Almost Perfect - Brian Katcher [67]
What Sage and I needed right now was distance. Just a week or so with no contact, followed by a promise never to be alone like that again. That was the only way our friendship could survive.
There was just one problem. We were planning on spending the weekend in Columbia together.
The next day was Friday. I was supposed to drive to the university on Saturday with Sage and spend the night. And now I couldn’t allow that to happen. After the incident in her room, there was no way we could be alone together for that long. Sage obviously was willing to do just about anything with me. I had to avoid being in that position again.
I tried to call Laura to cancel, but there was no answer. I left a message for her to call me. I couldn’t bring myself to phone Sage. Not so soon after seeing the effects of her Mexican medication.
That day at school, I avoided her. I even ran laps after the last bell until I was sure she’d left. We couldn’t talk about what had happened when people could overhear. Besides, it would be easier for me to cancel on Sage if I didn’t have to look her in the face.
Friday evening, I still hadn’t called her. It was nearly seven. If I didn’t pick up the phone soon, she’d show up at the trailer the next day, all packed and ready to go.
Mom was home that night and wanted to spend the evening with me. I couldn’t really tell her no. In a few months, I’d be off at Mizzou and might not see her for weeks at a time. The idea frightened me a bit. In Columbia, there’d be no one to do my laundry, fix me breakfast, worry when I was out late, or give me a hug before classes.
Mom was setting up the Scrabble board as I stared at the phone trying to get up the courage to call Sage. We only had the one phone, in the living room. Mom never deliberately listened in on my calls, but the trailer was small. This was one conversation I didn’t want her accidentally-on-purpose overhearing.
I was still trying to think of a polite way to ask Mom to step out for a minute, when the phone rang. Mom answered it. Then she smiled.
“It’s Sage,” she teased, like I was fourteen and this was the first time a girl had ever called me. I took the receiver.
Mom stood up and walked to the front door. “I forgot to get something out of the car.” The screen slammed after her. Obviously, she realized I wanted a little privacy.
“Sage?” My voice cracked.
“Hi, Logan.”
“Hi.” So far, so good.
The line might have gone dead; neither of us spoke. There was so much for both of us to say.
Sage, I don’t think we should see each other for a while. I still find you attractive, and I can’t deal with that.
Maybe Sage was thinking along the same lines. Finally, she broke the silence.
“So, Logan, am I still going to Mizzou with you tomorrow?” Her voice got higher throughout the sentence and ended with a squeak.
All I had to do was say no. She’d understand. After we’d both had time to calm down, we could take a day trip or something. Saying no would have been so easy.
“Of course, Sage. You’re my ride.” Wait, wrong line!
Sage giggled. “Okay. Just making sure. See you tomorrow around noon.” She hung up without saying goodbye.
I stared at the phone until the recorded message told me to hang up and dial. What had I just agreed to do? Why?
Because you wanted to. Because you want to see Laura and visit the campus and hang out with Sage. You’re both nervous about going away to school, and you’ll have fun exploring Mizzou together.
Which is exactly why I should have canceled the trip. If Sage had been nothing more than a girl with a pretty face and a great rack, I could have forgotten about her. But she was also my friend. Which meant I didn’t want to avoid her when I should.
I had to be Iceman this weekend. Mr. Cool. Sage and I would talk on the drive to Columbia. I’d ask her, for the sake of our friendship, not to come on to me again. She’d do that for me, I was sure. When we got to campus, I’d stay with Laura’s friends. Hang out with the girls, but not be too chummy with Sage. My sister would just think she was a classmate of mine I’d asked out once. By