“Thanks,” I say, mumbling a little. Hefting the bag higher on my shoulder, I march onto the shoulder, where his truck is. My pumps squish through muddy puddles and gravel pings my ankles, but I soldier on, determined to hold him to that promise of not saying another word to me for the rest of the ride.
And the truth is, I’m being like this because I have to stay strong or else I might break, and I can’t let Dax know that.
I can’t ever let him see how weak he makes me.
Suddenly the enormous weight on my shoulder eases a little. He’s behind me, trying to take the bag off my shoulder. Alarms sound in my head. Too close. So close I can feel the head radiating from his body. I knew he had some manners buried in there somewhere, but it’s those manners that get women everywhere to drop their panties for him. And I refuse to be taken in by them. I tear the bag away from him and swat his hand away.
“What? I can’t—“ He stops when he sees the wrath in my eyes. He backs away and points to my VW. “Okay, I’ll just get the hitch.”
“Just . . . remember your promise. No talking,” I mumble, thinking, Let’s do this in double time. The sooner we do, the sooner I can be away from him.
And I need to be away from him. After all, escaping my parents wasn’t the only reason I left Friesville. In fact, it wasn’t even the biggest reason.
No, the biggest reason was Dax Harding.
Chapter 3
Despite it being the dead of summer, the ten-mile ride up Callow’s Hill Road to my house is decidedly icy. Or maybe that’s just because Dax insists on blowing the AC full-blast, right at my face and bare arms. The boy has always had a temperature problem. He’s hot, literally. His skin is always on fire, unlike mine. We went to the movies once, and I sat with my legs and hands piled on top of his, to ward off the arctic air in the Forum theater. I find myself thinking of the way he used to sit in the driver’s seat, just like he’s doing now, and snake his warm fingers under my hairline and tickle the back of my neck. If anyone else tried that, it would’ve annoyed me. But something about Dax Harding’s callused mechanic’s fingers, that rugged, intoxicating smell of oil and grease that used to burrow itself in his every pore…
No. Stop thinking about him.
Remember how hard you worked to forget. You can’t fall back into old habits now. He’ll be gone soon and then you can pretend this was all just a dream and get back to your real life.
Except that real life and my real job haven’t exactly been going so well either, lately.
I shake off the old memories and anxieties and drum my fingers on the armrest in tune to some country song playing softly through the truck’s speakers.
We are so different, it’s hard to believe I never saw it before. Everyone was shocked when we became a couple, the nerdy good-girl and the jaded bad-boy. It’s just like my parents kept telling me: We have absolutely nothing in common.
Despite myself, I venture another look over at Dax. He has his arm hooked easily over the wheel and is mouthing the words to the song, looking out at the tree line as if it’s the most glorious thing he’s ever seen. The thing is, Friesville is trees. Trees and farms. And that’s it. There is barely anything new anywhere. It’s completely smothering. And yet this boy obviously can’t get enough of it.
I can’t help it. I laugh. He is kind of cute when he’s peaceful like this, which makes me instinctively want to poke him.
He looks over at me, confused, an amused smile creeping over his face. I wait for him to ask me what I’m laughing about, but he doesn’t. So I say, “You are such a hick.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but doesn’t say a word. I realize it’s because he promised not to talk, and that only makes me laugh harder.
Finally he speaks and his voice is strong and confident, as always. “Just because I’m not dressed up like some dog’s dinner, like you? You’ve spent too much time in the city, Katydid.”
I reach over and change the radio station. It’s mostly static, but then I get something guaranteed to annoy him: Celine Dion.
He winces as if in physical pain. “You didn’t just touch my radio.”
“Yeah. Um. This song rocks. Titanic? Only one of the greatest movies ever.”
He’s staring at me as if I just announced my decision to shave my head and join a cult. “Do it again, and this hick is going to hog-tie you,” he says, switching it back.
“Hmm. Not a Leo fan, I see.”
He stares straight ahead. “I don’t watch chick flicks.”
“It’s not a chick flick. There’s action and adventure. Spoiler: The ship hits an iceberg. Chaos ensues.”
He’s giving me a warning look, but his eyes drift down to my chest. “If it’s anything like that song, no thanks, darlin’. I don’t want my eyes bleeding, along with my ears.”