How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You (3 page)

I struggled for a response. “It could be a musical?” When Viney snorted, I couldn’t resist singing a little under my breath, “
Somewhere, over the end zone . . . pig skins fly.
”

Of course, Viney was not to be outdone, doing his best Gene Kelly in
Singin’ in the Rain
. “
I’m passing to Jermaine . . . just passing to Jermaine.
”

“Who’s Jermaine?”

“The funny wide receiver with the heart of gold who’s the hero’s best friend.”

“Oh, okay then.”

Of course once we got started, we couldn’t stop.

“
I love first and goal.
”

“Joan Jett. Old school. Impressive.”

“
Yoooooou’re heeeeeeeere, I’ve got nothing to fear . . . and I know that my hut, will go oooonnn.
”

“Oh, that’s terrible.”

“You just wish you’d thought of it. Celine is classic.”

“
And I . . . eeeee . . . I . . . eeee I . . . scored a field goal for you.
”

“Nice one.”

“Thanks.”

“Gentlemen?” An unamused glare over familiar cat-eye glasses stopped us in our proverbial tracks.

“Do you have something you’d like to share with the group?” Ms. Sherman raised an eyebrow, but I thought she might have been fighting a smile as well.

We both muttered a suitably chagrined “no, ma’am,” and she turned with a last pointed look before returning to the front of the auditorium. I thought I might have heard her humming, though I could have been mistaken.

Viney hightailed it out of there after practice, taking off on his bike—he refused to get his driver’s license because he firmly believed the statistics that said car accidents were the leading cause of death for American teenagers. Viney was a bit obsessive about statistics. So he pedaled away with a wave and a promise to text later to go over our history homework. I headed toward my own beat-up pickup—it wasn’t pretty, but paid for by my own hard-earned dollars, thank you very much—when I spotted Ainsley sitting on top of a picnic table near the steps leading down to the football field.

I hesitated for a moment, scanning the parking lot as I tried to decide whether I should approach her or continue on. On the one hand, it was a chance to interact with Ainsley without interruption. On the other hand, it was a chance to interact with Ainsley without interruption. I gulped, my mouth suddenly dry. After all, it was one thing to have a list, a plan of action. It was often another thing to implement that plan when the object of your affection made you feel like you might throw up at any moment.

I was pretty sure that would not aid my cause.

On the other hand, she was sitting there all alone and looking a little sad, if I wasn’t mistaken. And yes, I realized that was three hands, but I was kind of panicking a bit and unsure what to do and counting hands was a low priority at that moment.

“Oliver?” Ainsley looked up and waved, effectively making the decision for me.

I took a deep breath in a fruitless attempt to calm my racing heartbeat and put on what I hoped was a casual, yet friendly, expression as I made my way to her. She smiled, and I remembered that might be a good idea. To smile. So I did.

“Hi,” I said, my voice cracking. It always chose the most inopportune times to do that.

Ainsley was too nice to point it out, though. “Hi,” she said.

“Are you, uh . . .” I could do this. I could be brave. I could take the bull by the horns or the girl by the . . . whatever. “Do you need a ride or, uh, something?”

Good. That was good. Not too pushy, but helpful. I was a helpful guy. I could be helpful. Of course, then she’d be in the cab of my truck with me. A closed-in area where I’d have to make conversation without making a fool of myself. I felt the panic edging up again.

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” she said, waving a hand toward the football field. “I’m waiting for Ian. He’ll be done soon.”

Oh.
I wasn’t sure if I felt disappointed or relieved. Disappointed. A little relieved. But mostly disappointed. “Okay then. I’ll just . . .” I made a vague gesture over my shoulder as I started to back away. I really needed to practice these interactions in front of the mirror or something.

“I was surprised to see you at practice,” she said, stopping me in my tracks. “I mean, no offense, but Drama Club doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”

Despite my strongest efforts to keep it down, a flush inched its way up my neck. “Oh . . . no. Yeah. It’s totally. My thing that is. Drama Club. Very Drama-clubby. I am. I mean.” I reached up to tug at my hair. Why couldn’t I form complete sentences? “I like plays,” I said finally, pleased that at least that made some kind of sense.

She grinned, blue eyes twinkling. “Okay, then. So what did you think of
our
plays?”

I should mention at this point that I have never been one skilled at thinking on my feet. I’m more of a methodical, plan-it-out, examine-all-angles kind of guy. I am also a terrible liar. I stammer and sweat and turn red as a tomato. So of course, when Ainsley asked me that question, my mouth dropped open, and the only thing I could say was, “Uhh . . .”

Her face fell. “I knew it,” she said. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“No!” I exclaimed, making her jump. I took a deep breath and begged my traitorous body not to give me away. “I mean, no, of course it’s not awful. It’s new. Everyone’s still learning their parts, right? It’s supposed to be rough.”

“I suppose.” She chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “You didn’t think it was kind of, I don’t know, dumb?”

“Dumb?” I squeaked. Like I said, I was not good at this. “Why would you say that?”

“It totally is,” she said glumly, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. She glanced up at me. “I heard you guys. Today at practice.”

Crap.

C
rapcrapcrapcrapcrap.

“I’m really sorry. We were joking around—”

“It’s okay—”

“Me and Viney, we’re a couple of idiots—”

“You’re not an idiot—”

“And what do we know about theater anyway? Absolutely nothing.”

