Confederates Don't Wear Couture (19 page)

“RARF! RARF!”

“Seriously, what the hell is that?” Dev whispered.

“It sounds like it's coming from the truck,” I whispered.

Dev crawled on his belly like he was in the army, pulling himself along with his elbows as he cleared the bushes, slunk down over the curb, and crossed the asphalt on the side of the truck farthest from Garrett and the girl. Following in his wake, I crouched and scuttled along like a crab, until we were safely behind the truck.

Slowly rising to our feet, we peered into the truck bed. A hundred pounds of dog looked back at us.

“I forgot about that damn dog!” Dev smacked his hand against his forehead.

“Willie's been in there the whole time?” I asked incredulously. “Like even on the drive to Bennett?”

“You know how much that beast sleeps,” Dev said derisively. “We could've driven up the Himalayas, and he wouldn't have woken up. Remember when they made him a guard dog?”

“True.”

“RARF! RARF!” He barked happily and thumped his tail.

“Shhh, Willie, shhh.” I held out my hand, and he slobbered happily over it. “Quiet, quiet, please . . . good boy . . . quiet.”

“This is not good,” Dev said flatly.

“Not good at all,” I agreed. “We stole a truck and kidnapped a dog. I mean, Beau probably wouldn't have noticed that the truck was gone, but if he thinks someone
stole
his dog, he'll flip.”

“He should be so lucky to have someone take this behemoth off his hands,” Dev muttered.

Willie cocked his head and whined inquiringly at Dev.

“Oh, just ignore the mean man,” I said, patting his muzzle reassuringly.

“Shit!” Dev screamed. “They're coming out!”

With a burst of adrenaline known only to mothers whose babies are trapped under cars, Dev and I somehow managed to override our mutual lack of athletic ability and vault over the side of the truck, so we were lying flat in the pickup's bed, hidden by that panel thing in the back and Willie's enormous mass. I wove my fingers through Willie's hair, willing him to keep quiet, as Dev tried to hide himself under the dog. Willie, overjoyed that Dev was finally attempting to snuggle, lay down on top of him, crushing him.

“AAAAA!” Dev gasped. “I can't breathe!”

“Then you shouldn't be talking! Save your oxygen!”

I peeped up over the truck bed. Luckily, both Garrett and the girl had their backs to me.

“Are they hugging or kissing?” Dev had managed to work his way out from under the dog to pop up next to me. “I still can't tell! Curse that bigheaded fool!”

“He—he has a normal-size head,” I said again, as they broke apart and got into their respective cars. She, however, was tiny like a fairy. Delicate. She looked a little like Kristen Stewart, from the
Twilight
movies.

“You have two options,” Dev said sternly. “Follow him, or follow her.”

“Dev, that's crazy.” I shook my head. I had a sick, swooping feeling in my stomach, and the world wouldn't stop spinning.

“Of course you're right—that's crazy.” He smacked his head. “Follow her. No question. Text him to see what he's doing.”

“Dev, I'm not going to—”

“Follow her,” he ordered.

“Fine,” I said listlessly. I didn't have the energy to fight. After making sure that Garrett couldn't see us from his car, Dev practically dragged me out of the truck bed and deposited me in the driver's seat.

“It's the silver Kia,” he instructed, as I turned the car on. “She's about to turn out of the strip mall parking lot. Go, go, go!”

I went, went, went. My body remembered how to drive, even though my mind was a million miles away. She turned left out of the strip mall, and so did we.

“Give me your cell phone,” Dev commanded when we stopped at a red light.

“What?” I asked.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, you are
so
lucky you have me.” He leaned over and reached down my bra.

“Hey! Too close!” I shrieked.

“
Now
you're waking up,” he said, as he pulled out my cell phone. “Lucky for you, I am an
expert
at cheating assholes. Seeing one, being one, stalking one, blocking one . . . but blocking on Facebook is, like, step five, so don't even think about that yet. This is only the first test. Text him to see where he says he was. Don't worry, I'll do it.” He held up the phone. “Hands on the wheel, Thelma.”

“Don't text anything dirty, Louise,” I warned.

“Please,” he scoffed. “That's Phase Three. We're only on Phase One. How's this,” he asked, typing rapidly. “‘Hey, where r u?'”

