Rebels Like Us. Liz Reinhardt
because she can’t charm him out of giving actual work-based assignments instead of the fluffy busywork so many other teachers tend to assign during the last half of senior year. Well, giving her actual, work-based assignments. I live in a Darcy-free world now. All I have is Ma’am Lovett.
“Love you, doll. We can chat all night if you call later.” I don’t cry when I disconnect with Ollie, I don’t cry when I look around at the institutionally bare walls of my room, and I don’t cry when I struggle to get into my complicated, strappy bikini, which is as frustrating as playing Chinese jump rope.
I walk through the echoey house. It’s got all the mundane architecture and lack of character you can expect from a last-minute rental in suburban Georgia. The tiny amount of furniture we brought from New York didn’t begin to fill this place, so Mom set up an order from the local furniture store. Even with a truckload of brand-new couches, coffee tables, rugs, and paintings, it’s surprisingly hard to fill three thousand square feet of house with stuff when you’re used to living in an apartment one-sixth that size.
Even though I know I could never call this place home, I wonder who might someday. And I feel bad for them. Though the future owners do get a pool. That’s pretty rad, to just walk out of your house and—blam—there’s a pool.
That you can swim in.
In January.
I guess this place isn’t all bad.
It still blows my mind, because private pools are like unicorns where I come from. Mom tried to use the pool as incentive to get me to like the idea of coming here. Because leaving a city full of culture and art and beauty and ferocious ambition can so be made better with a concrete hole filled with chlorinated water.
I expect the backyard to be serenely empty when I turn the corner, and nearly have a heart attack when I run into a random stranger holding a hose.
“What are you doing in my backyard?” I yell, taking an aggressive stance and gripping my phone hard in case I need to chuck it at his head. Or call 911. I scan the yard for weapons and notice a pool skimmer the cleaning service left on the patio. Maybe I could smack this guy into the water if he tries anything funny?
“’Scuse me. So sorry. I didn’t realize the renters already moved in.”
The voice drawls rough, quiet...familiar. Where have I heard it before? The half-naked male attached to it is practically ripping new armholes in his T-shirt in an attempt to cover up.
I relax my stance and realize he’s not some hulking intruder, but a freaked-out guy about my age, and the T-shirt he’s putting on backward reads Rahn Lawn Care and Maintenance.
“Most days my grandpa and cousin’d be out here during the day, so as not to disturb y’all. I jest head out to the places where there’s no renters in yet. Your house was on my list. Sorry ’bout the inconvenience, ma’am. And about working with my shirt off. Rahn Lawn Care and Maintenance strives to provide professional service, and I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, ma’am.”
He sounds like he’s reciting lines from the HR handbook I had to sign when I worked at the local Y last summer.
“I promise I won’t report you to your boss if you promise to stop calling me ma’am.” When my joke leaves him looking extra terrified, I snort, pull out my sunscreen—SPF 50—and plop onto the nearest lounge chair. “Dude, chill. Seriously, it’s cool. I took my first life-drawing class when I was twelve. Trust me, I’ve seen my fair share of naked guys. I’m not a prude.”
He manages to yank the T-shirt—neck all stretched from his crazy flailing—right side around and get both arms through the sleeve holes. “Uh, cool. I’m Doyle Rahn. Pleased to meet ya.” He holds out a hand.
I shake it, and dirt from his fingers muddies my sunscreen. “Doyle? I’ve never met anyone with that name before. I like it. I’m Agnes. Agnes Murphy-Pujols.”
“Pujols?” His wide, white grin contains just the slightest twisted tooth here and there, and it sends an electric pulse through me. Unexpected, but definitely nice. “Like Albert Pujols?”
“I don’t have any Alberts in my family.” I squint up at him, his head haloed in the sun. He has blond hair that’s just this side of being strawberry, and freckles that have almost melted into a tan.
“Too bad. He’s pretty much the best pure hitter of all time.” Doyle squats down next to what I guess is supposed to be one of the many “shade trees” the real-estate woman kept squawking about. I hate when people say one thing when they mean another. Like, if you mean shriveled, leafless sticks, don’t say shade trees.
“Ah. Baseball. My father is a Caribbean studies professor who lives in France, and my brother is hard-core into soccer. Like, he insists on calling it football when he’s in the States even though he knows it’s confusing.” I think on that for a second. “Huh. I wonder if he does that because it’s confusing. Jasper’s a weird guy like that. Anyway, not much baseball watching going down at my place. But my dad’s where the Pujols part of my name is from, and the DR is pretty famous for baseball players, so, who knows? Maybe I should pay more attention to baseball.” Doyle’s examining the dried-out stick so intensely, I swear he’s doing it to avoid examining me.
“You should. Watch baseball, that is. Actually, you should play baseball. We get a killer game goin’ most Friday nights in the far field back there. You could come ’round if you like. Your brother too.” He nods over his shoulder, and, even with my amazing internal compass, I have no clue where “back there” could be. Someone’s backyard? The empty woods that line the neighborhood? The community office lawn?
“Actually, my brother lives in Paris with my dad,” I blab. It’s weird how sweet it is to talk to a normal person about normal things in my life. Like what a jerk my irritating brother, who I miss a ton, can be. “My brother is one of those guys who ties a silk scarf around his neck like Freddie from Scooby-Doo because he thinks it’s fashionable. He enjoys eating animal organs and watching really depressing documentaries—basically he’s more Parisian than most French citizens.”
“Yeah?” Doyle’s gaze settles on me with a laid-back comfort. Like he could look all day.
I flap my hand in front of my face like a makeshift fan. Was there some kind of sudden solar flare?
“Yeah.” I reach back and lift my hair, damp with sweat, off my neck.
“You ain’t wantin’ to move to Paris too?”
I cackle. “Nope. No way.” I should stop while I’m ahead, but this guy is listening to me. Complete attention. Damn that’s highly attractive. The most explosive arguments Lincoln and I got into before we broke up had to do with the way he seemed to look right through me, the way I felt like I had to fight for every scrap of attention he tossed my way. It really hurt because we’d been friends before we dated, so it wasn’t like I was just losing my boyfriend. I was losing one of my best friends. But Doyle is one hundred percent invested in what I’m saying, so I ramble some more. “First of all my French is awful. Second, the French are, how should I say it...? Les Français sont bites.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“I just said, ‘French people are dicks.’”
The laugh catapults out of his throat so fast, he half chokes on it. It’s nerdy to laugh at your own joke, but I do it anyway. There’s been an alarming lack of laughter in my life lately.
“So, what about you? Do you have any siblings who irritate the crap out of you?”
When he chuckles, the skin over my ribs tingles like I’m being tickled. “I sure do. I got an older brother who’s a marine. Proud as hell of him, but it ain’t exactly easy living with a decorated combat vet.” He dips the tips of his fingers into the soil at the tree’s roots and stirs it into a shallow pattern of spiraling furrows that make me think of those Buddhist sand gardens.
“Does he have PTSD?” I’m not sure if I’m being direct or nosy.