I was a sophomore, and Decker was a junior in college. We’d remained cordial when we were thrown together by circumstance, but other than that, we weren’t anything.
He still had a girlfriend, and to my dismay, my dad had told him to bring her to dinner once. It was horribly awkward. The next time my dad asked, Decker said that she was too busy to join us.
She was nice enough. Aurora—who told us she was named after the princess and made it clear that she fully expected to be treated like one. I’d watched Decker hold out her chair and pour her water, and I ate my chicken and said very little.
She didn’t seem to care for me. Never made eye contact and hardly spoke. Looking back, I wonder if maybe she felt the tension between us.
My friendship with Decker hadn’t died so much as faded, which was somehow worse. Dead things allow you to grieve. You just keep searching for things that fade away.
I tried turning the key again, but my car wouldn’t turn over. I’d gotten to the drugstore right before they closed after getting my period and realizing I didn’t have enough tampons to make it through the next day.
I called my friends, but most of them didn’t have cars since it was a pain to park on campus. I scrolled through my contacts, and my thumb hovered over the screen.
Decker Davis.
My head hit the headrest. I shouldn’t call him. He probably wouldn’t even answer, but then the store sign turned off, and my desperation had me tapping on his name.
He answered on the first ring. I hadn’t even finished deciding what I was going to say.
“Penelope?”
I still hated when he called me by my full name. Since our friendship was pretty much nonexistent, he always called me Penelope now. I supposed I should get used to it.
“Hey, um… I’m at the drugstore. The one downtown in Hartwell and… well…”
“What’s wrong?” His tone was impatient but in the good way. Like he was worried about me. That made me feel better than it should have.
“My car won’t start and?—”
“I’ll be there in forty.”
“What?” I heard Aurora in the background. “Where are you going?”
He must have covered the receiver because I couldn’t make out whatever he said. A minute later, he came back on the line. “Lock your doors. I’m on my way.”
“If you’re busy?—”
“I’m not. Just don’t talk to anyone. Okay?”
“It’s Hartwell. I’m fine.”
“Just do it, Pen.”
Something in my chest unknotted at him using my shortened name. Something I hadn’t realized was knotted. He hadn’t called me Pen in months. I guess I was keeping track until right then.
“Thanks. I’m sorry for blowing up your night.”
“You didn’t. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“This is complete bull—” Aurora shouted in the background before the line cut out.
He pulled in next to me exactly thirty-five minutes after we hung up, which meant he hadn’t wasted time getting out of Kingsley, and he’d definitely sped to get to me. Some naïve part of me felt as though it meant something. That our connection wasn’t as nonexistent as he pretended it to be.
He did all the things—popped the hood, checked the cables, tried to start it three times as if I hadn’t already. The car still wouldn’t turn over.
Then he pulled out his phone. “We’re going to have to call for a tow.”
Between looking through the glove box and finding his roadside assistance card, he called and handled it all as we sat in his car with the heater running.
