2.
It won’t take long for me
To tell you who I am.
Well you hear this voice right now Well that’s pretty much all I am.
—THE AVETT BROTHERS, “GIMMEAKISS”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I’M PICKING OUT WHAT TO WEAR but can’t seem to locate any clean, weather-appropriate clothing. I don’t own many winter shirts besides what I’ve already worn this week. I choose a purple long- sleeved shirt and smell it, deciding it’s clean enough. I spray some perfume, though, just in case it isn’t. I brush my teeth, touch up my makeup, brush my teeth again, and let down my ponytail. I curl a few sections of my hair and pull some silver earrings out of my drawer, when I hear a knock on the bathroom door.
My mother enters with a handful of towels. She opens the cabinet next to the shower and places them inside.
“Going somewhere?” she says. She sits down on the edge of the bathtub while I continue to get ready.
“Yeah, somewhere.” I try to hide my smile as I put in my earrings.
“Honestly, I’m not sure what we’re doing. I really never even agreed to the date.”
She stands up and walks to the door, leaning up against the frame. She watches me in the mirror. She has aged so much in the short time since my dad’s death. Her bright green eyes against her smooth porcelain skin used to be breathtaking. Now, her cheekbones stand out above the hollowed shadows in her cheeks. The dark circles under her eyes overpower their emerald hue. She looks tired. And sad.
“Well, you’re eighteen now. You’ve had enough of my dating advice
for a lifetime,” she says. “But I’ll provide you with a quick recap just in case. Don’t order anything with onion or garlic, never leave your drink unattended, and always use protection.”
“Ugh, Mom!” I roll my eyes. “You know I know the rules, and you know I don’t have to worry about the last one. Please don’t give Will a recap of your rules. Promise?” I make her promise.
“So . . . tell me about Will. Does he work? Is he in college? What’s his major? Is he a serial killer?” She says this with such sincerity.
I walk the short distance from the bathroom to my bedroom and bend down to search through my shoes. She follows me and sits on the bed.
“Honestly, Mom, I don’t know anything about him. I didn’t even
know how old he was until he told you.”
“That’s good,” she says.
“Good?” I glance back at her. “How is not knowing anything about him good? I’m about to be alone with him for hours. He could be a serial killer.” I grab my boots and walk over to the bed to slip them on.
“It’ll give you plenty to talk about. That’s what first dates are for.”
“Good point,” I say.
Growing up, my mother did give great advice. She always knew what I wanted to hear but would tell me what I needed to hear. My dad was her first boyfriend, so I have always wondered how she knows so much about dating, boys, and relationships. She’s only been with one person, and it seems most knowledge would have to come from life experiences. She’s the exception, I guess.
“Mom?” I say as I slip on my boots. “I know you were only eighteen when you met Dad. I mean, that’s really young to meet the person you spend the rest of your life with. Do you ever regret it?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lies back on my bed and clasps her hands behind her head, pondering my question.
“I’ve never regretted it. Questioned it? Sure. But never regretted.”
“Is there a difference?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Regret is counterproductive. It’s looking back on a past that you can’t change. Questioning things as they occur can prevent regret in the future. I questioned a lot about my relationship with your father.
People make spontaneous decisions based on their hearts all the time.
There’s so much more to relationships than just love.”
“Is that why you always tell me to follow my head, not my heart?”
My mother sits up on the bed and takes my hands in hers. “Lake, do you want some real advice that doesn’t include a list of foods you should avoid?”
Has she been holding out on me? “Of course,” I reply.
She’s lost the authoritative, parental edge to her voice, which makes me aware that this conversation is less mother-daughter and more woman to woman. She pulls her legs up Indian-style on the bed and faces me.
“There are three questions every woman should be able to answer yes to before she commits to a man. If you answer no to any of the three questions, run like hell.”
“It’s just a date,” I laugh. “I doubt we’ll be doing any committing.”
“I know you’re not, Lake. I’m serious. If you can’t answer yes to these three questions, don’t even waste your time on a relationship.”
When I open my mouth, I feel like I’m just reinforcing the fact that I’m her child. I don’t interrupt her again.
“Does he treat you with respect at all times? That’s the first question.
The second question is, if he is the exact same person twenty years from now that he is today, would you still want to marry him? And finally, does he inspire you to want to be a better person? You find someone you can answer yes about to all three, then you’ve found a good man.”
I take a deep breath as I soak in even more sage advice from her.
