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Last night I fell head over heels with her acting, her singing, her presence, and, yeah, her looks. Today, I’m intrigued by this headstrong, dramatic spirit, confused by her disdain for my excellent work in procuring the absolute best coach for her team, bemused by her insistence on walking away from me, and frustrated by her ambiguous energy. Does she want me to chase her or go kick rocks? “Don’t you want to win a state championship?” I offer.
She scoffs, a little too loudly. “I should have seen it coming. Swim parents are the worst!”
“I never really thought of myself as a swim parent, more of an all-around supporter of the school…”
“Try dictator on for size!”
Ouch.
OK. I’ve had enough of this.
“Get in the car, Hunter.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”
She whirls on me and finally makes eye contact. I stop the car while she lets me have it. “Are you this obtuse with everyone in your life or just women? Because I think I see what went wrong with your daughter.”
That hits me right in the gut. “Will you let me take you somewhere to eat and then drive you home?”
She pauses, bites one of her juicy lips. “Someone will see us together. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
She’s hesitating. Good. I should have guessed. Teenagers are always hungry. “You are eighteen, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Then no. I don’t give a shit. It’s just food. And if you want me to go, I’ll go. Just say so.”
Finally she shakes her head and slides into the passenger seat. After she slams the door, she digs a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap out of her beach bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Disguising myself,” she hisses.
“You could always lie down on my lap and hide properly,” I say before I can stop myself.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
10
Rushmore
“Frozen burritos?”
I must be a huge snob in her eyes, because I physically wince when she tells me what she wants to eat. But here we are, parked in the street in front of her house, because she’d actually prefer going inside rather than going out to a nice restaurant.
“Yes. I want one of those vegan burritos I keep in the freezer,” she says.
“But your parents...”
“My mom won’t be home until tomorrow, and Dad is meeting with a client over dinner. They always go late. So I wouldn’t mind the company.”
I try to sound nice but it comes out rude. “I can’t let you eat that garbage.”
As expected, she bristles. “It’s not garbage and yes, you can let me eat what I want, especially if you want to spend time with me. First order of business: I don’t like fancy restaurants. I like pajamas and trash TV and the frozen foods section of the grocery store.”
My hands grip the steering wheel until the leather squeaks. I could show this woman the world, and she wants to sit around in pajamas eating TV dinners?
