wouldn’t be able to explain. “And thanks for taking me home.”
“You’re on the way,” he says, and the casualness of it stings a little bit.
The night is warm, but the air streaming through the window is raising goose bumps on the bare skin of my arms. I feel awkward sitting in between the two of them. Like I’m intruding. This is the end of their date, the part where he drives her home and drops her off and tells her he had a nice time. Now I’m here, squished in between them, each side of me touching a side of them.
Nobody is talking, and so I wonder if they feel weird too. I’m thankful for the music playing on the radio, because it drowns out some of my anxious thoughts.
It only takes about five minutes to get to Danielle’s house, and when Andrew pulls the truck to a stop in her driveway, I feel the awkwardness expanding—like the truck is a tank filling with water and we’re slowly going to drown.
“You’ll get inside okay?” Andrew asks. Danielle rummages through her bag for her keys, pulling out a key chain with a leopard-print heart. She pulls down the passenger-side mirror and checks out her reflection, using her thumb to wipe the skin around her eyes.
“My parents go to sleep at like nine thirty.” She snaps the mirror shut and turns to us, smiling at Andrew and me with equal dazzle. “But just in case—do I smell like booze?”
She leans closer to me and breathes in my face and I cough. Her breath is sharp and tangy, the remnants of red wine. I start to nod but she leans past me toward Andrew. “You’ve been drinking too, Collins. You won’t be able to smell it.” And then she grabs the front of Andrew’s shirt and pulls him even closer, so her mouth is only a few inches away from his. She breathes again. “All good?”
Andrew laughs and shakes his head. “You smell like a bar.”
“Shut up, Reed,” she says. “Like you’ve ever been in a bar.” And still their mouths are only a few inches apart. She’s leaning over me, her body pressed into mine like I’m not even there, and her hair is in my face. I move it out of the way so I can see them, even though seeing them is making it hard to breathe.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says, and then kisses him squarely on the lips. It’s not a real kiss, just a quick pressing of her lips to his, and it’s over in a second—but it hits me in the chest. Before I can help it, I make a strangled sound and then feel my face turn a brilliant shade of red, because I’m horrified I’ve made any sound at all.
She pulls back and then seems to remember I’m sitting between them.
“Oh, sorry, Collins.” She pulls her hair behind her shoulder so it’s out of my face. “Forgot you were there.” I turn to look at Andrew’s face, to see if he’s embarrassed or excited or sorry, but his expression is blank and unreadable. “All right,” she says, opening the door to the truck and hopping out. “I’ll see you kids later.” And then she slams the door shut and we’re alone.
He doesn’t start the truck right away, and we sit silently beside each other, listening to the radio, which has changed to some local commercial for a grocery store, some silly song about fruits and vegetables. I focus intently on the words of the song, trying not to think about what just happened. I don’t want to process my thoughts, don’t want to think about the sharp pain in my chest, the way my breath felt strangled when I saw their lips touch. I’ve seen Andrew kiss so many girls, in way more intimate ways—tongues and teeth and hands—so this innocent peck on the lips shouldn’t matter. It’s just—this is the first time I’ve seen Andrew kiss a girl since he kissed me.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and then he reaches out and turns the key. The truck rumbles to life.