Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,85
And talk on the phone so late we fall asleep.”
I bite down on my bottom lip to stop it from quivering. There are so many reasons why we are a bad idea. We have a track record—real bona-fide proof. If I were to shake my Magic 8 Ball, I can almost guarantee that it would tell me, Outlook not so good.
But Bo is undeterred. “You didn’t know me last year, Willowdean. I’m so glad you didn’t. I was a dick. All I cared about was getting out of this place. I fucked up with you this summer. I know that. And I’m not letting you go again. I’ll talk to Bekah and be one hundred percent clear with her. There won’t be any misunderstanding.”
“It’s not that simple, Bo. Maybe it is for you, but not for me.”
He narrows his gaze. “This is what I want: I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to put a label on this. I want everyone to know exactly how I feel about you, Willowdean. I think that sounds pretty simple.”
I shouldn’t, but I move to kiss him. My nerves hum, and this moment when my body feels both chaotic and determined is what was missing with Mitch.
He pulls back. “I want your answer first.”
I break our eye contact, letting my gaze wander everywhere but him. I don’t know if I can handle the stares and the whispers. Even if I can get over the total self-revulsion I feel when he touches me—really touches me—I don’t think I can deal with people always asking in astonishment, like it’s some water-to-wine miracle, how we ended up together.
And now I know exactly how Lucy felt when she decided she couldn’t get on that plane to Dollywood. All those years, I thought she was only standing in her own way, and now I know she had no choice. When your options are limited to being miserable in private or being mortified in public, there is no choice. I can’t get on the plane.
My mom’s right. I will never be happy in this body. Not really. I’ll never say it out loud, but she’s right. I want so badly to prove her wrong that I almost say yes, but instead I chew the skin around my thumb and say, “I need to think about it.”
Because I can’t bear to tell him no. Not yet. I want to live with the possibility of what could be. If only for a couple days.
FORTY-NINE
I’ve only had a serious hangover once. Ellen and I went to a lock-in at Tim’s mom’s church, and Tim, being the good boyfriend he is, brought us wine coolers stolen from his dad. Ellen and I poured them into Sonic cups and kept refilling them until her mom picked us up the next morning. We slid into the backseat of the car and fell asleep slumped up against each other. Ellen and I slept all day, and when we woke up, I felt like I’d been asleep for years. Everything was too bright, and the only thing I wanted was to chomp on greasy food before going back to bed.
On Monday morning, I am hungover from a weekend spent with Bo. My entire body is drowsy, and I have to extract myself from bed in stages. One limb at a time.
We probably spent eight hours studying for our World History test, but I can barely even remember the review questions, let alone the answers. And my Friday afternoon at the Hideaway feels like a memory tucked deep into the past.
When Mitch walks into second period, I am studying my notes, trying to recall some of what I studied. It’s like my brain has decided to purge information to make space for the events of the last two days.
When his huge frame invades the narrow doorway, the memory of him hits me like whiplash. Mitch and I exist in this weird gray area, but I’m thinking it’s grayer for me than it is for him.
“Hey,” he says. “I texted you a few times this weekend.”
“Ah, yeah. I’m sorry. I was drowning in World History notes. It was one of those things like I’d see your text and then say I’d message you when I was done reading, and then I’d forget.” I’m doing that crazy babbling thing.
His features are loose, but his eyes are tense and focused. “The pageant’s in, like, two weeks. I was thinking—” He wipes a few beads of sweat from his forehead with