Glitter and Sparkle Page 7

  My stomach gives a little lurch, but it’s not as violent this time. I only feel like I might die—not like it’s a sure thing.

  As he motions me out, he scoops up my soda-stained sweater.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He holds up the garment. “Washing this. You don’t want it to stain, do you?”

  Dumbfounded, I shake my head.

  “Go downstairs.”

  Not sure what else to do, I make my way down. I walk into the living room, where the couch is outfitted with a big, fluffy comforter and several other blankets. There’s a can of lemon-lime soda on the coffee table and a packet of saltine crackers.

  “How are you feeling?” Harrison asks several minutes later.

  Sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, I groan in response. In the background, I can hear water pouring into the washing machine.

  He takes a seat next to me and picks up a remote. “What do you like to watch when you’re sick? I personally like science stuff.”

  He flicks on the television and then looks at me expectantly.

  “Game shows,” I finally say. I know I should be embarrassed, but I’m too exhausted to worry about it.

  “Game shows it is.” Harrison finds a channel and then sits back.

  After several hours, and only one more frantic trip to the bathroom, I’m starting to feel a little better. I must have dozed off because I wake up to hushed voices.

  I peel my bleary eyes open and find my parents standing behind the couch. Harrison explains what happened. Mom strokes my hair and murmurs condolences. Whispering a goodnight, Harrison excuses himself.

  I stretch my legs out. Though I have more room with him gone, I already sort of miss him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  December 18th

  “That’s Day Six of our Twelve Days of Christmas Craft Countdown.” I smile at my phone/video camera and hold up a wood burning pen. “Tomorrow we’ll be decorating keepsake gift—”

  “This is possibly the lamest thing I’ve ever seen,” my lovely brother says from the garage door. He leans against the frame, giving me a rotten smile that makes me want to punch him in the arm.

  Oddly, it seems to have the opposite effect on most females. Brandon’s handsome, I suppose. His hair is brown and dark, and he wears it short. His eyes are blue, and he’s quick to smile.

  Still, I don’t quite see what the allure is. Growing up, his room smelled like a gym bag, and he always made a goopy mess of the toothpaste.

  “Happy to see me, little sister?” Brandon asks as he saunters in and wrinkles his nose at my temporary setup.

  “Sure.”

  He gives me an amused look before he glances back at the pink canvas hanging from the pegboard. “Are you still doing that blog thing?”

  Blog thing.

  “Yes,” I say as I snatch a spool of ribbon from him. “And I was shooting it in the guest house until your friend moved in.”

  I say it like I blame him for the whole thing.

  Brandon chuckles. “Where is Harrison?”

  “Working late.”

  “Overachiever.” He laughs. “Doesn’t he know it’s almost Christmas?”

  “Yes, well,” I say primly. “He has to work so he can find a place and move out.”

  Brandon watches me for a moment, his mouth twisted up in thought. “You don’t still have that crush on him, do you?”

  With a growl, I smack my glue gun on the fabric-covered card table. “I did not have a crush on him. What’s wrong with the two of you?”

  I might have one now. But that’s an entirely different matter.

  Brandon shrugs, already bored of the conversation. “Did you make your peppermint bark?”

  I purse my lips, but I can’t quite hold back my smile. Peppermint bark is sort of my Christmas specialty. “Yes.”

  Brandon gives me a big grin. “I knew you were good for something.”

  And with that, he jogs into the house.

  Rolling my eyes, I prepare to redo the last of my video. Just as I’m setting up, my phone rings.

  It’s Grant.

  I scowl at the screen. I haven’t heard from him since he disappeared at dinner. Not that I blame him. But he didn’t finish up the last week of school, and I’ve been a little nervous. It would have been nice to know that he was all right at least.

  “Hey, Lauren,” he says when I answer. We go through the usual greetings, and then he continues, “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

  “I’m sorry too,” I say. “I had no idea I was sick—”

  “My grandma had a heart attack.”

  The carefully veiled emotion in his voice pierces me. “Oh, Grant, I’m so sorry…”

  “She lives in Florida,” he continues. “And Mom heard about it right when we got to the restaurant. There was nothing we could do that night but wait for news, but Mom was so upset…and I didn’t—”

  “It’s completely fine,” I interrupt. “Please, don’t…it’s really fine.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” he asks after a long pause.

  I sit on a crate next to a large toolbox. “It was just food poisoning.”

  “Good.” Another pause. “We just got back from Florida.”

  “Your grandma,” I ask. “Is she…okay?”

  I wince, unsure if I should have asked.

  “Yeah. She’s doing all right.”

  “That’s good.”

  I want to help, but I just don’t know what to say.

  “So, Lauren,” Grant says, his tone implying he’s obviously changing the subject. “I was hoping you might want to…I mean, maybe, if you are free…?”

  “Yes?” I bite my lip, waiting.

  “Get coffee or something?”

  “I need to do some Christmas shopping tomorrow,” I answer. “Would you want to go to the mall?”

  “Yes.” His voice is much more confident. “That would be great.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  December 19th

  Grant beats me to the coffee shop where we agreed to meet. Since he’s looking at the menu, not paying any attention to the pre-Christmas hustle and bustle going on around him, I’m able to study him.

