heads right for me anyway.
“You are so barking up the wrong tree,” she says, glaring at me from underneath her ball cap.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re working awfully hard at pretending to be exercising—or—whatever this little thing’s supposed to be.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I know a lot.” She shrugs. “Like the fact that Clint will never fall in love with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
My eyelids fly backward, as if the idea completely shocks me. “That’s not—I’m not—I have a—” But somehow, this time, I can’t even say the word. Boyfriend. I can’t make it come out of my mouth, any more than an iPod could play some old vinyl record. I’m so busy trying to think of a way to tell her she’s wrong, it doesn’t even occur to me to tell her to buzz off, mind her own business.
“He’s damaged goods,” she tells me. “Broken. Incapable of love.” She turns away before I can pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth.
Boyfriend. Still, the word refuses to show its face in the sweet summer-night air.
The night is black enough to make me feel blindfolded as we drive back to the resort. Clint’s truck jiggles and jostles down the paths so forcefully, I have to grab the dash to steady myself.
“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice chipping away at the awkward silence that’s followed us from the festival. “She’ll get there. I know this truck looks rough—”
“No—I love your truck,” I say. Or more truthfully, I love being inside it. Because sitting next to Clint, I’m lightheaded with anticipation. Adrenaline burns my lungs, in a way that it hasn’t since I last ran out onto the court.
God, I’ve missed this feeling. And I want more.
Clint snorts a laugh. “Yeah, it’s real classy.”
“Seriously,” I insist, nerves making me babble. “I can practically see all the camping trips you’ve taken in this truck. The fishing trips. Nights you spent stretched out in the bed, hands behind your head, stargazing …”
My voice trickles off as I glance through the windshield toward the sparkling white stars. I zero in on one of the specs in the sky: the Chelsea Keyes Star. Its twinkle turns to a slit-eyed glare as it accuses me of horrible things. True things.
But instead of feeling embarrassed, I imagine putting that stupid star in a slingshot and shooting it straight into another galaxy.
When we get to cabin number four, Clint throws open his squeaky driver side door. “I’ll get it,” he says when I grip my own door handle. “Wait.” He races to the passenger’s side, where a matching squeak sings out, almost as if to answer the first.
In slow motion, I steady myself by reaching for the metal handle on the door with one hand and putting my other hand on Clint’s shoulder. I start to take a step out of the truck; as I lower myself to the ground, I come far closer to Clint than I’d intended. I actually slide down the front of his body—when my face reaches his, our lips meet.
At first it surprises me, the wet touch of his lips. Shocks me so much I almost start to pull away. But something inside me—some instinct—fights the shock, presses my face closer to his. As I’m balancing there, one foot dangling above the ground, one hand on Clint’s shoulder and the other still on the door handle, Clint’s mouth opens against mine. He wraps his arms around me. As our mouths close, he parts my lips open again with his tongue.
Our kiss is a Midwest summer storm, swift and frightening. It’s dark clouds and the sweet smell of impending rain all at the same time. It’s knowing I should run inside, take cover, but not being able to pull myself away from the danger, the thrill.
He’s holding me—but he’s lowering me, too. By the time our mouths part again, he’s already put me down on the ground.
He snatches his arms away. By the time I open my eyes, he’s hurrying around to the driver’s side.
“Clint—” I try, but he’s inside the truck and it’s starting to roll away.
“Clint—” I repeat. The door’s still open on the passenger’s side, and all I can think to do is slam it shut for him before he speeds away.
Clint
protective equipment
I practically kick the gas pedal to the floorboards. Instead of revving and racing forward, the GMC just kind of flinches, as if to ask, What’d I ever do to you?
The black sky beyond the windshield doesn’t just swirl,