Dumplin' (22 page)

She believes this so wholly that it's pretty difficult for me not to buy into it, too. And I like the idea that somehow I am the way I am because it was meant to be.

“But”—here it is, the other shoe is about to drop—“you need approval, too. And that flaw is big enough to stop you. What's important to remember though is that despite our signs, we still make our destiny.”

It's hard not to notice how true her words feel. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“Everyone's got their own religion, right?” She shrugs. “Even if their religion is no religion.”

“What are you?”

She grins. “A Sagittarius, but what's really interesting is Bo's sign in relation to yours.”

I am hooked. She's got me. And she knows it.

“Bo is an Aquarius. Just like his dad. Detached and brooding, but with a good heart.”

It takes me a second to realize I'm nodding.

“According to the stars, you two are quite the pair.” She sips her tea and winks at me.

I know that
pair
could mean anything. Friends, cohorts, partners. But that doesn't stop my cheeks from feeling as
warm as a sunburn.

She reaches for my knee. “Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?”

I nod a little too fast. “Do you—where's the restroom?” My face is on fire.

Her brow wrinkles with concern. “Two doors past Bo's on the left.”

I get up, and turn back to her as I stand on the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room. “I liked talking to you,” I tell her.

I hear the garage door open.

“You're always welcome to come by for a chat.”

In the bathroom, I splash my face a few times. I want to wake up every day, like that old movie,
Groundhog Day
, and relive this day over and over again.

Here, though, by myself, it's hard not to wonder if he ever brought Bekah home. Or if Amber got along with his stepmom as much as I feel like we did.

Bo is waiting in his room. He's changed his shirt and has moved our books and notes to his bed. TO. HIS. BED.

But the door's open, and I'm slightly grateful for it, too. Because how do people even function like this? Like, how is it that people can even pump gas or pay bills or tie their shoes when they're in love? Or might be in love. Or are in love. Or are in between the two.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

MITCH: what are you doing tonight? wanna grab some tacos? watch a movie?

I exit out of my messages.

“Who's that?” asks Bo.

“No one,” I say. “Just my mom.”

We study for the next few hours until it's time to turn his bedside lamp on. We've both slid from sitting positions and are slumped against pillows in a sea of papers.

When he drives me home, I find myself addicted to the comfort of him. I've spent an entire day being so myself. Not a daughter, or a niece, or a token fat girl. Just Willowdean. The feeling of it makes me miss El. But I'm tired of other people making me feel this way. I'm ready to make myself feel this way.

“I like Loraine,” I tell him.

“She has a way of making people do that. Infectious, my dad says. I tried really hard not to like her. But the harder I tried, the more I wanted to like her. She doesn't try to be my mom. Not like some other ladies would. She's something else to me, though. Not a friend, but not a mom. I don't know.”

And
that
—right there in those handful of words—is how I feel about Lucy. But there's no real term for it, and I sometimes think that makes the pain of losing her that much harder to reconcile.

He parks in front of my house. “So is that what you normally do on Saturdays? Study at home?” I want to know everything about every minute of his life.

“Yeah,” he says. “Unless my dad needs me.”

“What about Sundays?” We're off every Sunday, which means it's this one day a week where Bo is a complete
mystery to me.

“I go to church. Mass. I go to mass.”

“Wait, you're actually Catholic?”

He doodles designs on his steering wheel with his finger. “I don't know.”

“How can you not know?”

The streetlight reflects off the silver chain peeking out from his collar. “Coach used to always have us go to mass during the season, and I guess I got in the habit.”

“How punny.”

His lips form an uneven smile. “I like the tradition of it.”

“Does your family go, too?”

He laughs. “Not a chance.”

The quiet of my street seeps in through the cracks of his truck.

“I better go,” I whisper.

He leans toward me and hooks his hands behind my ears, pulling me to him. Our lips brush, so light it tickles. But it's not quite a kiss. “I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you very soon.” His words spill right into my mouth. “But I'm not going to mess us up this time.”

I have so many questions, but I think I've got enough for today.

He drops his hands, letting his fingers trail down my cheeks.

“Come to mass with me tomorrow.”

I bite in on my lips. “Okay.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

The minute I walk inside, reality crashes down around me. Mom is working on my dress and watching some Lifetime movie with the volume turned up too high.

I want more than anything to call El and tell her about every inch of these last two days. Lee Wei, Dale, Bo, Loraine. All of it. I slump down into a chair at the kitchen table and swipe through my phone until I find our last texts from almost two months ago. I hit compose.

ME: I spent the day at Private School Bo's house. He likes me a lot. We talked about everything and nothing. He almost kissed me and it was the most amazing non-kiss ever. I'm trying not to think about Mitch. I've ignored his texts all weekend. How can having such an incredible day make me feel like such a shitty person? I miss Lucy. And I miss you so fucking much. I apologize. I apologize for everything I have ever done wrong. A blanket apology
.

I stare at the words, wondering what might happen if I hit send. I press the delete button because the fear of her not responding is too great for me to risk it.

Bo texts me when he arrives, which is perfectly timed because my mom is getting in the shower.

“I'll be back later!” I call to her.

