Meet Me at Midnight - Jessica Pennington Page 0,58
it’s a different kind of silence from what has become our normal the last few years. Let’s hope spending four hours in a car together doesn’t ruin it.
DAY 22
Asher
The next night, we’re pulling into the Cherry Bowl Drive-In in my parents’ small black SUV. It’s dusk, and the lot is just starting to fill up with cars. The Cherry Bowl is on the edge of town, and it looks like something straight out of a fifties sitcom. The property is circled by wavy sheets of metal that would look like something from a junkyard if they weren’t painted a pretty pale aqua. Inside, there’s nothing more than a big open field that is 60 percent half-dead grass and 40 percent dirt patches. To one side a little painted brick building houses the concessions and bathrooms, and at the far end a giant white screen stretches into the sky.
In the passenger seat Sidney has a plastic container (which I assume/pray is full of muffins) on her lap. She brought two bottles of water that are now sitting in the console between us. We’ve been quiet the entire drive and I’m hoping this wasn’t the worst idea ever, because this is exactly what I was hoping to fix.
I back into the first available space, and Sidney unbuckles her seat belt, but doesn’t get out. She twists in her seat and looks quizzically out the back of the car, where the giant screen is.
I open my door. “Come on,” I say, closing the door behind me and making my way to the back of the car. Sidney meets me as the trunk door is slowly rising above us. And I’m not sure if the look on her face means I’m getting any of those muffins she’s got gripped in her hands, or if I’m out of luck.
Sidney
I’m trying to ignore how much this feels like a date, because that’s just ridiculous. Asher and I don’t do dates. A few weeks ago we didn’t do civil conversation. But the back of the car is covered in a soft plaid blanket—the one Sylvie usually packs for the beach—and there are pillows piled up along the back of the seat. I set my container of muffins on the bumper and stare into the comfy yet intimidating space, reminding myself that the only reason Asher bought my ticket is the baked goods I came with. You told him to buy it. One hundred percent not a date.
“This is—” Weird. Intimidating. Slightly horrifying. “—nice,” I say, my voice more tentative than I’d intended. I climb up into the trunk and wiggle myself into the passenger-side corner. Best to claim my space first. My toes nervously push the blanket back into place where I pulled it up climbing in. Asher climbs in after me and sits on the opposite side, leaning back onto the pillows with his hands crossed behind his head. His feet hang over the bumper.
There’s a half-foot of space between our outstretched legs, and the trunk is normal size, but it feels claustrophobically small. The smell of Asher’s body wash dances in the air around us, as if it’s taunting me with the fact that I can’t escape it. I would endure torture before I’d admit it to him, but I love the smell of Asher’s body wash. It’s warm and spicy, and it reminds me of summer. Maybe because he reminds me of summer. It’s a chicken and egg thing, I guess. But right now, it reminds me of being in our bathroom in the morning, and the way the smell seems to permeate the entire room, even if it’s been hours since he showered. The way it seems to soak into my skin as I shower. And the thought of being naked in that room sends a shiver down my spine. You’re in a car, Sidney. Definitely not in the shower. Fully clothed. Shake it off, Walters.
“I just figured if we’re going to be sitting in the car for the next four hours, we didn’t have to be wedged in the front seats.” Four hours. I forgot the Cherry Bowl showed double features. I haven’t been here since my parents took me our very first summer. Asher pries the lid off of the container of muffins, but leaves it where it was, between our knees. He pops one of the tiny muffins into his mouth and moans. “Plus, there’s less pressure not to get food on my dad’s seats now. He’s weird about that.”