One of the Guys (15 page)

“Shoot.” I realize that we've passed Emma's car, but she keeps walking with me.

Her voice lowers to almost a whisper. “Would you be terribly offended if I went out with Micah?”

I stop walking and turn to face her. The wind blows strands of my citrus-flavored hair into my mouth. I spit them out and manage to mumble, “Huh?”

Emma raises her hands, palms out. “Never mind. That's why I checked. Girl code.”

My brain stops functioning for about two seconds. Just as I'm about to write myself off as catatonic, it switches on again. “Nothing's going on between Loch and I,” I stammer. “We're just friends.”

Emma reties her white scarf about a million times. “You sure about that?”

Of course I'm sure. If something more was going on between us, wouldn't I know that? Romantic love is like staring into the face of Champ. Pretty obvious. Hard to miss.

“Toni?”

“Huh?”

“You sure?” Emma tilts her head.

I shake my head, a bit dizzy. “Yes. Didn't I say that?” We reach my car. I go to lean on the hood, but somehow miss and land on my butt.

“Oh my God!” Emma cries. “Are you okay?”

I hop back up and wipe the gravel from my skirt. “So you want to go out with Loch?” I ask, blushing. “What about Kevin?”

Emma chews her bottom lip. “I don't want Kevin anymore.”

“Just like that?” Seems kind of quick, considering all we went through to try and get him back for her.

“I put a lot of thought into my rejection,” Emma says, folding her arms across her chest. “He sent me flowers the other day. Red roses.”

I blink a few times. “The bastard.”

“I liked him better when he was a jerk. Is that weird?” She tightens the white scarf around her neck. “Don't answer that. I know it's weird. I've got issues.”

“Loch isn't a jerk though,” I say. The opposite, in fact.

“I know.” She shakes her head. “Forget I even asked, okay?”

Emma acts like she wants to say more, but she bids me farewell as she trots over to her car, the harsh winter wind zipping around her. I dump my bag onto the passenger's seat of my Maxima, on top of a wrinkled Purdue University acceptance letter. I crank the heat and rub my hands together as I wait for the car to warm up, but it never really does. I dig through the pile of random clothing in the backseat until I find an extra pair of gloves. I slip them on and zip through the parking lot, headed for home.

As I pull onto the Veteran's Memorial Highway, I can't stop thinking about what Emma asked me. My mind drifts. Emma. Loch. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Holding hands. Curled under a blanket. Drinking hot chocolate. Laughing. Kissing…

Suddenly, a blue van whizzes by, honking. I'm about to flip him off when I realize I'm only going 25 miles an hour. The speed limit is 50. I hit the gas and curse under my breath. My brain must be mush from exams.

The more I think about the Emma/Loch kiss at Ollie's party, the more I'm convinced that the encounter was too awkward to transform into anything real between them. Sure, Emma technically shoved her tongue down Loch's throat, awkward for anyone, but it was more than the element of surprise. The lip-to-lip contact lacked a spark, a chemistry, a melting.

But maybe I missed something. At the time, I was a bit tipsy. What do I know about kissing anyway?

I've kissed two guys, an embarrassingly low number, both of which sucked.

The first was a guy at summer camp in sixth grade, a boy with dark freckles who kissed me on a dare. Gee, that made me feel special, especially when he wiped his mouth afterward and hissed like a cat before running back to his cabin. The second and more promising of the two lip-locks would be Corey Jenkins, who kissed me the summer before junior year at a pool party behind the snack stand. After which he proceeded to ignore me, which took some effort considering we had three classes together that fall.

I don't have much romantic experience, but I'm pretty sure true romance doesn't involve kissing beside vomit-drenched rose bushes at the end of a fake date designed to win back an ex-boyfriend.

I blast the heat again, hoping for some spark of warmth. The dashboard overwhelms the country music on the radio. If Emma and Loch want to go out, who am I to stop them? Maybe she's exactly what Loch needs right now. Maybe she needs Loch, too.

He's a reliable rebound from Kevin. Loch means everything he says. He would never toy with her emotions. Besides, I really don't see it going anywhere
serious
. People should be concentrating on college applications this year. And business and money, for those of us dabbling in that world.

But a relationship? What's the point? Emma's Harvard-bound. Loch will be at UVM.

It could never work.

As I sing along to the radio in hopes of clearing my cobwebbed thoughts, a white smoke blows along the windshield. I tap the brake, hoping the mysterious fog will lift, but it only grows thicker. The engine sputters. A sad sound rises above the music. The car slows, but I'm no longer pressing the brake.

I pull to the side of the road and turn off the engine. I wait a few seconds, taking deep breaths as if it will please the automobile gods and send me on my way. When I turn the key, the engine sputters again. After a single high-pitched howl, it dies.

I'm stranded halfway between Winston and home.

fifteen

B
EFORE CALLING MY MOTHER,
I toss several curse words into the wind. I tell her where I am, about thirty minutes outside of Shelburne. She doesn't hesitate before saying, “I'm leaving now. I'll be there as soon as I can. Stay warm.”

After I hang up, a ping of sadness forces its way in. I'm going to miss my mom next year. A lot. I don't want to be the whiny homesick kid in the dorms, but I probably will be, no matter where I decide to go. I glance at the Purdue acceptance letter sticking out from underneath the pile of textbooks. I wonder if my dad would be proud of me.

Honk. Honk. Honk
.

I turn around and eye a familiar blue truck pulling to the side of the road. For a second I think it must be a different truck, but then Cowboy hops out, zips up his leather jacket, and trots over. I roll down my window. He rests his elbows on the door as he looks in, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thought that was you,” he says.

I pat the steering wheel and say, “She finally quit on me.”

