because the word hoisting and my polyester work dress do not belong in the same sentence. He offers me his hand, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I pretend to need it.
I’m surprised to know that his fingers are calloused with wear. I like how they contrast against my own skin. Once I’m settled, it’s hard to let go.
He winces a little as he pulls himself up.
“Are you okay?”
“Bum knee.” He sits next to me, holding his leg straight as he does.
“What’s wrong with it? Is it an injury or has it always been like that?”
“A little of both.”
“But you’re okay?”
He coughs into his fist. “Yeah.”
The last lights on the street flicker off. We might live inside the city limits, but every night when this town shuts down, it’s hard to forget how secluded we are. We’re not off a highway or any major route, so it’s the type of place that can only be found by those who want to find it.
Bo glances at the clock on his cell phone. “Should be dark enough to see them.”
I can easily make out the shape of constellations. “You said your stepmom’s into astrology?”
He rubs his knuckles across his chin. “Yeah.”
“Your parents are divorced?”
He shakes his head, but says nothing.
“I—I’m sorry for asking. I have the manners of a cat in a box of bubble wrap. Like, it’s a problem.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not that. I don’t mind talking to you. So don’t apologize for it, okay? I just don’t do much talking. It takes getting used to.”
I lean my head against the rear window of his cab and cross my legs at the ankle. “I, on the other hand, talk like the world will only continue to spin if it can revolve around me.”
“I like listening to you talk.” He laughs. “It’s kinda like Stockholm syndrome. At first it was a little terrifying, but now it’s sorta comforting. Like, the world could be ending, but I could come to work and you’d be talking like it’s your duty.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but was that some sort of backhanded way of saying that I’m captivating?”
“Very punny,” he says.
I smack his arm. He grabs my hand, not giving it back. The radio behind us crackles out “Creepin’ In”—that Norah Jones and Dolly Parton song. And everything in this little town is dark, but I can feel Bo’s eyes connecting with mine. “It’s starting,” he whispers, and finally lets go of my hand.
I let out a shuddering breath I didn’t know I was holding in.
“It’s a small meteor shower,” he whispers. “Sorry it’s not more impressive.”
I’m still completely taken with it all. Faraway streaks of light split through the sky, leaving traces like a bruise. I shake my head. “No. I’ve never seen one. I think that makes it special enough, right?”
We both tilt our heads even further to the sky. It’s a few minutes before he says, “The first meteor shower I saw was huge. I never wanted it to end.”
“Well,” I say. “You can’t have stuff this good all the time. It would turn you rotten.”
He nods. And we sit there for a long time, like this is all some good song on the radio that we can’t pause.
“Don’t you sort of feel like we’re the only people in the world who are seeing this?” I say after a little while, almost scared of ruining the moment.
“I don’t know.” Bo’s voice is a quiet rumble. “My mom died. Five years ago. And I guess I like to think that wherever she is, her sky has meteor showers, too.” Each word is a naked patch of him, and I want so badly to add up all the bread crumbs I have and make sense of him.
I wait for some kind of disclaimer from him about his theory being dumb or that he’s sorry for being a downer. Because that’s what I would say. But there’s no apology from Bo. And I like that. I like that he has nothing to be sorry for. I want to tell him that I feel bad about his mom or that I like thinking of Lucy that way, too, but instead I say, “I guess it’s an awfully big sky not to share.”
EIGHT
The next morning when my mom asks me what time I got home, I lie and say the place was an even bigger mess than normal. My lips twitch the whole time with the memory of sitting in the bed of Bo’s truck.
I should