He turns the phone to show me the screen.
“From Bridget. She and a friend returned my truck to the lot.” A friendly, no-big-deal smile, as if we hadn’t just been inches from kissing. “Isn’t that nice of her?”
“Peachy,” I say.
“I guess I’d better get you home.”
I straighten the rest of the way up as Brandon rises, the moment gone. But my body missed the message, and I can still feel my pulse everywhere at once.
“Come on,” he says, leading the way.
I follow, hot and bothered, unsure whether I’ve just been saved from something foolish or denied something wonderful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Riley
WE’RE OUT THE DOOR AND back onto the street when Brandon stops under a street light. The sidewalks aren’t deserted but are fairly still; it’s a summer evening in Old Town and there’s plenty still going on, but much of it is indoors around the Overlook’s corner. A few people pass us, and I try to focus on each one. I imagine them as people who know my father, who know me, and whom I need to prove wrong. I was eighteen when I left, yes. But now I’m twenty-two and have a degree. I’m ready to move on. To become more. And no matter what Mason James thinks, I can.
“What?” I ask him.
He looks momentarily uncomfortable then glances up the street, toward the restaurant, presumably toward his truck — which, until five minutes ago, I’d assumed was a car.
“Maybe we should get you an Uber.”
“Can’t you take me home?” I shouldn’t have said that because it sounds demanding and perhaps a bit whiny, but I’m not quite ready for this evening to end. It should, by all measures. But I want more time. More chances for happy accidents like what almost happened inside the club.
“I have that early meeting.”
“But it’s just past ten.”
He sighs, then looks back at me and says, “It’s not a very nice ride.”
“What?” Then I understand. “You mean your car?”
“My truck.”
“Right.”
He looks so uncomfortable. I want to take his hand and, as in the club, tell him that whatever it is, it’ll be all right.
But instead of saying anything, he walks ahead. I scramble to keep pace.
“I had something come up,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been meaning to get a new car. But I had something come up.”
I look ahead. There’s only one parking lot in sight, and just one truck in the lot. Even from here I can see the rust. The thing is dark gray, but it might once have been black or even blue. It’s difficult to tell in the scant light, but it’s not hard to see that’s the subject of Brandon’s worries.
“Oh,” I say. “Of course.”
“Some stuff with Bridget. I had to help her out.”
He’s embarrassed. It breaks my heart. I want to smile, but can’t bring myself to do so lest he think I’m being patronizing.
“I told you about my friend Moochie when you asked about the Johnny Rotten picture, right?” I say.
“No.”
“And his car?”
Brandon gives a confused little shrug. “No.”
“It was a huge brown shitbox Buick. Because it was so messed up to begin with, he wasn’t picky about running into things. Like parking meters.”
I can tell I’m on thin ground, bringing up a crappy car story that makes it clear we both think his truck is crappy, too. But Brandon laughs a little.
I could tell him more — how Moochie used to Super Glue troll dolls to its hood and roof, for example — but I decide to stop while I’m ahead and keep things simple. So I grab his hand without thinking and say, “I like your truck.”
“It’s my work truck.”
“You should see my ‘work car,’” I say, which is ridiculous both because I only have one car and because it’s cluttered, but in great shape. “Come on.” And this time, I lead him. It’s a few steps before I realize I’ve been too familiar and let go of his hand, keeping close, smiling without making it too apparent how much I’m enjoying his company.
But Brandon, looking over, is quiet. It’s not vehicle shame now, though. It’s something deeper. Something animal. The smile leaves my lips, but now I want to walk even closer.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Enough time has passed that the first glass of wine, at least, should be leaving my system. But I still feel intoxicated. I want to touch Brandon, even knowing what a bad idea it is for us both. We could never be together. We’re not a good fit, and we’re from backgrounds different enough to be opposite. He’s too old for me. He works with (for!) my father. And if I embarrass myself in front of a man who might one day be my boss, I’ll only confirm all that Dad’s thinking. What everyone, I imagine, is thinking.
But by the time we climb into the truck, a tense quiet has settled between us. I’m afraid to look at Brandon. He seems afraid to look at me. I must appear angry, but the soul of Gavin’s sad song has rooted in my heart, and I’m anything but. I feel myself drawn toward Brandon. And unless I’m mistaken, I can see him fighting the same thing from his end.
I sit. I strap in. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I fold them in my lap. I don’t know where to look, so I turn my eyes to the dashboard, the floor, the CDs in the door pocket.
“I told you it was dirty before we got in,” he says, a bit too harshly, because he must think my survey means I’m judging.
“I know.”
“I didn’t expect I’d be driving anyone.”
“Except Bridget,” I say.
He throws me a look. Again: almost angry. Not angry at all.
“How do I get to your place?”
I tell him.
“That’s way up in Cherry Hill.”
“Yes,” I say, because it should be obvious and already established. He knows I live with my father for now. I just got home from college. And everyone knows my father lives in Cherry Hill, or at least they should assume it, based on his income and status.
“It’s going to take us a half hour to get there.”
“About,” I say.
“And a half hour to get back.”
“Maybe you should get me a cab after all,” I say, near to snapping. It’s hard for me to move with this full, inflated feeling throughout my body, but I swivel over and unclasp the seatbelt anyway. Every movement feels dangerous, as if I’m a bomb about to go off.
Brandon pushes the truck into reverse then backs up while I’m still unbuckled. I snap it back in, the issue apparently decided, and stare out the window.
Within a few minutes, the lights of Old Town surrender to fields. Street lights vanish. I keep looking out the side window, but there’s nothing to see, not even a moon. I could look forward, but there’s nothing there, either. And I’m pretty sure Brandon is mad at me, so I don’t want to catch his eye.
It’s okay. I think I might be mad at him, too.
I look over. He’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He flicks his stare forward again, and we sit in the dark cab, lit only by the instrument panel.
I reach out to at least turn on the radio. But nothing happens when I start pushing knobs and buttons.
“It’s broken,” he says.
“You don’t have a radio?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it’d matter.”
“I offered to take a cab,” I say.
“I can drive you.”
“I see that. And it’s obviously pissing you off.”
“It’s not pissing me off.”