“Wow, those are some intense questions,” I say. “Were you able to answer yes to all of them? When you were with Dad?”
“Absolutely,” she says, without hesitation. “Every second I was with him.”
A sadness enters her eyes as she finishes her sentence. She loved my dad. I immediately regret bringing it up. I put my arms around her and embrace her. It’s been so long since I’ve hugged her, a twinge of guilt rises up inside me. She kisses my hair, then pulls away and smiles.
I stand up and run my hands down my shirt, smoothing out the folds.
“Well? How do I look?”
“Like a woman,” she sighs.
It’s seven thirty sharp, so I go to the living room, grab the jacket Will insisted I borrow the day before, and head to the window. He’s coming out of his house, so I walk outside and stand in my driveway. He looks up and notices me as he’s opening his car door.
“You ready?” he yells.
“Yes!”
“Well, come on then!”
I don’t move. I just stand there and fold my arms across my chest.
“What are you doing?” He throws his hand up in defeat and laughs.
“You said you would pick me up at seven thirty! I’m waiting for you to pick me up!”
He grins and gets in the car. He backs straight out of his driveway and into mine so that the passenger door is closest to me. He hops out of the car and runs around to open it. Before I get in I give him the once-over.
He’s wearing loose-fitted jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt that outlines his arms. It’s the defined arms that prompt me to return his jacket to him.
“That reminds me,” I say, handing him his jacket. “I bought this for you.”
He smiles when he takes it and slides his arms inside. “Wow, thanks,” he says. “It even smells like me.”
He waits until I’ve buckled up before he shuts the door. As he’s walking around to his side, I notice the car smells like . . . cheese. Not old, stale cheese, but fresh cheese. Cheddar, maybe. My stomach growls.
I’m curious where we’re going to eat.
When Will gets in, he reaches into the backseat and grabs a sack. “We don’t have time to eat, so I made us grilled cheese.” He hands me a sandwich and a bottle of soda.
“Wow. This is a first,” I say, staring at the items in my hands. “And where exactly are we going in such a hurry?” I twist open the lid. “It’s obviously not a restaurant.”
He unwraps his sandwich and takes a bite. “It’s a surprise,” he says with a mouthful of bread. He navigates the steering wheel with his free
hand as he simultaneously drives and eats. “I know a lot more about you than you know about me, so tonight I want to show you what I’m all about.”
“Well, I’m intrigued,” I say. I really am intrigued.
We both finish our sandwiches, and I put the trash back in the bag and place it in the backseat. I try to think of something to say to break the
silence, so I ask him about his family.
“What are your parents like?”
He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, almost like I’ve asked the wrong thing. “I’m not big on small talk, Lake. We can figure all that out later. Let’s make this drive interesting.” He winks at me and relaxes further into his seat.
Driving, no talking, keeping it interesting. I’m repeating what he said in my head and hope I’m misunderstanding his intent. He laughs when he sees the hesitation on my face and it dawns on him that I’ve misinterpreted what he said.
“Lake, no!” he says. “I just meant let’s talk about something besides what we’re expected to talk about.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I thought I had found his flaw. “Good.”
“I know a game we can play,” he says. “It’s called ‘would you rather.’ Have you played it before?”
I shake my head. “No, but I know I would rather you go first.”
“Okay.” He clears his throat and pauses for a few seconds. “Okay, would you rather spend the rest of your life with no arms, or would you rather spend the rest of your life with arms you couldn’t control?”
What the hell? I can honestly say this date is not going the way any of my previous dates have gone. It’s pleasantly unexpected, though.
“Well . . .” I hesitate. “I guess I would rather spend the rest of my life with arms I couldn’t control?”
“What? Seriously? But you wouldn’t be controlling them!” he says, flapping his arms around in the car. “They could be flailing around and you’d be constantly punching yourself in the face! Or worse, you might grab a knife and stab yourself!”
I laugh. “I didn’t realize there were right and wrong answers.”
“You suck at this,” he teases. “Your turn.”
“Okay, let me think.”
“You have to have one ready!” he says.
“Jeez, Will! I barely heard of this game for the first time thirty seconds ago. Give me a second to think of one.”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m teasing.”
He repositions his hand underneath mine, and our fingers interlock. I like how easy the transition is, like we’ve been holding hands for years. So far, everything about this date has been easy. I like Will’s sense of humor.
I like that I find it so easy to laugh around him after having gone so many months without laughing. I like that we’re holding hands. I really like that we’re holding hands.
