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The next thing I know, our waitress returns with our food. She takes care to clip the tray onto the side of Tyler’s truck before she scurries off. After he divvies
up everything, we sit in the cab of his truck with greasy burgers and fries on our laps. Not the most glamorous of first official dates, even though he claims this is date number four, but it’s kind of perfect. There’s no stress to try and impress him. Tyler seems content just being in the truck with me.
I practically inhale my burger, fries, and shake. It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to eat anything like this and I forgot how wonderfully sinful a mouthful of fast food tastes. It’s like heaven in a wrapper. I keep having to mentally remind myself why I must limit myself with this kind of food. I don’t want to become Avery Gravy again.
I shudder at those words. I haven’t thought of that name for a couple years now and I’ve done my best to keep that painful memory bottled up. Brad Rutherford ever so graciously gave that name to me in the sixth grade when I got upset because I couldn’t have a second helping of mashed potatoes and gravy during a class field trip. Everyone laughed, of course, when Brad started taunting me. I cried, but no one noticed. I was invisible—no one ever took the time to see me as a person who had feelings. All people ever focused on was the outside. Kids at that age never care how the fat girl feels.
I shake my head to clear my mind and decide that I’m going to enjoy this meal and to hell with the dietary consequences.
Every time I sneak a glance in Tyler’s direction, he’s watching me. That makes me feel a little self-conscious.
What is he staring at?
Doesn’t he know that we girls like to chow down without someone watching our every move?
“Told you that you’d like the burger.” He smiles, clearly pleased that I’m enjoying the food.
I nod, without saying a word. I can’t open my mouth to say anything even if I want to. I’m struggling to just breathe around the meaty goodness. We finish our respective meals and Tyler heads out for the next part of mysterious date number four.
We drive around town, and he gives me the lowdown on what’s hot here in sticksville. Not much, but I can’t say that that shocks me. When we drove through town yesterday, there was a whole lot of nothing.
Just as I think Tyler is about to take me back home and call our date officially over, he turns down a road leading out of town in the opposite direction of Granny’s place. The scenery here is pretty. Everything is overly green and looks like a landscape from a painting. The beauty of country living could really grow on me. No one is in a hurry, and everything seems simple compared to the hustle and bustle of my old city life.
The truck slows to a creep and Tyler moves the indicator, signaling we are turning into the woods. It’s a road, I think. The only reason I’m guessing that is because the path is beaten down by what appears to be tire tracks.
“Uh, where are we going?” I ask nervously.
I have every right to feel skittish. It’s nearly dark and he’s dragging me into a deep, dark forest. Not a place I want to be, exactly.
“You’ll see,” he says.
We bounce along the path, until we reach a little clearing in the woods. I can make out a stream flowing into what appears to be a freshwater pool. There’re even some old rickety lawn chairs strewn around. Tyler turns the truck around and backs up near the water.
“It’s so beautiful out here,” I say, and honestly mean it.
“I think so too. It’s one of my most favorite places to hang out.”
He cuts the engine, jumps out, and rushes around the front of the truck to my door. He offers his hand to help me out of the truck.
How sweet and suave.
Tyler’s warm hand holds mine tightly as he leads me to the back of his truck. I don’t miss the small, circular motions his thumb makes against my skin. It feels nice, and soothing, having him this close to me.
Tyler flips the tailgate down, and I immediately notice a guitar case in the bed.
“You play that thing pretty well,” I say, remembering back when he played at the party with his band.
He grins. “Yeah, I’m all right, but drums are really my thing. Come on, I’ll help you up,” he says as he pats the shiny black tailgate.
I nod, and that’s all the permission he needs. He puts his hands on my waist, and we stand there, face-to-face. For a minute, I think he’s going to try to kiss me, but instead he tightens his grip and hoists me up.
He joins me in one swift motion. This boy is smooth, I’ll give him that.
“So, where are we exactly?” I ask.
“This is a place we locals like to call the Sucker Hole.”
I furrow my brow. “Why do you call it that?”
