That Kind Of Girl. Kim Mckade

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      She grabbed at the shirt with both hands and pulled it away far enough that he could probably see down the neck as well. “I’ll just—I’ll just go change.” She backed away, picturing how she must look with her pencil-eraser nipples, scraped shin and gaping mouth. Quite lovely, to be sure. She kept backing, and bumped into the doorjamb.

      “That’d probably be a good idea,” he said.

      “The front door’s unlocked. Make yourself at home. I’ll just be a second.”

      In her bedroom she stripped down to her underwear, wondering what had changed his mind. Certainly it hadn’t been her cool, sophisticated poise. And he’d told her to her face that her looks hadn’t made an impression. That left the power suit and the Precious Ivories. Or maybe it was the ingenious way she had of falling through his porch that won him over.

      One day back in town and the man already had her mind twisted in knots. She didn’t know what to think about that kiss. In fact, every time her mind even barely brushed up against the thought of it, she got even more confused. So she told herself she just wouldn’t think about it. Which, of course, she recognized as a lie as soon as she thought it. She hadn’t forgotten their last kiss, and that had been twelve years ago. She could still feel his hands and lips on hers, without even trying. The kiss today hadn’t shared that same unharnessed passion, but it did share the same barrier-shaking intimacy.

      She walked into the adjoining bath and wiped off her midriff with a warm washcloth. She caught her reflection in the mirror, and her hand slowed, then stopped. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes as bright as if she had a raging fever.

      Why was she doing this to herself? What was it going to take for her to learn?

      She’d worked hard to build her self-esteem. It had taken years of conscious effort for her to accept herself, to even like herself. It had not been easy; she had a lifetime of feeling like a freak to wipe away. But she’d done it. And now she was champing at the bit to let it be brushed aside by a few careless remarks and a kiss that obviously meant nothing to Colt.

      She put her palms on the counter and faced her reflection sternly. It was time to be perfectly honest. The truth was, she’d always had a bit of a soft spot for Colt. Okay, a big soft spot. A ridiculous crush, in fact. And maybe a part of her had always wondered whether if she looked different, and acted differently, he would see her differently. Less as the weirdo girl who lived down the road and made up stories to tell him when they were kids. Less as the bookish wallflower in high school, and more as…well, as more.

      But the fact was—aside from falling through his porch and splashing iced tea all over herself—she hadn’t done anything overwhelmingly embarrassing. At least she hadn’t thrown herself at him—again. And if there was a God in the sky, Colt would not remember that night and she could go on pretending it had never happened.

      The only real injury today had been to her pride, and she was an old hat at rebuilding that. So there was no reason she could not go out there as Colt’s old friend, have dinner with him, catch up on old times, and act like a normal person. If she stopped behaving like an imbecile right this second.

      Whatever had changed Colt’s mind about dinner, it surely involved little more than an empty stomach. And if she had any brains at all—which she knew she did; they were in there somewhere—she would go out there and quit reading something into every little move he made. She would relax and enjoy herself.

      Just to prove to them both that she really didn’t care if Colt found her attractive or not, she left her hair piled in a messy nest on top of her head. She dragged on baggy sweatpants, topped off with a T-shirt that announced “Math is Power.” Then she faced her reflection again and nodded. Now, there was a woman who was truly comfortable with herself, in all her nerdiness.

      When she went back to the kitchen, though, he wasn’t there to test her indifference. Neither was he in the living room. She slumped against the arm of the sofa and made a face. She scared him off already. This had to be a new record for her—

      “This is really good. Did you do it?”

      She grinned. He was in her office.

      He stood in front of the mural she’d painted on the south wall, his thumbs in his back pockets.

      “Yes, I did it.”

      “It’s great. When I came in I thought it was a real window.”

      “Yes, well, the light is dim. Of course, if it were a real window, the light would not be dim,” she said inanely. She flipped the light switch and moved to stand beside him, noting the way his hair, still damp from his shower, curled at the back of his neck.

      “This is incredible. You’ve caught it all, just as if there was a window here.” He reached up to trace a blunt finger over the telephone pole beside the dirt road, the tumbleweeds built up along the barbed-wire fence.

      “Thank you.”

      “It’s great.” He turned to face her. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

      “Shoot.”

      “If you were just going to paint what’s really there— I mean, it’s really good and everything—but if you were just going to paint what you would see if there was a window there, why not just put in a window?”

      “I turned out to be a lot handier with a paintbrush than I am with a saw.”

      “You could get someone else to do it. I’d do it, if you want. It’d take about half a day—”

      “I don’t want. Why would I want you to destroy my mural? It took me months to finish. And besides,” she said with a sniff, “this is far superior to an actual window. It never needs cleaning. It won’t let in dust, no matter how hard the wind blows. And if I ever get the urge to move, all I have to do is drag out the brushes and paints.”

      “But seriously, Becca, you could have the real thing.”

      “And look at this—” Ignoring him, she stepped up to point out the giant mulberry tree. “This is the tree that grows beside the elementary school. You remember that tree, out at the west edge of the playground?”

      “Sure, I remember. I stared at it all the way through the third grade, wishing I was out in that tree instead of inside trying to figure out fractions.”

      “I used to sit under it and read all through recess.”

      “I remember. You sat on this root right here, the big one that grew up through the sidewalk.”

      She looked at him and blinked. Told herself there was nothing touching or heartwarming about his remembering her in elementary school. They had, after all, been friends. Just friends. “Yes, well…” She scratched under her ear. “I wanted it in my window here. So I put it here.”

      “You could plant a mulberry tree, you know. You could have a real tree and a real window.”

      “Not a tree that’s thirty feet tall and has branches thick enough to swing from and roots big enough to sit on.”

      “Well, not for a while.”

      “Admit it. My window is superior.”

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