If she asks where I'm going, I don't hear her over the water.

I'm not even trying to hide that I'm going somewhere with Bo. It's that I'm going to a church with Bo, because my mother would rather me not go to church at all than go to a Catholic church. Which makes no sense to me. Catholics, Protestants, Christians, Baptists . . . they all believe in the same things, I think. They just have different ways of saying it. I guess we're Baptist. I mean, my mom goes to Clover City First Baptist, and so do I on holidays.

Bo, in his pressed khaki pants and black polo, is leaning against the passenger door, waiting for me. I feel slightly overdressed in my black dress, the one I wore to Lucy's funeral, but it's the only church-appropriate thing I own.

He holds the door open for me, and we drive the whole way there with our hands on the bench seat between us. Nothing but our pinkies touch, and it feels like a spark on the verge of a flame.

I have never in my life been inside a Catholic church. I imagine they're all these ancient buildings with steeples, stained-glass windows, and those kneeling benches like you see in movies.

Holy Cross is newer though. There are still pews with kneeling benches and stained-glass windows. It's quieter than my mom's church. More peaceful. There are no boisterous greeters or gossipy Sunday school teachers.

It's nice.

At both sides of the altar are candles in red votives, but not all of them are lit.

“What are those for?” I whisper to Bo after we've found a seat in the middle of the church.

“You're supposed to leave a dollar or something in the collection box and light a candle in memory of someone. And, I guess, say a prayer if you want.”

Service starts and after a few announcements and some hymns, the collection plate is passed around. Bo pulls a crumpled ten from his wallet and drops it on the plate before passing it along. Father Mike gives his sermon. I guess I expected it to be in Latin or something, but it's not, it's in English. Each word is measured. The whole thing feels a little bit like a ceremony, like when I was in Girl Scouts and I went from Daisy to Brownie.

After the service, I follow Bo to the candles where a few other people have gathered. He drops a few dollars into the lockbox and gives me a stick to light a candle from a larger candle. We both light a candle. Neither of us says who the candles are for, but we don't have to.

I imagine what it might be like to do this every Sunday with Bo. Even if I don't know if all of this is something I believe in, it's nice to be a part of something. With him.

We walk outside to the parking lot, where all the socializing is happening. Bo waves to a few people. He points to a man in a navy blazer and khaki pants. “That's my coach.” It breaks my heart to hear him talk about this man so firmly in the present, as if he still was his coach.

“Bo!” It takes me a moment to recognize him, but it's Collin. That same guy who came and visited Bo at Harpy's. He jogs toward us.

“Hey,” he says, pointing at me. “I recognize you.”

I feel myself recoiling.

Bo holds his hand out and the two exchange a firm handshake that looks more like a show of strength. But there's none of that suffocating tension radiating off Bo like there was the last time these two saw each other.

“What's up, man?” asks Collin.

Bo shrugs. “Work. School.”

A few other guys from the team are heading over now. I feel like the elephant in the room—or the parking lot. Literally and figuratively.

He shakes each of their hands.

They ask him about school and his knee and if he's going to try to do some rehab to get back on the court. My shoulders ease a little as I almost start to feel invisible.

Then Collin points to me and says, “And what about this one? She your girlfriend now?”

Bo glances over at me and says, “This is Willowdean.” He turns back to his friends. “And I'm working on it.” Then he takes my hand. He holds my hand. Right there in front of everyone. I am equal parts thrilled and mortified.

A few of his friends whistle as he says bye and we walk to his truck. Hand in hand.

We sit in his car, waiting in line to turn out of the parking lot. “What was that about?”

He brushes his knuckles over his chin. “I told you I
wanna do this the right way. And I'm done keeping you a secret. I didn't even mean for you to feel like a secret in the first place. I was—I don't know. Sometimes good things happen to you at the absolute worst time. You were a good thing, Willowdean.”

“What about Bekah?”

“What about her?”

“Aren't you guys dating?”

He scoffs. “Hardly. We went out a few times.” He pauses. “Okay. I guess we kind of dated. But I was trying to get over you. Or maybe make you jealous. I don't know. And I didn't expect for you to be all over that jock, so I guess I was the jealous one.”

“Mitch. His name's Mitch. He's not that guy. He's my friend.”

He doesn't respond for a minute. “Is he anything more than that?”

“No,” I say, like I'm shocked by the idea.

I feel his gaze on me.

“I don't know.” Oh God. Of course we're more than friends. At least to him we are. And maybe sometimes for me, too. “Technically, we're not anything. But he wants more.”

“Do you want more?” he asks. “With him?”

“I—I don't know. Usually, no. But I haven't really said so.” I twist a piece of hair around my finger. “But what about you and Bekah?” I shake my head. “It's never going to be the right time for us, Bo.”

“I haven't told Bekah we're not dating if that's what
you're asking.”

“So, what? You were going to leave her hanging?”

“It's not like we're boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Well, neither were we,” I tell him.

Jerking the wheel, he turns off into a random alleyway and puts the truck in park.

He unbuckles his seat belt and moves toward me. “I want more,” he says. “I want more with you. I want to hold hands and you not ask me why. I want to drive you home from work and give you a kiss good night. 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.