The One That Got Away Read Online Free
Author: Bethany Chase
in the festivities). I was aware that I was supposed to be awaiting the event with the breathless anticipation befitting the arrival of a rock star, but I had already decided I couldn’t stand him. Sight unseen. Rocketing down a snowy mountain at eighty miles an hour is cool. Lunging horizontally to dig a tennis ball out from six inches off the court is cool. Churning through chlorine at four miles an hour for a minute or two at a time is just not that cool. And besides, he was still in college, finishing up his senior year at UT; I was three years older and
way
too sophisticated to be impressed by college boys. I was into musicians.
When he arrived at the party, I was grudgingly forced to admitthat he actually was as good-looking as he had been billed, but the gaggle of girls that immediately formed around him and his friends made me all the more determined to ignore him. I was in the kitchen, craning to reach a bottle of Cuervo from the top shelf of a cabinet, when he appeared next to me and grabbed it without lifting his heels off the ground.
“Here you go,” he said, offering it to me along with a friendly smile. His voice matched the rich fudgy tone of his eyes.
“Thanks,” I said, and started to move past him, but he stepped into my path.
“I’m Eamon, by the way.”
“I’ve heard,” I remember saying, which made him laugh. I liked the fact that his response to Danny’s bragging was not false modesty, or entitlement, but amusement. In spite of myself, I was intrigued, and we started talking there in the kitchen. I’d always been a little baffled by the seeming closeness of Danny’s friendship with Eamon, assuming the latter to be a chest-bumping meathead like most of the other athletes I’d met, but his intelligence and impish irreverence made it clear why Danny was so fond of him. After a long time, I set the tequila bottle down on the counter, having completely forgotten why I wanted it in the first place.
He cocked his head and studied it, frowning. “You know, that tequila’s not looking so great.”
“What do you mean?” Tequila is inherently toxic.
He lifted the bottle toward the bug-littered light fixture on the ceiling. “Just looks skunky. Cloudy, almost. I think you need a new bottle.”
“But we just bought it. It’s fine. Here, I’ll pour you a shot to prove it.” I took it from him and started unscrewing the cap, but he waved me off.
“Nah, I can’t drink much when I’m training,” he said, soyoung but so serious about his swimming. “But I
can
drive you to the liquor store to get a new bottle of tequila.” He cracked open the fridge door and peered inside. “You’re low on beer, too. Wanna make a run?”
I couldn’t understand how we could be low on beer when we’d been well stocked the last time I checked, but with the way he was smiling at me, I wasn’t about to protest.
“Sure.” I was still trying to play it cool, though I had stopped thinking he was nothing special about thirty-five minutes ago.
Of course, because it was 12:30 on a Saturday night, the liquor store nearest me was closed, as was the shady one a few streets over with the proprietor that Danny and I referred to as Cyclops. Eamon, who turned out to have surprisingly deep knowledge of liquor store locations for someone who wasn’t allowed to drink for most of the year, chauffeured me around to three more possible locations near the UT campus while I car-danced to his
Rumours
CD. (College boy he might have been, but his possession of Fleetwood Mac’s masterpiece attested to his credibility on the music front.) I was having so much fun with him that I didn’t want to go back to the party, but after an hour of fruitless searching, we gave up on the tequila and decided just to head to a 7-Eleven for beer.
I was stacking six-packs of Lone Star into Eamon’s arms when Danny called me to find out where the hell we were. He erupted with indignation when I explained about the beer.
“He’s full
way
too sophisticated to be impressed by college boys. I was into musicians.
When he arrived at the party, I was grudgingly forced to admitthat he actually was as good-looking as he had been billed, but the gaggle of girls that immediately formed around him and his friends made me all the more determined to ignore him. I was in the kitchen, craning to reach a bottle of Cuervo from the top shelf of a cabinet, when he appeared next to me and grabbed it without lifting his heels off the ground.
“Here you go,” he said, offering it to me along with a friendly smile. His voice matched the rich fudgy tone of his eyes.
“Thanks,” I said, and started to move past him, but he stepped into my path.
“I’m Eamon, by the way.”
“I’ve heard,” I remember saying, which made him laugh. I liked the fact that his response to Danny’s bragging was not false modesty, or entitlement, but amusement. In spite of myself, I was intrigued, and we started talking there in the kitchen. I’d always been a little baffled by the seeming closeness of Danny’s friendship with Eamon, assuming the latter to be a chest-bumping meathead like most of the other athletes I’d met, but his intelligence and impish irreverence made it clear why Danny was so fond of him. After a long time, I set the tequila bottle down on the counter, having completely forgotten why I wanted it in the first place.
He cocked his head and studied it, frowning. “You know, that tequila’s not looking so great.”
“What do you mean?” Tequila is inherently toxic.
He lifted the bottle toward the bug-littered light fixture on the ceiling. “Just looks skunky. Cloudy, almost. I think you need a new bottle.”
“But we just bought it. It’s fine. Here, I’ll pour you a shot to prove it.” I took it from him and started unscrewing the cap, but he waved me off.
“Nah, I can’t drink much when I’m training,” he said, soyoung but so serious about his swimming. “But I
can
drive you to the liquor store to get a new bottle of tequila.” He cracked open the fridge door and peered inside. “You’re low on beer, too. Wanna make a run?”
I couldn’t understand how we could be low on beer when we’d been well stocked the last time I checked, but with the way he was smiling at me, I wasn’t about to protest.
“Sure.” I was still trying to play it cool, though I had stopped thinking he was nothing special about thirty-five minutes ago.
Of course, because it was 12:30 on a Saturday night, the liquor store nearest me was closed, as was the shady one a few streets over with the proprietor that Danny and I referred to as Cyclops. Eamon, who turned out to have surprisingly deep knowledge of liquor store locations for someone who wasn’t allowed to drink for most of the year, chauffeured me around to three more possible locations near the UT campus while I car-danced to his
Rumours
CD. (College boy he might have been, but his possession of Fleetwood Mac’s masterpiece attested to his credibility on the music front.) I was having so much fun with him that I didn’t want to go back to the party, but after an hour of fruitless searching, we gave up on the tequila and decided just to head to a 7-Eleven for beer.
I was stacking six-packs of Lone Star into Eamon’s arms when Danny called me to find out where the hell we were. He erupted with indignation when I explained about the beer.
“He’s full
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