“And?”
“Cruel Intentions, The Wedding Singer, I can’t even remember the titles because they all blend into one long cliché-fest. Oh and, wait for it … Casablanca! Which is actually great because it has an epic airport scene, yet it’s not actually a happy ending.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. You’re all bluster, Joey. You believe in happy endings.”
He smirked. “I’m definitely not opposed to them.”
“Gross, Joey,” I snarled. Then curiosity got the better of me. “Wait. Have you ever had one of those? A legit happy ending at, like, one of those places?”
“Are you seriously asking me that right now?”
“Yes, I want to know if it’s a real thing.”
“Yes, it’s a real thing.” He stood. “And I definitely do not have to answer that. I’m going out to meet Colt for a drink.”
“Didn’t Nana ask you to stay and be man of the house?” I asked.
Keri Ann yawned. “I’m going to bed.”
“And this man of the house is going out to see Colt.” Joey shrugged. “We’re meeting at Woody’s, you want a lift?”
I looked at Keri Ann.
“I’m going to bed.” She yawned again. “We haven’t heard anything about Nana, and as far as I’m concerned no news is good news. She has people waiting on her hand and foot, I bet she’s loving it. You guys go do what you like.”
Riding the cycle paths at night freaked me out a little. I’d come face to face with an alligator once. Okay, my face to his side as he crossed in front of me. And granted he was only about three feet long, and on a mission that didn’t include me, but still. “That would be great,” I said to Joey. What was worse? Seeing another alligator or being in close intimate proximity to Joey Butler? I guess it depended on your definition of worse. And the idea of being alone with Joseph again definitely made my pulse rate spike the same as meeting an alligator might.
Interesting.
WE CLIMBED IN the truck, and I immediately rolled my window down to feel the night breeze.
“Do you mind if I choose the station,” I asked, pointing at his radio.
“Sure.”
“There’s a jazz hour on Wednesday nights they record out of the Jazz Corner on Hilton Head. Did you know the principal of the middle school plays the saxophone there? He’s amazing.”
I fiddled with the knob, passing over a rap station and a hard rock station, then stopped on an eighties song I recognized and loved.
“No jazz?”
“Ha. I love this song.” I frowned. “Weird. Actually I think my mom loved it. I just recognize it.”
We listened to the lyrics about being sorry for not knowing the right words to say, and how the singer promised someone if they stuck around, he’d make her fall for him.
“Angsty,” Joey commented.
I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah,” I agreed and kept turning the knob.
A beautiful cover of “Summertime” flooded into the car. The vocals were less deep than Ella Fitzgerald but no less stunning. Haunting, really. Certainly for the slow beginning before the rhythm picked up. A shiver crossed my skin.
The song came to an end as we pulled into the marina parking under a bright street light and Joey killed the engine. I wound up the truck window with the crank handle.
Joey hadn’t made a move to get out yet.
I glanced at him.
“You’re … never what I expect.” Joey reached out and twirled a piece of my hair around his finger.
My heart flew wildly against my ribcage.
“It suits you.”
“What does? My hair. I should hope so. I have to live with it.” I tried to sound jovial, like I didn’t care that he was six inches away from me with my hair touching his skin. If only hair could feel.
“The music. The jazz.”
“Oh.” I felt my eyebrows bunching together with confusion.
“There’s an impulsiveness about it,” he continued, looking thoughtfully at my hair like he was examining fine metal. “You expect it to do one thing, but it does another. Not quite out of key … but out of expectation. Like, a color that’s been drawn outside the lines.”
“If it’s a perfect color, does it matter? Perhaps it’s more about how the color makes you feel. Or how the music makes you feel.”
He let go of my hair abruptly, and it fell across my cheek. His blue eyes narrowed as he watched it.
After an awkward pause, I reached up and tucked the strand behind my ear.
“Anyway,” he shifted, putting a hand on his door handle. “The music was good, but I’m an inside the lines kind of guy.”
“Well, I’m not an inside the lines kind of girl.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.” And he got out to get my bike from the back.
“How’s it going with Chase?” he asked as I took it from him and we walked toward the buildings.
“Fine,” I answered.
“Isn’t your apartment that way?” he pointed to the path.