“No,” he says. “It’s not that. I don’t mind talking to you. So don’t apologize for it, okay? I just don’t do much talking. It takes getting used to.”
I lean my head against the rear window of his cab and cross my legs at the ankle. “I, on the other hand, talk like the world will only continue to spin if it can revolve around me.”
“I like listening to you talk.” He laughs. “It’s kinda like Stockholm syndrome. At first it was a little terrifying, but now it’s sorta comforting. Like, the world could be ending, but I could come to work and you’d be talking like it’s your duty.”
“Oh, so I hold you captive with my words? I’m sorry,” I say, “but was that some sort of backhanded way of saying that I’m captivating?”
“Very punny,” he says.
I smack his arm. He grabs my hand, not giving it back. The radio behind us crackles out “Creepin’ In”—that Norah Jones and Dolly Parton song. And everything in this little town is dark, but I can feel Bo’s eyes connecting with mine. “It’s starting,” he whispers, and finally lets go of my hand.
I let out a shuddering breath I didn’t know I was holding in.
“It’s a small meteor shower,” he whispers. “Sorry it’s not more impressive.”
I’m still completely taken with it all. Faraway streaks of light split through the sky, leaving traces like a bruise. I shake my head. “No. I’ve never seen one. I think that makes it special enough, right?”
We both tilt our heads even further to the sky. It’s a few minutes before he says, “The first meteor shower I saw was huge. I never wanted it to end.”
“Well,” I say. “You can’t have stuff this good all the time. It would turn you rotten.”
He nods. And we sit there for a long time, like this is all some good song on the radio that we can’t pause.
“Don’t you sort of feel like we’re the only people in the world that are seeing this?” I say after a little while, almost scared of ruining the moment.
“I don’t know.” Bo’s voice is a quiet rumble. “My mom died. Five years ago. And I guess I like to think that wherever she is, her sky has meteor showers, too.” Each word is a naked patch of him, and I want so badly to add up all the bread crumbs I have and make sense of him.
I wait for some kind of disclaimer from him about his theory being dumb or that he’s sorry for being a downer. Because that’s what I would say. But there’s no apology from Bo. And I like that. I like that he has nothing to be sorry for. I want to tell him that I feel bad about his mom or that I like thinking of Lucy that way, too, but instead I say, “I guess it’s an awfully big sky not to share.”
EIGHT
The next morning when my mom asks me what time I got home, I lie and say the place was an even bigger mess than normal. My lips twitch the whole time with the memory of sitting in the bed of Bo’s truck.
I should call Ellen, I know, and tell her every detail. But I don’t want to share this yet. I like the idea of keeping my world in these little compartments where there is no risk of collision.
The Saturday night crowd is pretty brutal. It’s always dead from 10:30 to 11:30 and then, as we’re getting ready to close, we get one last rush.
Ron’s in the back helping with the food and I’m taking orders. Marcus is on drive-thru for the night. The headset barely fits around his bush of hair. Between drive-thru orders, he runs over to help me assemble trays of food, but still the line is consistently ten deep.
I’ve stopped even bothering to look up from my register until I hear, “Oh my God. I totally forgot that Ellen said you worked here.”
My shoulders slump as I recognize the voice.
Callie leans across the counter and says, “I am so sorry, but those uniforms are the worst.”
“Welcome to Harpy’s Burgers & Dogs. How can I help you?” I ask.