I’ve never had this. A someone. It’s a little disorienting, but in the best way possible. Like the sensation of falling but knowing you’re safe. Like on a trampoline or strapped into a roller coaster.
Exhilarating.
I stare at his words for a minute and then my fingers are flying.
Me: YEAH, I GOT IT, BUT DO YOU GOT IT? IF YOU NEED ME FOR ANY REASON, YOU HAVE TO CALL ME, TOO. OKAY???
Beck hearts my message.
Beck: You should see my smile.
Me: I MEAN, YOUR PHONE HAS A CAMERA. JUST SAYIN’.
And then a picture of him laughing fills my screen. I snort because it’s so cute. He’s outside, sitting under an oak tree where I know he likes to have lunch, and his eyes are squinty, and his perfect teeth glint in the sun.
I heart the message and save it to my phone.
“What’s so funny back there?” Dad asks, and I’m hit with a kind of existential whiplash.
Wow. Almost forgot I was in the car with my parents.
Dad’s glancing at me in the rearview. I try to get my grin under control.
“Just talking to Beck.” I try to sound chill, but even I hear that I’m trying to try to sound chill.
Mom glances over her shoulder at me. Her mouth is a flat line. It’s the look she wears anytime I mention Beck.
“I see,” Dad says—in a very TV Dad voice. “So, when do we get to meet him?” he asks for about the twelfth time.
I roll my eyes. “Still only had four dates, Dad.”
“Mmm hmm.” He hums, and I catch him and Mom eyeing each other.
Have I told them that Beck and I are exclusive? Hell, no. I learned my lesson. My family—including Margaret, though it pains me to say it—are in a strictly need-to-know zone when it comes to my romantic life.
But, I’ll admit, they are noticing a lot.
Me smiling at my phone.
Me shutting myself in my room to talk to Beck.
Me staring off into space thinking of unbuttoning Beck’s shirt.
We’re on West St. Mary Boulevard, just a few blocks from home, so I’ll be away from their prying eyes before Beck has to get back on the harvester. Maybe I can call him and hear his voice.
But instead of traveling through the intersection of St. Mary and Congress, Dad flips his blinker and pulls into the center lane. Mom whips her head at him as he slows.
“Randy?” she asks, but he’s already making a left turn into a parking lot. It’s the one with a long row of little townhouses that we pass nearly every day.
I look between Mom and Dad. Mom’s frowning, but Dad’s wearing a sneaky grin.
“Randall?”
Uh oh.
“Hillary, just try to keep an open mind, okay?”
Mom’s mouth opens and closes, but no sounds come out. Dad slows and then pulls into a parking spot, muttering. “Think this is it.” Then he cuts the engine.