“Okay, I’ve got one,” I say. “Would you rather pee on yourself once a day at random, unknown times? Or would you rather have to pee on someone else?”
“It depends on who I’d have to pee on. Can I pee on people I don’t
like? Or is it random people?”
“Random people.”
“Pee on myself,” he says, without hesitation. “My turn now. Would you rather be four feet tall or seven feet tall?”
“Seven feet tall,” I reply.
“Why?”
“You aren’t allowed to ask why,” I say. “Okay, let’s see. Would you rather drink an entire gallon of bacon grease for breakfast every day? Or would you rather have to eat five pounds of popcorn for supper every
night?”
“Five pounds of popcorn.”
I like the game we’re playing. I like that he didn’t worry about impressing me with dinner. I like that I have no idea where we’re headed.
I even like that he didn’t compliment what I was wearing, which seems to be the standard opening line for dates. So far, I like everything about tonight. As far as I’m concerned, we could drive around for another two hours just playing “would you rather,” and it would be the most fun I’ve ever had on a date.
But we don’t. We eventually reach our destination, and I immediately tense up when I see the sign on the building.
Club N9NE
“Uh, Will? I don’t dance.” I’m hoping he’ll be empathetic.
“Uh, neither do I.”
We exit the vehicle and meet at the front of the car. I’m not sure who reaches out first, but once again our fingers find each other in the dark and he holds my hand and guides me toward the entrance. As we get closer, I notice a sign posted on the door.
Closed for Slam
Thursdays
8:00–Whenever
Admission: Free Fee to slam: $3
Will opens the door without reading the sign. I start to inform him the club is closed, but he seems like he knows what he’s doing. The silence is interrupted by the noise of a crowd as I follow him through the entryway and into the room. There is an empty stage to the right of us and tables and chairs set up all over the dance floor. The place is packed. I see what looks like a group of younger kids, around age fourteen or so, at a table toward the front. Will turns to the left and heads to an empty booth in
the back of the room.
“It’s quieter back here,” he says.
“How old do you have to be to get into clubs here?” I say, still observing the group of out-of-place children.
“Well, tonight it’s not a club,” he says as we scoot into the booth. It’s a half-circle booth facing the stage, so I scoot all the way to the middle to get the best view. He moves in right beside me. “It’s slam night,” he says.
“Every Thursday they shut the club down and people come here to
compete in the slam.”
“And what’s a slam?” I ask.
“It’s poetry.” He smiles at me. “It’s what I’m all about.”
Is he for real? A hot guy who makes me laugh and loves poetry?
Someone pinch me. Or not—I’d rather not wake up.
“Poetry, huh?” I say. “Do people write their own or do they recite it from other authors?”
He leans back in the booth and looks up at the stage. I see the passion in his eyes when he talks about it. “People get up there and pour their hearts out just using their words and the movement of their bodies,” he says. “It’s amazing. You aren’t going to hear any Dickinson or Frost
here.”
“Is it like a competition?”
“It’s complicated,” he says. “It differs between every club. Normally during a slam, the judges are picked at random from the audience and they assign points to each performance. The one with the most points at the end of the night wins. That’s how they do it here, anyway.”
“So do you slam?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I judge; sometimes I just watch.”
“Are you performing tonight?”
“Nah. Just an observer tonight. I don’t really have anything ready.”
I’m disappointed. It would be amazing to see him perform onstage. I still have no idea what slam poetry is, but I’m really curious to see him do
anything that requires a performance.
“Bummer,” I say.
It’s quiet for a moment while we both observe the crowd in front of us.
Will nudges me with his elbow and I turn to look at him. “You want
something to drink?” he says.
“Sure. I’ll take some chocolate milk.”
He cocks and eyebrow and grins. “Chocolate milk? Really?”
I nod. “With ice.”
“Okay,” he says as he slides out of the booth. “One chocolate milk on the rocks coming right up.”
While he’s gone, the emcee comes to the stage and attempts to pump up the crowd. No one is in the back of the room where we’re seated, so I feel a little silly when I yell “Yeah!” with the rest of the crowd. I sink
further into my seat and decide to just be a spectator for the remainder of the night.
The emcee announces it’s time to pick the judges and the entire crowd roars, almost everyone wanting to be chosen. They pick five people at random and move them to the judging table. As Will walks toward our booth with our drinks, the emcee announces it’s time for the “sac” and
chooses someone at random.
“What’s the sac?” I ask him.
