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“Anyway.” My throat clears. “How was it?”
Horrible. Awful. Say you hated it. Say he’s boring. Say you missed me.
“Great, actually.”
Damn it.
“I guess all your practice really helped me out, because it was only awkward, like, right when we left, and then I started talking about the shelter and it was way easier.”
“That’s great,” I say as my heart jumps out of my chest and dramatically dives into the concrete below me with a disappointing plop. “I’m glad it was great.”
I pat my hands on my pants and walk off to my car. “Well, I’m tired. Have a great night, Felicity.”
“What about your Scrabble letters?”
“I have more at home, uh, don’t worry.”
“It takes like two seconds to grab them—” She points her thumb at the door over her shoulder, but I’m already halfway in my truck, ready to speed out into the night.
“Uh-huh, sounds great, bye-bye now.”
I drove the three-minute commute home and slammed my head on the horn so loud that it made one of the nearby goats faint.
If I thought that was rough, I should’ve known seeing it with my own eyes would be so much worse.
***
Ada’s backyard is buzzing. Our usual Honk and Drink Day is in full swing. We used to do it in the spring and summer as the weather warms up, but fall is always my favorite time since it’s cooler and Ada’s dad has a really great old-school projector that we can cast on a blow-up screen. He’s got all the games, so we usually pick our favorite team to watch that day and show up then.
It’s pretty basic: cars drive by, they honk, we drink. They honk twice, we drink twice. A standard routine.
It was Ledger’s idea first, I think. We used to drink alcohol—Lawson and Odelia’s older cousin said he’d get us beer if we bought him a case too—but then we got caught one summer, and as punishment, Ada’s dad has to be outside with us to make sure no one is under the influence.
The girls sit on red picnic blankets carving the leftover pumpkins from last week, orange guts sticking to their palms as they laugh and take pictures for Odelia’s scrapbook, while the rest of us watch Alabama football on the projector.
The yard smells like fresh-cut pumpkin, dry leaves, and the faint vanilla scent of Felicity’s perfume that keeps drifting toward me every time the breeze changes directions. She’s sitting close on the blanket—close enough that when I got tired of sitting in my chair and I slipped down next to her, her knee bumps mine when she laughs through her words.
“I did not,” I defend.
“Oh, you so did. I still have the scar from it.”
“Where?” I laugh, leaning closer to her. “Show me.”
Felicity pulls at her sweater sleeve, showing her elbow to me, no scars in sight. “Right here in this…area.”
“You are such a liar.” My fingers trace her elbow and give it a small nudge. My voice is soft, my fingers brushing her elbow. Her skin is warm. She shivers—barely—but I still feel goose bumps raising at my touch. “There’s no scar because it didn’t happen.”
Her smile tilts, her eyes flicking up to mine for half a second too long. We haven’t brought it up since her room, but I feel like there’s something yanking me, dying for me to ask about that kiss.
I lower my voice so I know no one else can hear. “Hey, about the other night…”
“The other night?” Felicity asks.
“In your room.”
“Oh.” Her back straightens. “Right.”
“I feel like I should clarify…”