“Oliver,” she said, dropping her feet to the bench and leaning forward to get my attention. “It’s okay. I know it’s ridiculous.” She sighed heavily.

“Well, then . . .” I fidgeted a little before sitting down on the bench next to her legs.

Jeans and pink tennis shoes today
.

Ainsley had tennis shoes in almost every color of the rainbow, and more than one pink pair. She’d opted for the brighter ones with the purple stripes—to go with her purple shirt, I assumed. Yes, I knew it was kind of weird that I was so familiar with Ainsley’s shoes, but that was beside the point at that moment.

What were we talking about? Oh, yeah.

I cleared my throat. “Why don’t you, uh, change the play? I mean, if you don’t like it?”

She shrugged. “Ian helped me with it. He thinks it’s perfect, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

I knew I had to handle this situation carefully. “What does Ms. Sherman say?”

“She says she wants us to be able to express ourselves freely,” Ainsley replied, absently twirling a strand of her hair.

“Well, she picked your play, so she must have thought it was good.” I didn’t want to even think about the ones she rejected.

Ainsley half-smiled. “She said it had potential, but she wants us to find a way to fulfill that potential ourselves—without adult interference.”

I snorted. “Well, that’s helpful.”

“Right?” Ainsley laughed. “She’s supposed to be a
teacher
. So where’s the teaching?”

I smiled widely, a little giddy at the idea I’d made her laugh. “Well, I have confidence you’ll make it into something great.”

“Really?” She tilted her head, eyeing me carefully as if trying to see if I’d crack.

I didn’t. “Sure. You can do it.”

She smiled softly. “Thanks, Oliver.”

Our eyes met, and I could swear we had a . . . something. A moment, maybe? Then her gaze broke away over my shoulder and her smile widened, lighting up her whole face.

“Hi, babe!” she called out.

I turned to find Ian jogging over, hair damp from a shower, a huge smile on his face. He swept past me and leaned down to kiss Ainsley twice.

Not just once. Oh no, he got to kiss her twice. Three times if he wanted to.

“Hi,” he said, and then he kissed her again.

Three times. Ugh.

He straightened and ran a hand through his hair, which still looked perfect for some annoying reason. He shot me a glance and a bro-like head nod. “Hey, man.”

I coughed. “Uh. Hey.”

“What are you guys doing?” He plopped down next to Ainsley and threw an arm over her shoulders.

“Just talking about the play,” she replied, leaning into him. “Oliver thinks it’s going to be good.”

“Yeah?” He grinned at me before turning back to her and kissing her forehead. “Of course it is. The play is awesome, and you’re awesome. How can it not be totally”—he kissed her,
again
—“awesome?”

I started to feel a little sick and got to my feet. “I’ve, uh, gotta go. Homework, you know?”

“Dude,” Ian said, leaning back on his hands and stretching out his long frame, “you study too much.”

I forced a laugh. “Yeah, well. Gotta keep up that GPA.”

“Cool,” he said, and he leaned in to nuzzle Ainsley’s neck.

She pushed him away with a giggle, blushing as she shot me a glance. “See you, Oliver. Thanks.”

I cleared my throat. “No problem. I’ll, uh, see you.”

I turned and tried not to run to my truck. I almost succeeded.

2.
Do Your Research

Preparation is the key to success, so go to those with experience for advice. Be methodical. Now is the time to gather information, so don’t rule anything out.

One of the not-so-great things about being me is the fact that I tend to, shall we say, overthink things a bit. I replayed my conversation with Ainsley about fifty-seven times in my head on the way home. It would have been fifty-eight or maybe even fifty-nine, but I was lucky and hit a string of green lights on Main Street. Along the way, I thought of a dozen more suave and sophisticated things I could have said, ways I could have been more witty or charming. Of course, simply being coherent would have been an improvement.

But I did it. I actually had a semi-conversation with Ainsley that had nothing to do with
What was our homework assignment?
or
What did you get for number eight?
and even managed to work in a compliment. So, though it could have gone better, it definitely could have gone worse. And I couldn’t help thinking that it might have gotten even
better
if Ian hadn’t shown up.

Ian.

Yeah, he was a problem.

But I refused to let him factor into my plans, refused to even put him on my list, because I didn’t want this to become a battle between Ian and me. Not only because, well, let’s face it, he had a significant advantage if it were to come to that, but because I wanted Ainsley to choose me on my own merits. Not because I was the lesser of two evils, or what was left over once she realized what I already knew—that Ian Buckley wasn’t right for her.

Now, there were those—Viney—who might have said that I was looking at the situation with rose-colored glasses, glossing over Ian’s obvious merits out of fear of examining them too closely. I didn’t think that was true. I knew what Ian was, all the things he had that I didn’t. I’d made a list at one point but threw it away because it was too depressing to focus on. Sure, on paper he seemed like the perfect match for Ainsley, but there was something I’d discovered. Something I wasn’t a hundred percent
certain
of yet, but that the evidence seemed to indicate. Something that, if it were true, would be the only reason I could see that he wouldn’t deserve her.

Ian loved himself more than he loved Ainsley. And Ainsley let him.

So my mission was not to prove that Ian wasn’t worthy of her, but that she was worthy of
more
.