“Sacrifice. It’s what they use to prepare the judges.” He slides back into the booth. Somehow, he slides even closer this time. “Someone performs something that isn’t part of the competition so the judges can calibrate their scoring.”
“So they can call on anyone? What if they had called on me?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
He smiles at me. “Well, I guess you should have had something ready.”
He takes a sip from his drink then leans back against the booth, finding my hand in the dark. Our fingers don’t interlock this time, though.
Instead, he places my hand on his leg and his fingertips start to trace the outline of my wrist. He gently traces each of my fingers, following the lines and curves of my entire hand. His fingertips feel like electric pulses penetrating my skin.
“Lake,” he says quietly as he continues tracing up my wrist and back to my fingertips with a fluid motion. “I don’t know what it is about you . . . but I like you.”
His fingers slide between mine and he takes my hand in his, turning his attention back to the stage. I inhale and reach for my chocolate milk with my free hand, downing the entire glass. The ice feels good against my lips. It cools me off.
They call on a young woman who looks to be around twenty-five. She announces she is performing a piece she wrote titled “Blue Sweater.” The lights are lowered as a spotlight is positioned on her. She raises the microphone and steps forward, staring down at the floor. A hush sweeps over the audience, and the only sound in the entire room is the sound of
her breath, amplified through the speakers.
She raises her hand to the microphone, still staring down to the floor.
She begins to tap her finger against it in a repetitive motion, resonating
the sound of a heartbeat. I realize I’m holding my own breath as she
begins her piece.
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom Do you hear that?
(Her voice lingering on the word hear.)
That’s the sound of my heart beating.
(She taps the microphone again.)
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that?
That’s the sound of your heart beating.
(She begins to speak faster, much louder than before.)
It was the first day of October. I was wearing my blue sweater, you know the one I bought at Dillard’s? The one with a double-knitted hem and holes in the ends of the sleeves that I could poke my thumbs through when it was cold but I didn’t feel like wearing gloves?
It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look like reflections of the stars on the ocean.
You promised to love me forever that night . . .
and boy
did you ever.
It was the first day of December this time. I was wearing my blue sweater, you know the one I bought at Dillard’s? The one with a double-knitted hem and holes in the ends of the sleeves that I could poke my thumbs through when it was cold but I didn’t feel like wearing gloves? It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look like reflections of the stars on the ocean.
I told you I was three weeks late.
You said it was fate.
You promised to love me forever that night . . .
and boy
did you ever!
It was the first day of May. I was wearing my blue sweater, although this time the double-stitched hem was worn and the strength of each thread tested as they were pulled tight against my growing belly. You know the one. The same one I bought at Dillard’s?
The one with holes in the ends of the sleeves that I could poke my thumbs through when it was cold but I didn’t feel like wearing gloves? It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look like reflections of the stars on the ocean.
The SAME sweater you RIPPED off of my body as
you shoved me to the floor,
calling me a whore,
telling me
you didn’t love me
anymore.
Bom Bom
Bom Bom Bom Bom Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my heart
beating.
Bom Bom
Bom Bom Bom Bom Do you hear that? That’s the sound of your heart beating.
(There is a long silence as she clasps her hands to her stomach, tears
streaming down her face.)
Do you hear that? Of course you don’t. That’s the
silence of my womb.
Because you
RIPPED
OFF
MY SWEATER!
The lights come back up and the audience roars. I take a deep breath and wipe tears from my eyes. I’m mesmerized by her ability to hypnotize an entire audience with such powerfully portrayed words. Just words. I’m immediately addicted and want to hear more. Will puts his arm around my shoulders and leans back into the seat with me, bringing me back to
reality.
“Well?” he says.
I accept his embrace and move my head to his shoulder as we both stare out over the crowd. He rests his chin on top of my head.
“That was unbelievable,” I whisper. His hand touches the side of my face, and he brushes his lips against my forehead. I close my eyes and wonder how much more my emotions can be tested. Three days ago, I was devastated, bitter, hopeless. Today I woke up feeling happy for the first time in months. I feel vulnerable. I try to mask my emotions, but I feel like everyone knows what I’m thinking and feeling, and I don’t like it.
I don’t like being an open book. I feel like I’m up on the stage, pouring my heart out to him, and it scares the hell out of me.
We sit in the same embrace as several more people perform their pieces. The poetry is as vast and electrifying as the audience. I have never laughed and cried so much. The way these poets are able to lure you into a whole new world, viewing things from a vantage point you’ve never seen before. Making you feel like you are the mother who lost her baby, or the boy who killed his father, or even the man who got high for the first time and ate five plates of bacon. I feel a connection with these poets and their stories. What’s more, I feel a deeper connection to Will. I can’t imagine that he’s brave enough to get up on the stage and bare his soul like these people are doing. I have to see it. I have to see him do this.
The emcee makes one last appeal for performers.
I turn toward him. “Will, you can’t bring me here and not perform.
Please do one? Please, please, please?”
He leans his head back against the booth. “You’re killing me, Lake.
Like I said, I don’t really have anything new.”
“Do something old then,” I suggest. “Or do all these people make you nervous?”
He tilts his head toward me and smiles. “Not all of them. Just one of them.”
I suddenly have the urge to kiss him. I suppress the urge for now, and continue to plead. I clasp my hands together under my chin. “Don’t make me beg,” I say.
“You already are!” He pauses for a few seconds, then removes his arm from around my shoulders and leans forward. “All right, all right,” he says. He grins at me as he reaches into his pocket. “But I’m warning you, you asked.”
He pulls his wallet out just as the emcee announces the start of round two. Will stands up, holding his three dollars in the air. “I’m in!”
The emcee shields his eyes with his hand, squinting into the audience to see who spoke up. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s one of our very own, Mr. Will Cooper. So nice of you to finally join us,” he teases into the microphone.
Will makes his way through the crowd and walks onto the stage and into the spotlight.
“What’s the name of your piece tonight, Will?” the emcee asks.
“ ‘Death,’ ” Will replies, looking past the crowd and directly at me.
The smile fades from his eyes and he begins his performance.
Death. The only thing inevitable in life.
People don’t like to talk about death because it makes them sad.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them, all the people they love will briefly grieve but continue to breathe.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on
without them,
Their children will still grow
Get married Get old. . .
They don’t want to imagine how life will continue to
go on without them,
Their material things will be sold Their medical files stamped “closed”
Their name becoming a memory to everyone they know.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them, so instead of accepting it head on, they
avoid the subject altogether,
hoping and praying it will somehow. . .
pass them by.
Forget about them, moving on to the next one in line.
No, they didn’t want to imagine how life would
continue to go on . . .
without them.
But death
didn’t
forget.
Instead they were met head-on by death,
disguised as an 18-wheeler
behind a cloud of fog.
No.
Death didn’t forget about them.
If only they had been prepared, accepted the inevitable, laid out their plans, understood that it wasn’t just their lives at hand.
I may have legally been considered an adult at the age
of nineteen, but I still felt very much
all
of just nineteen.
Unprepared and overwhelmed to suddenly have the entire life of a seven-year-old In my realm.
Death. The only thing inevitable in life.
Will steps out of the spotlight and off of the stage before he even sees
his scores. I find myself hoping he gets lost on his way back to our booth
so that I have time to absorb this. I have no idea how to react. I had no
idea that this was his life. That Caulder was his whole life. I’m amazed by
his performance but devastated by his words. I wipe tears away with the
back of my hand. I don’t know if I’m crying for the loss of Will’s parents,
the responsibilities brought by that loss, or the simple fact that he spoke
the truth. He spoke about a side of death and loss that never seems to be
considered until it’s too late. A side that I’m unfortunately all too familiar
with. The Will I watched walk up to the stage is not the same Will I’m watching walk toward me. I’m conflicted, I’m confused, and most of all I’m taken aback. He was beautiful.
He notices me wiping tears from my eyes. “I warned you,” he says, sliding back into the booth. He reaches for his drink and takes a sip, stirring the ice cubes with his straw. I have no idea what to say to him. He put it all out there, right in front of me.
My emotions take control over my actions. I reach forward and take his hand in mine and he sets his drink back down on the table. He turns toward me and gives me a half smile, like he’s waiting for me to say something. When I don’t say anything, he pulls his hand up to my face and wipes away a tear, then traces the side of my cheek with the back of his hand. I don’t understand the connection I feel with him. It all seems so fast. I put my hand on top of his and pull it to my mouth, then gently kiss the inside of his palm as we hold each other’s stare. We suddenly become the only two people in the entire room; all the external noise fades into the distance.
He brings his other hand to my cheek and slowly leans forward. I close my eyes and feel his breath draw closer as he pulls me toward him. His lips touch my lips, but barely. He slowly kisses my bottom lip, then my top lip. His lips are cold, still wet from his drink. I lean in further to return his kiss, but he pulls away when my mouth responds. I open my eyes and he’s smiling at me, still holding my face in his hands.
“Patience,” he whispers. He closes his eyes and leans in, kissing me softly on the cheek. I close my eyes and inhale, trying to calm the overwhelming impulse I have to wrap my arms around him and kiss him back. I don’t know how he has so much self-control. He presses his forehead against mine and slides his hands down my arms. Our eyes lock when we open them. It’s during this moment that I finally understand why my mother accepted her fate at the age of eighteen.
“Wow,” I exhale.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Wow.”
We hold each other’s stare for a few more seconds until the audience starts to roar again. They are announcing the qualifiers for round two
when Will grabs my hand and whispers, “Let’s go.”
As I make my way out of the booth, my entire body feels like it’s about to give out on me. I’ve never experienced anything like what just happened. Ever.
We exit the booth and our hands remain locked as he navigates me through the ever-growing crowd and into the parking lot. I don’t realize how warm I am until the cold Michigan air touches my skin. It feels exhilarating. Or I feel exhilarated. I can’t tell which. All I know is that I wish the last two hours of my life could repeat for eternity.
“You don’t want to stay?” I ask him.
“Lake, you’ve been moving and unpacking for days. You need sleep.”
His mention of sleep induces an involuntary yawn from me. “Sleep does sound good,” I say.
He opens my door, but before I get in, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him in a tight embrace. Several minutes pass while we just stand there, holding on to the moment. I could get used to this, which is a completely foreign feeling. I’ve always been so guarded. This new side of me that Will brings out is a side of me I didn’t know I had.
We eventually break apart and get into the car. As we drive away from the parking lot, I lean my head against the window and watch the club minimize in the rearview mirror.
“Will?” I whisper, without breaking my gaze from the building disappearing behind us. “Thank you for this.”
He takes my hand into his, and I eventually fall asleep, smiling.
I wake up as he’s opening my door and we’re in my driveway. He reaches in and grabs my hand, helping me out of the car. I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep in a moving vehicle. Will was right: I am tired. I rub my eyes and yawn again as he walks me to the front door.
He wraps his arms around my waist, and I raise mine around his shoulders. Our bodies are a perfect fit. A chill runs down my body as his breath warms my neck. I can’t believe we met only three days ago; it seems like we’ve been doing this for years.
“Just think,” I say. “You’ll be gone three whole days. That’s the same length of time I’ve known you.”
He laughs and pulls me even closer. “This will be the longest three days of my life,” he says.
If I know my mother at all, then we’ve got an audience, so I’m relieved his final kiss is nothing more than a quick peck on the cheek. He slowly walks backward, his fingers sliding out of mine, eventually letting go. My arm falls limp to my side as I watch him get into his car. He cranks the engine and rolls down his window. “Lake, I’ve got a pretty long drive home,” he says. “How about one for the road?”
I laugh, then walk to the car and lean through his window, expecting another peck. Instead, he slips his hand behind my neck and gently pulls me toward him, our lips opening when they meet. Neither of us holds back this time. I reach through the window and run my fingers through the back of his hair as we continue kissing. It takes all I have not to swing open the car door and crawl into his lap. The door between us feels more like a barricade.
We finally come to a stop. Our lips are still touching as we both hesitate to part.
“Damn,” he whispers against my lips. “It gets better every time.”
“I’ll see you in three days,” I say. “You be careful driving home tonight.” I give him one final kiss and reluctantly pull away from the window.
He backs out of the driveway and again straight into his own. I’m tempted to run after him and kiss him again to prove his theory. Instead, I avoid temptation and turn to head inside.
“Lake!”
I turn around and he shuts his car door and jogs toward me. He smiles when he reaches me. “I forgot to tell you something,” he says, wrapping his arms around me again. “You look beautiful tonight.” He kisses me on top of my head, releases his hold, and turns back toward his house.
Maybe I was wrong earlier—about me liking the fact that he didn’t compliment me. I was definitely wrong. When he gets to his front door, he turns around and smiles before he goes inside.
Just as I had imagined, my mother is sitting on the sofa with a book, attempting to appear uninterested when I walk through the front door.
“Well, how’d it go? Is he a serial killer?” she says.
My smile is uncontrollable now. I walk to the sofa opposite her and throw myself on it like a rag doll and sigh. “You were right, Mom. I love Michigan.”
