“So you do remember I’m here,” he says lightly, sarcasm in his voice.
“Of course. I was . . .” I take in our surroundings, the road we’re traveling down. “Where are we going?”
He pulls onto a sprawling yard with a few cars parked here and there. A huge screen looms over the patch of grass.
“A drive-in?” I ask, panic stealing all my cool points.
Words like “necking” and “making out” come to mind as soon as I think drive-in. He kills the engine and faces me, illuminated by the moon and the screen.
“It’s not that late. You’ll have plenty of time to sleep.”
“No, I won’t, and we don’t know what’s playing,” I say. “We may not even want to see this movie.”
“It’s the experience that counts,” he says, his expression, the tone of his voice, everything about him persuading, urging. “What can it hurt?”
I’m formulating my argument to convince him, since that seems to be the only thing he understands, when a girl—maybe seventeen—strolls up to the car.
“Evening. I’m Sally,” she says and fishes a notepad from her pocket and a pencil from behind her ear. “What can I get you tonight?”
“We’re not staying,” I say at the same time Jared says, “Popcorn.”
She darts a confused look between us. “You want butter on that popcorn?”
“Yeah,” Jared answers, paying in cash. ”And two vanilla cokes.”
She walks away and I batten down my hatches, preparing for the fight ahead.
“This whole thing is incredibly presumptuous,” I say, irritation coloring my words. “Bringing me here without my permission. Ordering Vanilla Coke, which I’ve never had—”
“You’ll love it.”
“And buttered popcorn, which I don’t have enough points left for.”
“Points?” Dark blond brows pucker. “What do you mean points?”
Growing up overweight, struggling with it for so many years, I didn’t realize how much shame I held around food. In public, I’d imagine the chiding conversations thin people were having about what I’d ordered. I conjured up their secret dismay that I selected the burger when there was a perfectly good garden salad on the menu. I was self-conscious about my portions, always concerned I’d gotten so much people would say, “Ah, that’s why.” I didn’t want people to think about food and me in the same sentence because then they would “remember” I was overweight. To talk about dieting with someone draws attention to “my problem.” To talk about it with Jared, considering our unique, humiliating past, would have been nearly impossible.
But that was then. This is now. This is me now.
“Weight Watchers,” I say. “We assign points to food, and you’re allowed only so many points each day. I don’t think I have enough for buttered popcorn.”
“Oh. I get that.” His expression doesn’t change, but he drapes an arm along the back of my seat. “You look great, Banner.”
Before I can awkwardly thank him, he goes on.
“But you’ve always looked great to me,” he says, mesmerizing me with the forthright admiration in his eyes. “I can tell you’re happier now with how you look, so that’s important, but you’ve always been beautiful to me. I hope you know that.”
A lump forms in my throat, hot and huge. God, why does he have to be this way? How does he look at me with the same . . . intent now as he did that night? Like I’m the same person? When most guys didn’t even bother to look twice then, he looked at me like this. Like he’s looking at me tonight and doesn’t even notice that now I actually have a waistline. I’m on the verge of completely humiliating myself when Sally walks back up.
Jared takes the popcorn. “Thanks. What’s the movie, by the way?
“An Affair To Remember,” Sally says. “It’s Oldie But Goodie night. Not many folks here. Sorry. I have no idea what it’s about.”
I at least know the plot. Cary Grant. Deborah Kerr. Both in relationships with other people, but fall for each other. The universe hates me.
“I’ve never seen this,” Jared says. “Have you?”
“No.” I discipline my lips into a firm line. “But I’m not watching this movie and I’m not eating that popcorn or drinking Vanilla Coke. Take me home, Jared.”
He considers me in silence for a moment then plops the popcorn between us and sips his drink.
“No.”
Why does he challenge me and torture me at every turn?
“You could have any girl sitting here eating popcorn and drinking dessert soda with you while you watch this movie,” I say hotly. “Take me home and find one of them.”
“No.” His expression hardens into implacability. “Eat the popcorn, drink the coke or don’t. I don’t care. Just turn around and watch the damn movie.”
“Why?” I demand, my voice ascending in volume. “I don’t want to see this movie, and I could be home in an hour.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to take you home,” he says, matching my volume, the fierceness of my glare. “To be a damn genius, you are so obtuse. I don’t care if it’s Godzilla or Frankenstein or fucking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It doesn’t matter what’s on the screen, Banner. I just don’t want you to leave.”
Dread and delight wrangle inside me. He’s on the verge of saying things that could take me down a dark path, one I would never consider following. A path that breaks all my rules and violates all my codes. One that could break my best friend’s heart.
“But, Jared—”
“Eat your popcorn,” he says irritably. “The movie’s starting.”