniture greets me. It reminds me of Skye because we spend so much time in places like this. “Shoe size?” I ask.

“Twelve . . . Wait . . . we’re getting shoes here? I don’t know if I can wear shoes other people have worn.”

“I think you just made a philosophical statement. Now suck it up, baby, because it’s that or ruin your pretty shoes.”

“I’m okay with ruining my shoes.”

“Wait. Did I give you a choice? Never mind, you obviously can’t be trusted with choices. We are buying your shoes here.” I drag him to the shoe section. There are only three choices in his size. I pick him out the most hideous ones—high tops with neon laces. Then I put him to work trying on clothes.

While he’s in the dressing room I look through the sweatshirt section. Flipping through the rack, I stop. In between an awful neon orange sweatshirt and a University blue one is a black dress. It has hand-sewn beading, a sweetheart neckline, and cap sleeves. I check the size. It would fit me. I bite my lip and look at the price tag: forty bucks. That’s expensive for