“Do you know what it really means to be a loser?” I regret it as soon as I say it.
However, to be fair, this is the nerdiest trash talk I’ve ever witnessed, let alone participated in. No matter what wicked burn I come back with, we’re still arguing over the HOA. It’s impossible to make this anything other than cringeworthy.
It might be a trick of the light, but I swear I see him smile before he asks, “Seriously?”
I won’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, I do the mature thing: I stick out my tongue and do the loser sign.
“Okay then!” Ashleigh steps between us. I guess holding my fingers in the shape of an L is a step too far for neighborhood politics. Noted. Ten out of ten chance I will do it again. “Why don’t we go get you two set up on the back of Mr. Wilson’s convertible? I think he has a list of rules to go over before you can get in.”
“That tracks,” I say.
“Sounds about right,” Nate says at the exact same time.
Mr. Wilson is the man from Shania Twain’s “That Don’t Impress Me Much.” Not only did he shower his car with more love and attention than he ever showed his ex-wife, but he also didn’t even seem to really notice when she ran off with another man. If the weather permits, I can always depend on seeing him washing the car in the driveway.
Something the HOA of the past has apparently ticketed him on multiple times, and which will absolutely be how I get his vote.
“Oh wow! Now, look at that.” Ashleigh could not sound more delighted by our shared distaste for Mr. Wilson. She loops her arms through ours and drags us along the crowded sidewalk. “You already have so much in common. I think all you two need is some quality time together. This parade might be what you need to come together again.”
My mind lives in the gutter now. There’s one place and one place only where I’d like to come together with Nate, and it’s definitely not riding through the streets of the Reserve at Horizon Creek with Mr. Wilson as our driver.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I humor her despite knowing this is going to be a total shit show. “It could be fun.”
I don’t know what it is about Ashleigh that makes me want to go all big sister for her. She’s just so sweet and innocent. I’m hardened and bitter, but she’s too soft for this hard world. I want to shove her in my pocket and protect her. Oh yeah . . . but also make her participate in all my shenanigans, like excessive drinking in the afternoon and running my campaign for the HOA.
“You get to sit on the back of a car and throw candy to kids.” Her excitement is so pure, it’s almost contagious. “What’s not fun about that?”
Well, the fact that I’m sitting next to the guy I slept with before sprinting out of his house could put a damper on things. But I’ve been wrong before.
Plus, if nothing else, this will be a perfect scene for my script.
Chapter 20
Life update: I was not wrong.
Trust your instincts, kids.
Not only is participating in the parade not fun, but sitting in the back of Mr. Wilson’s car could be considered torture.
His list of rules is exhausting, and I’m certain I’d be better off walking. Not only are we not allowed to keep our shoes on for fear of messing with his leather interior, but we’re also not allowed to have any liquids whatsoever. And yes, that includes water. It’s July, and although we don’t live in the desert, it’s still ninety degrees and humid AF. The longer we drive, the more I’m convinced this might be the thing that takes me out for good. We also aren’t allowed to make music requests, which means we’ve been listening to “Born in the U.S.A.” for the entirety of the ride.
I get it.
Classics, musicianship, blah blah blah. This is nothing to do with Springsteen—truly, all respect for him—but I think my ears are going to start bleeding if he doesn’t play something else soon. Even Nate can’t stop rubbing his temples from what I have to assume is a music-induced migraine.
“Mr. Wilson,” I say through gritted teeth. “I know you said no music requests, so please consider this a light suggestion, but there are other songs that talk about the United States. Maybe you want to give one of them a listen?”
Nate’s shoulder rattles against me as his body shakes with silent laughter, because he’s too chicken—or polite—to speak up.
This leads to the biggest issue of all.
Mr. Wilson was so nervous my denim shorts would scratch his precious car that he laid down a blanket for us to sit on. Now, in theory, this is no big deal, but in reality? It’s the fucking worst. The blanket has no grip whatsoever. I nearly toppled off the convertible thanks to the hard right turn he made a couple of blocks back. Now, strictly for safety reasons, Nate and I are so close together on the back of this stupid car that you couldn’t slip a piece of paper between us.
“No suggestions either,” Mr. Wilson barks, and I want to kick the back of his stupid seat. “That’s the problem with you kids these days: no respect for America or music. Listen to this and be proud to be an American.”
“Is it safe to assume he has no idea what this song is actually about?” Nate asks under his breath.
“One thousand percent.” I grab a handful of candy and toss it to the group of small children waving to us. “I think it’s safe to assume he completely lost touch with reality after his wife left him.”
It’s not a kind observation, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
Mr. Wilson flips his turn signal, and Nate’s arm automatically shoots in front of me and grabs my thigh. The feel of his fingertips against my bare skin is all the reminder my body needs to transport me back to last night. But in the light of the day, there’s another element that wasn’t there last night. I’m unable to look away from the way his large hand looks sprawled out against my leg. The contrast of his hand against my sun-bronzed skin. My thighs clench together, and even though it’s hot as hell, goose bumps still chase his touch.
I hope Nate doesn’t notice; the last thing I need is for him to be aware of how much he affects me. Of course, when I chance a look over at him, he’s watching me from under hooded lids. I thought I’d feel embarrassed that he witnessed my reaction to this innocent touch, but it only takes a moment for me to see that I’m not alone. His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth and the flush covering his cheeks is much deeper than it was a few seconds ago.
“I like these shorts.” His hand creeps up my thigh, never losing contact as his fingertips toy with the frayed hem of my jean shorts.
“I like yours too. Decided to ditch the khakis, I see?” My breathing becomes labored and my gaze drops to the growing bulge in his pants, which I’ve been studiously avoiding for the last thirty minutes. It’s not easy, but I manage to look up before spectators can follow my line of sight.