“That's fine.” I shrugged.

The phone vibrated almost instantly.

“‘At Starbucks,'” Dev read.

“See!” I brightened. “See, he's not lying! If he told the truth about that, it probably means there was nothing going on with that girl, right?”

“‘Skyping my editor,'” Dev finished. My face fell. “Oh, poodle.” Dev turned to me sympathetically. “I'm so sorry.”

“He—he didn't—he didn't even have his computer out,” I whispered. “So he definitely wasn't Skyping anyone . . . That's not . . . that's not good that he lied, is it?”

“Not good at all.” Dev shook his head. “Not good at all.”

We turned down a road, passing a blue sign that read
DUKE UNIVERSITY SCHOOL OF MEDICINE
.

“Med school?” Dev said. “Huh.”

The Kia pulled into a parking lot where a temporary sign saying
DUKE UNIVERSITY SCHOOL OF MEDICINE SUMMER AND DENTAL PROGRAM
had been stuck in the ground. We pulled in and parked behind a large Duke van, hidden from the Kia.

“She's so skinny,” I said quietly, as we watched the Kia girl cross the parking lot and walk into the building, her light blue scrub pants and faded gray T-shirt practically hanging off her thin frame.

“You have a better rack,” Dev said loyally.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“Stop.” He held me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Don't do this. You are prettier than a pre–Tony Romo Jessica Simpson. Prettier than a pre-rehab Lindsay Lohan.”

“Thanks, Louise.” I squeezed his arm.

“The adventure's just beginning, Thelma,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I'm going in.”

“Wait, what?!” I sat up. “What are you doing? You can't go in there!”

“Sure I can,” he said confidently. “I'm Indian. Walking into a med school. I was born to go undercover here. Everyone will just assume I'm meant to be there.”

“Dev—”

“Give me ten minutes. I'll find out everything we need to know.” He leaped out of the car and strode confidently into the building.

My cell phone remained on his seat. I picked it up. There it was: “At Starbucks. Skyping my editor.” I rubbed at it with my thumb absent-mindedly, but that wasn't going to erase it. Unable to help myself, I texted, “I miss you.”

I clutched the phone desperately, willing for it to vibrate, clinging to it like a lifeline, but no. Nothing.

I have no idea how long I sat staring at that phone, but eventually Dev bounded back in.

“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “So I was doing fantastically, totally blending in, then this mouth-breathing moron with a clipboard comes up to me, says he's organizing a softball game, and needs to know who my supervising professor is so he can put me on a team. So I said House. Dr. House.”

“Like the TV show?”

“It was the first thing that popped into my head!” he protested. “Then he asked my name, and I said Kal, Kal Penn.”

“The Indian actor who played one of the doctors on
House
?” Sometimes Dev was just unbelievable.

“I was thinking off the cuff, okay?!” Dev raised his hands. “Sue me! I did the best I could. Anyway, they kicked me out.”

“Oh, Dev—”

“But not before I got . . . this!” He held up an ID on a lanyard. “Ta-da!”

“Dev!” I gasped. “You stole her ID?! How could you?!”

“All's fair in cheating and ho-bags,” he exclaimed. “Does the name Hannah Rupp mean anything to you?” he said, glancing at the ID.

“Hannah Rupp . . . Hannah Rupp . . .” I cast around in my brain. “No, I don't think so.”

“Hannah Rupp. Pharmacology and Cancer Biology intern.” Dev looked up, and his eyes locked with mine. “Camden Harbor, Maine.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“Wasn't Garrett's high school girlfriend named—”

“Hannah,” I finished for him. “Oh my God. Oh my
GOD!
Why is she here?!”

“She's pharmacologizing and cancer biologizing!” Dev said.

“I mean, I mean, why was
he
here?! There! Why would he see her?! She cheated on him! And broke his heart! And . . . and . . . they were hugging!”

“Or kissing,” Dev said matter-of-factly.

“Dev!” I wailed.

“Sorry, sorry!” he said.

“Garrett's cheating on me . . . I can't believe it . . . I . . . H-he's cheating on me,” I stammered.

“He's the world's biggest idiot,” Dev said, squeezing my knee.