  He’s wearing his letter jacket, and his hair has recently been trimmed. He has a jock vibe about him—not that Grant seems rude and conceited like some of them are prone to be. It’s that his movements are athletic, strong, and he’s tall, one of the tallest in the coffee shop.

  And though it should bother me that a group of girls near my age are eying him and giggling, it just gives me a little ego-boost to step up and slide my arm in his.

  Grant looks over, surprised, but then a warm smile spreads across his face. The look sets off a very little flutter in my stomach. An almost flutter.

  Or maybe it’s just a slight warming. Either way, it feels nice to be with him.

  “I never got to buy you dinner.” Grant gives my arm a squeeze. “Let me at least buy you coffee.”

  I peer up at the sign. “I don’t like coffee.”

  He gives me what might be a horrified look, and I choke out a laugh.

  “I’m more of a tea or cider person,” I say.

  “They have tea,” he immediately says, like he’s nervous I’m going to leave. “And cider.”

  We reach the front, and I order a chai. Grant orders something with extra caramel, and, as I watch them make it, I wonder if it might be good. Surely you can’t even taste the coffee with all that whipped cream in there.

  After we get our drinks, we find an empty table in the corner.

  “How’s basketball going?” I ask, only remembering he’s doing it because he needed the extra credit in his theater class to keep playing.

  Grant smiles wide. “It’s great. I think we have a really strong team this season, and…”

  He goes on and on and on…but he might as well be speaking Greek. I have no idea what half of what he’s saying means.

  I smile anyway.

&nb
sp; “Are you coming to the next game? It’ll be after Christmas.”

  I swirl my cup. “To the basketball game?”

  I don’t even go to games for Riley’s sake.

  He laughs like he thinks I’m playing coy.

  “Sure.” I take a sip of tea to hide my grimace. “I’d love to.”

  Oh, no. What am I doing? I hate sports. I loathe them. What am I supposed to do the whole time?

  “Yeah?” Grant positively beams at me. “You can be like my own personal cheerleader.”

  Ew. I mean…ew.

  Not that he says it in a creepy way—he doesn’t. He says it in a very nice, sweet way. But still.

  Ew.

  I force another smile.

  We finish our drinks and then venture into the mall. With it being the last Saturday before Christmas, it’s packed. Across from us, Santa sits, and a line of eager/terrified kids wait with their bored parents.

  After about the third store, I begin to relax almost as much as I do when I’m around Riley. Grant’s funny and warm, and though we might not have a lot in common, at least he’s nice.

  He asks about my blog, and I tell him about it, being careful to go light on the details so he doesn’t glaze over.

  “You’re in one of the advanced art classes, aren’t you?” he says. “What kind of art do you prefer?”

  We’re looking at kitchen towels for my mother, and I browse through them, shrugging. “I sketch a little. But I like crafting more. It’s fun to make something practical. Something you can do something with.”

  He doesn’t really seem to understand.

  “Have you thought about college yet?” he asks.

  I frown. “I’m going to the local university, but I don’t know what I want to study.”

  My aptitude test said I should be a credit counselor, and that’s not happening. At this point, my college plans still end in marriage and two springer spaniel puppies. The degree part just looks good, but I don’t tell Grant that. I have a feeling it might scare away even the sturdiest of guys.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  He glances at me from the corner of his eye. His expression makes me wonder if he’s nervous I’ll tease him. Finally, he says, “I want to be a physical education teacher.”

  I stop right in the middle of the busy aisle, dumbstruck.

  I’ve heard rumors that there are people who like that horrifying class, but I have never met someone who liked it enough to pursue a career teaching it.

  “That’s cool,” I say lamely, at a real loss for words.

  Grant laughs at my expression. “I knew you wouldn’t be impressed. You took the mandatory two years, and I haven’t seen you since.”

  I like to exercise. I like to hike and do family bike rides, and I’d definitely take a dance class if we had a decent one in town. But I didn’t like gym.

  Instead of focusing on that, I change the subject. “You’ve noticed I haven’t taken gym in two years?”

  Grant stops and turns to me, his lips tipping in a smile that’s sweet but somehow serious. “I’ve noticed a lot of things about you, Lauren.”

  My heart does one little flip. It’s not much, but it’s definitely something.

  I smile and look away, feeling a little embarrassed.

  We continue through the mall, and I buy something for everyone on my list.

  When it’s nearly five o’clock, Grant walks me to my car.

  “I had fun,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  He helps me put the few small bags into the trunk. “Maybe we can do it again after Christmas?”

  “That would be nice.”

  We stand here, staring at each other. For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to lean in to kiss me. He hesitates, looking really unsure, and then he pats my shoulder.

  “Merry Christmas, Lauren.”

  “Merry Christmas, Grant.”

  With one more tight-lipped, “want-to-say-more” smile, he walks off to his own car.

  When I reach home, I fully expect to find Harrison and Brandon stealing half of dinner out of the kitchen as my mother cooks. Instead, I just find Mom.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask.