“Crap. I owe Ollie twenty bucks.” He ruffles his short hair. When Cowboy smiles, his eyes crinkle and almost disappear. “I bet him this car would last until graduation.”

“You and me both.” I laugh. “Any idea how to fix her?”

He blows on his bare hands and rubs them together. “I could tell you to pop the hood and proceed to pretend that I know the first thing about fixing cars—that I'm all manly like that—but let's just save time, okay? I know
nothing
about cars. But I can't let you sit out here freezing. I'll give you a ride home though.”

I nod, thank him, and call my mom to let her know she doesn't need to rescue me.

Once inside Cowboy's truck, I put my gloved hands to the heater. A few tattered paperbacks litter the floor at my feet, but I'm careful not to step on them. They are well-loved.

As Cowboy settles into the driver's seat, he takes a sip of his Diet Coke and then pulls us onto the road. I glance into the rearview mirror at my sad Maxima all alone on the side of the road. Broken. Abandoned. Left behind.

I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, “So what are you doing out this way?” “Had to pick up some books I left at my dad's over the weekend,” Cowboy says, blasting the heat.

Like myself, he built up extra credits at Burlington so he has free afternoons this year. If things hadn't changed, I'd be free, too. We don't speak for several minutes. The sound of the blowing hot air is loud and strong. Cowboy could sit like this for days, quiet, lost in thought, but it drives me nuts after a few minutes. I only enjoy quiet on hunts.

“So…you busy next Friday night?” I ask.

His chin twitches. “I don't know.”

“There's a date open for you if you want it,” I say. “A girl named Carrie needs a fake boyfriend for a few hours.”

To the right, we pass a cluster of leafless trees that look like their own little island among a sea of brown fields. Above, the sky darkens, threatening to crack wide open.

“I've decided something.” He takes a deep breath and places the Diet Coke back in the cup holder. “I'm going to take Katie Morris to prom. I'm going to stop being scared of her. She's too beautiful to be scared of. I want her to have the perfect evening. And I want—I hope—that evening can be with me.”

“I know.” I rest my head against the seat and grin.

Cowboy glances at me, confused. “Loch told you my plan, didn't he?”

“Was it a secret or something?” I turn up the heat, but it's already as high as it will go. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything.

“He tells you everything.” Cowboy's forehead creases. He says it like he's accusing me or Loch of something.

“Is that bad?”

Cowboy shrugs. A few moments pass. I stare at the floor where my copy of
Moby Dick
rests, the cover bent.

“Tell me more about this Carrie girl,” Cowboy says, changing the subject.

“Carrie?” I look up. Well-maintained suburban homes appear along the side of the road. “I've only spoken to her a few times. She's an approachable girl though. She smiles a lot. A good sign. Emma vouches for her.”

“Approachable. Girl.” Cowboy sighs. “Two words that don't make sense together.”

“I'm a girl, Cowboy.” I shrug. “You talk to me.”

He leans forward, curls his fingers around the steering wheel, and says, “That's different. You're not
really
a girl. Not in the same way.” He pauses. “I'm digging a hole here, aren't I?”

I laugh, but I'm not sure what he means. Maybe he means I'm not the type of girl to make a boy nervous. I'd like to be the type of girl to make a boy nervous.

“Look, I get it,” I say. “Winston girls are different. Most have been groomed since conception to be perfect.”

“It's not only Winston girls.” He blushes and fidgets with the collar of his leather jacket. “How am I supposed to act? What do I say? Where do I put my hands? I won't put my hands on her ever. I would never do that.”

I sit back, studying him. His pale face is shaded a dark shade of crimson. Like always. So this is why he's been avoiding the business. It has nothing to do with me. He's really anxious.

Cowboy's never dated anyone before, but I assumed it was because he was holding out for Katie Morris. Plus, he was always so focused on his grades, on earning a scholarship for college, that a girlfriend wasn't a priority. And I could relate. Maybe he wants to be part of the business for more than the money. Maybe he wants to learn how to talk to Katie.

“I have no idea how to act like a gentleman,” Cowboy continues. We're off the highway now, bouncing down a clunky back road. We pass the Dunkin' Donuts. “I can't, like,
charm
.”

I wave my hand. “You're totally charming.”

“Right,” he snorts.

I rub my hands together, finally able to feel them again. “You need to grow some confidence, that's all. Be yourself.”

“I hate that whole ‘be yourself' message.” He sighs. “Easy to say when yourself is interesting.”

“Remember that time in fourth grade when you stuffed three French fries up your nose? That's the very definition of interesting.” Now that I think about it, Cowboy was a lot more daring even in middle school. Freshmen year, he folded into his shell.

Cowboy laughs. “Okay. I'll lead with that story when I ask Katie out. She'll love it.”

I shuffle my feet, careful not to hit a book. “You're giving me a ride home. You stopped on the side of the road to help me. Very gentlemanly of you.”

Cowboy stares hard at the road. We don't speak again until we reach Newbury Lane, and the winter sky has brightened, now ripped with stripes of gold. Cowboy parks the truck in my driveway. The engine's still running when he turns to me, fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket.

“I will go on that fake date with Carrie,” he says with the enthusiasm of someone who has volunteered to go into a war zone. He blinks several times.

“You sure?” I ask slowly.

“I can't give Katie Morris her perfect evening if I'm broke.” His voice is unsteady.

I reach for the door handle. “You'll be great, Cowboy.”

He raises his voice. “I'd like some tips!”

I pause, one foot out the door. “Tips?”

“On how to be a gentleman,” he explains. “How to talk to these girls.”

“You don't really need—”

“Please.” He leans forward and closes his eyes tight. “I can't go off to school next year paralyzed like this.” He opens his eyes and looks at me, pleading.