“Do you think he's cheating on me because he thinks I'm cheating on him? Is that why? Do you think he thinks I'm cheating on him with Beau?”

“Who can tell what that crazy bastard thinks. I mean, he wears sandals with socks!” Dev shouted.

“That only happened once!” I shrieked. I took a deep breath. “I have to get out of here.” I shook my head, trying to clear it. The truck roared to life, and I peeled out of the parking lot so fast we burned rubber.

“Easy there, tiger,” Dev cautioned as we sped down the road, trees flying by in a green blur.

“I can't believe he'd do that to me,” I muttered. “How could he
do
that to me? I thought he really . . . I mean, I know I really . . .”

“Hey!” Dev said brightly. “Happy place. Let's sing!”

He turned the radio up, and it played: “I'm giving up on love 'cause love's given up on me.”

“‘I'm giving up on love 'cause love's given up on me,'” I sang. “Perfect.”

“Now, this is not exactly what I meant—”

“Don't you DARE change that station!” I shouted, as the woman continued singing.

“I was kind of hoping for something that wasn't about setting things on fire,” Dev muttered.

“Nope, this is perfect.”

We sped down the road, traveling faster and farther as Miranda Lambert sang about soaking things in kerosene. I knew exactly how she felt.

“Um, Libby,” Dev ventured after a while. “Do you have any idea where you're going?”

“Nope,” I said evenly. “I just know I can't go back to that camp yet.”

“Fair enough.” Dev nodded. “Wait! Here! Here! Pull in here! Turn right!”

I did and, tires spinning, we skidded to a stop.

“‘The Snikering Squirrel'?”

“I think it's supposed to be ‘Snickering,'” Dev said, squinting at the neon sign. “Let's go.”

“What is this place?” I asked as we got out of the truck. It was a rambling wooden building that looked like it was about to fall apart at the seams, neon beer signs gracing its windows. “A bar?”

“Nope.” Dev pointed at the flashing neon
KARAOKE NITE
sign. “It's your salvation.”

“I'm not in the mood.” I scuffed the dirt in the driveway.

“Trust me, I know what's best for you,” Dev said, as he dragged me up to the door. “You need to sing this all out. It's the only way for you to deal with your problems. It always helps the kids on
Glee
deal with their issues.”

“Dev, we're not twenty-one,” I said apprehensively, as we crossed the threshold.

“I don't think that'll be a problem.” He glanced pointedly in the direction of a family of four, where two boys who couldn't have been more than eight pelted each other with chicken wing bones.

“My phone!” I cried, feeling a sudden vibration.

“I'll go set this up,” Dev said, and disappeared into the crowd.

I pulled it open. It was from Garrett: “Yeah, me too. Where are you?”

My heart thumped. I didn't know what to say. Or if I wanted to see him. But I typed, “At a bar.”

I closed the phone and stuck it in my bra. I still didn't really know how I felt. Not that it mattered. Because with only that much information, there was no way he could find me, anyway.

“Libby!” Dev hailed me from the back of the bar. “Come on back!”

I pushed my way through. It was pretty crowded and noisy, with everyone laughing and having a good time. Dev was perched on a barstool at the end of the bar, making goo-goo eyes at a very cute boy in a plaid cowboy shirt.

“That was fast,” I muttered.

“Libby, this is Duane,” Dev announced proudly. “Duane, Libby; Libby, Duane.”

I nursed a soda as Dev and Duane flirted away. Dev managed to get a Sex on the Beach out of Duane with a wink, but I was fine with my Sprite. As I sucked meditatively on my straw, Duane talked on and on about hunting, which Dev kept accidentally-on-purpose mishearing as “humping.” A woman got up and sang “Goodbye Earl.” A man followed after her and sang “All My Ex's Live in Texas.” And then, over the microphone, a man said, “Libby?”

“That's you.” Dev slurped up his drink. “Go get 'em, doll.”

“Libby?” the man called again.

I made my way to the stage. A somewhat pudgy guy in a cowboy hat handed me a microphone. Slightly tinny opening chords blared out of the karaoke machine. I looked at the screen. Carrie Underwood. Thankfully, it was the only country song I knew. I looked out at the audience, and standing in the door was one of the last people I expected to see. I took a deep breath and sang: