For our first date, we went to see No Country for Old Men. He picked me up in a gigantic truck that he clearly worshipped. He pointed out the new seat covers, the sound system, and even showed me how he’d built a secret cubbyhole in the driver’s side door that held a flask of whiskey, which he tipped my way in the theater’s parking lot. I declined. We shared a monster-size popcorn during the movie although it was gone before I’d had more than a few bites; I was too engrossed in the performances.
“I love the Coen brothers,” I sighed on the way home.
“Was one of them the hit man?” Tommy asked. “He was awesome.”
We didn’t talk again until he pulled into my driveway and then he fiddled with the radio and mumbled for me to hang on.
“For what?” I asked, but he was already out of the truck and walking around to my side.
As he opened my door he held out his hand awkwardly. I took it to jump down and would have let go if he hadn’t closed his fingers around mine and put his other hand gently on my shoulder.
“You . . . said you wanted to see me dance.”
And then it registered—the country music he’d turned up and the bashful expression on his face.
“Oh.” I flushed and dropped my gaze, thrown off balance by the gesture.
He drew my hand in to his chest and turned me in a few circles until the song ended and I backed up.
“So will I do?”
I smiled. “I think so.”
The next weekend we went to Sadie Hawkins and a postseason football party afterwards, where Tommy kissed me next to Derek’s dad’s beer fridge. Yells went up all around and after that everyone started talking about us like a couple. It even sounded right. Tommy and Hattie, high school sweethearts.
By Thanksgiving we’d established a routine. We went out on Saturday nights, and since we didn’t have any classes together—I took all advanced subjects and he was mostly on the remedial track—we only saw each other during lunches at school. I sat with him at the football table and let him eat most of my lunch while I played on my phone. On the days with chocolate chip cookies, though, he always gave me his.
Tommy obviously liked me—all I had to do was smile at him and he lit up—although it wasn’t me he liked so much as just having a girlfriend. He gave me bone-crunching squeezes whenever the other jocks corralled their girlfriends and we usually spent Saturday nights double-or triple-dating with some of them. I think he felt like he truly belonged, now that he had his own plus-one, and even though he was dumb as a box of rocks, he was still a sweetheart. I was glad I could give him that kind of acceptance from his friends.
Mom and Dad were happy, too. I think they thought having a boyfriend grounded me here, like maybe I would change my mind about New York. They invited Tommy over for Sunday dinner and he and Dad watched the football game afterwards, just like Greg and Dad used to do.
For me it was all learning. I’d never dated anyone before and had no idea how to be a girlfriend. It turned out to be easy—mostly physical, no-brainer stuff. It was more about leaning in to listen than actually listening, or putting a hand on his arm instead of telling him to stop. I watched the other girls on our double dates and saw how they teased and giggled. They looked so happy and I wondered whether, if I looked happy enough, I would belong, too.
One day after lunch I walked him to English class. We meandered down the hall with Tommy draping an arm over my shoulders and my book bag slapping lightly against his thigh, seemingly in no hurry, but inside my body started to hum. The football players called their usual shout-outs to each other as the warning bell rang and then we got to Peter’s door. I looked up and smiled that hinting smile at Tommy, leaning toward his huge dinner-plate face. He took the bait, smashing his mouth down on mine and tightening his squeeze where he had tucked me under his shoulder.
“Have fun in English,” I teased after he let me go, running a fingernail up his biceps.
“Yeah, right.” He rolled his eyes and walked into the classroom.