I’d been sitting there rigidly, with my arms folded over my chest, but I must’ve gotten too comfortable and let my guard down. Because of the frigid air blowing right at me, my nipples are still hard. I quickly cross my arms back over my chest. I can not get comfortable with Dax Harding. That’s the worst thing I could possibly do.
I cross my legs tightly to hide the sea of goose bumps on them, but he catches that, too. “What. You nervous?”
“No, of course not,” I snap. “Cold. It’s like the frozen tundra in this cab. I think I saw a polar bear back there, trying to hitch a ride.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say something?” He reaches down and turns off the air, sounding genuinely apologetic. That’s the closest thing to an apology I’ll ever get from him. When he removes his hand, it grazes my knee for a split second, sending fireworks straight up to my center. I flinch.
He should not be allowed to make me feel that way, after all this time.
He notices my reaction, too, and clears his throat. “How long are you in town for?”
“Just a week.”
He reaches across to the glove compartment and pops it open with his fist. An assortment of lollipops greet me. “Blow pop?”
I shake my head, stunned to see such a blast from the past. Dax started smoking when he was twelve, because his dad was too busy drinking his life away to care much about him and his younger siblings. The first time he kissed me, I wanted to take the focus off the obvious fact that he was my first kiss, so I told him that I hated cigarette smoke, even though truthfully, I’d never felt or tasted anything so amazing. The next day, he told me he’d given up smoking. He went and got himself a bunch of lollipops to suck on, whenever he had a craving.
One of the many things he’d done to contradict the Dax Harding reputation everyone always whispered about.
But as it turned out, those nice things he did? Lies, all lies.
“Are you still having cravings?” I ask as he closes the glove compartment and unwraps the candy.
“Cravings?” He shakes his head and pops the head of the lollipop into his mouth. “Why, are you?”
“For what?”
He gives me a long, appraising look that makes me flush, but I look away and snort, trying to cover the fact that I’m weakening as we speak.
“For you?” I scoff. “No. Please.”
“Yeah? So what brings you back here after all this time?” he asks. “You had to find out what I was up to, right?”
He’s kidding, being the jokester he always used to be, which makes me smile, even though the truth isn’t far off. I have thought of him. Often. More often than is healthy. In fact, during my first year away, all I did was have this pathetic fantasy that he’d show up at my dorm, telling me he couldn’t live without me. I shake my head. “Sorry to disappoint, but no.”
“Admit it. You staged the breakdown just so you could see me again.”
I have to laugh. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Dread pools in my stomach as we pull up to my little ranch house. My parents hate Dax. I know, hate is a strong word, but in this case, it fits. My father is big on protecting me, but he’s also big on me being happy, so if there’s something I really want, he can usually be counted on to cave and let me have it. But the last time my father and I discussed Dax Harding, my dad used a phrase he’d never used before or since: I forbid it. In fact, my father’s never called Dax just Dax, or even Dax Harding. It’s always, always been “That Dax Harding”, as if there are a dozen other ones living in town. As in, I don’t know what you see in That Dax Harding. You’re selling yourself short, spending time with That Dax Harding.
Dax is obviously thinking the same because he doesn’t even pull into the driveway. He idles in the center of Callow Hill Road, grabs a Phillies cap that’s stuffed in the visor, and screws it down over his ears. “Forgive me for not coming in,” he says, pulling the cherry lollipop from his lips with a smack. “I’ll give you a call tonight.”
I clench my teeth, thinking of the many secret, hushed phone conversations I’d had with him while hidden behind the piles of old model railroad memorabilia in the basement. “But—“
“About your car,” he says. “I should be able to get it looked at right away.”
“Oh. Right.” Stupid, Kath. Really stupid.
As if on cue, the front door to my house swings open, and out pops my father’s balding head. Perfect. I can’t quite make out the expression on his face but I don’t have to. He has an expression reserved for Dax and Dax alone: eyes narrowed, lips are set in a straight line, face flushed like a red zit on the verge of popping.
I swallow hard as my thoughts trail to the real reason I’m here. I think about telling Dax, but then I decide against it. He’s history, and he needs to stay that way. The less he knows about my life right now, the better.
I gnaw on my lip as I push open the door and slide out of the seat. He reaches into the back and hands me my bag. “Don’t wait for me to get inside,” I mutter. “Just go, okay?”