  “Like locusts, they devoured everything in sight, and then they flew off,” she says. “Brandon went to visit a few friends from high school, and Harrison is working on something in the garage.”

  Curious, I sit at the counter and watch her stir something in a pot. “What’s he doing out there?”

  “We don’t know,” Mom answers. “He’s being very cryptic about the whole thing.”

  The sound of a power tool echoes from the garage.

  “Is he woodworking?” I ask, aghast.

  Mom nods. “Yes, he asked to use your dad’s tools since there wasn’t room to bring his here.”

  I desperately want to go see what he’s doing, but I don’t want him to know that I’m curious.

  “How was the mall?” Mom asks.

  “Busy.”

  “Do you like this boy?”

  I cringe at the question. “Yeah, I like him.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Really?”

  I try to give her a droll look. “Yes, really.”

  Mom shrugs, obviously not convinced.

  I wish people would just stop asking.

  “Dinner’s at six,” she reminds me as I swipe a piece of bell pepper from her cutting board and head upstairs.

  There’s another whine of the table saw, and I pause. I could take a little look. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.

  Then I shake my head. Why do I care what Harrison is doing in the garage?

  Pushing the thought out of my mind, I go upstairs to edit and post yesterday’s video.

  CHAPTER TEN

  December 23rd

  I sit cross-legged on the floor next to the Christmas tree, watching a Christmas movie I’ve seen about a hundred times. Brandon’s on the couch, making fun of it and tossing popcorn at my head.

  Traditions are fun.

  Mom and Dad are doing some last minute shopping. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and I’m sure the mall is a zoo.

  Dad and Mom took the whole week off work so they could spend more time with me and Brandon. We’ve been doing so much family time, I’ve barely been able to get my daily Christmas countdown video posted.

  Luckily, I made a lot of the crafts in advance last summer during the break while I was bored. Tomorrow is my last video of the year, and it’s a recipe for my grandma’s gingerbread.

  Our movie ends just as it’s dark enough outside for our Christmas light sensor to flick the outside lights on. I toss the remote to Brandon, who looks pretty comfortable on the couch. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.

  “Do you and Harrison have plans tonight?” I ask.

  They’ve gone out nearly every night after dinner since Brandon’s been back. When they’re not out, and Harrison’s not working, Harrison has barricaded himself in the garage.

  Brandon flips through channels, not really seeing anything. “No, he’s finishing up the project he’s been working on.”

  Curiosity nags at me again.

  Obviously disgusted with the choices on the television, Brandon turns his attention to me. “Why? You want to do something?”

  I don’t spend very much time with Brandon even though he’s not nearly as awful as he used to be. And if I’m truthful with myself, I can admit he’s a lot of fun.

  I’d often get into trouble when I went with one of his schemes when we were young, but he’s grown up a little since he’s gone to college, and that doesn’t happen anymore. Well, not as much.

  “I’m making Grandma’s gingerbread,” I say. “I need it for tomorrow’s post.”

  “You sure? We could go shopping or something.”

  Wow, he must be bored.

  “We’ll hang out sometime before you go back to school, okay?” I promise.

  Brandon rolls his eyes. “I’m supposed to be the one promising to ma
ke time for you in my busy schedule.”

  I pat his head, grinning. “Yes, but, Brandon, you’re just not as cool as I am.”

  He swats me away, laughing, and stretches out on the couch. After he finds some sports channel, I lose him completely. Leaving him be, I head to the kitchen.

  Gingerbread is easy. You mix together some molasses, a lot of spices, flour, sugar, and a few other odds and ends, and then pop the batter in the oven. The hard part is waiting for it to bake. It takes almost an hour.

  That’s a long time to wait, especially for something as wonderful as Grandma’s gingerbread.

  With about twenty minutes left on the timer, Harrison comes wandering in, looking for a glass of water. He pauses in the doorway and glances around.

  I look at him expectantly.

  “Where’s your mom?” he asks.

  Bored, I look back at my magazine. “Shopping.”

  He pauses as he pulls a glass from the cupboard and jabs his thumb toward the oven. “Did you bake that?”

  “Thank you for your confidence in my culinary skills.”

  I should scoot him away from the oven when he peeks the door open, but he’s so obviously impressed, I can’t bring myself to.

  “It smells good.” He gently closes the door. “Gingerbread?”

  Nodding, I flip an unread page.

  “When will it be ready?” He makes a face after I tell him. “That long?”

  I nod, bored.

  Mom’s housekeeping magazine is as dull as the ones at the doctor’s office, and I toss it aside and cross my arms on the counter.

  Harrison leans against the counter, his back to the sink, and gulps down the water. He’s wearing worn-out jeans, and there’s a yellow pencil behind his ear. He’s covered from head to toe in small bits of sawdust, and his perfect hair is dusted with fine, powdery shavings.

  And he looks yummy—which is a weird thought for anyone who isn’t a termite.

  “What are you making?” I finally ask when I can’t help myself anymore.

  “Christmas gifts.”

  Tapping my finger on the counter, I ask, “What kind of Christmas gifts?”

  He smiles over his glass. “The kind you give people.”

  I roll my eyes and pretend I don’t care.