“Yeah?”
“In the future, if you aren’t interested in a guy, do him a favor and don’t wear that dress, okay?”
I nod, embarrassed at how his words make me feel.
I feel . . . pretty. Maybe even sexy. My skin flashes hot everywhere and I know I’m grinning, probably maniacally enough to be scary instead of sexy.
The self-congratulatory smirk I’m wearing fades quickly, though, once I turn toward the street and see no signs of our van anywhere. Extracting my phone from my overstuffed purse, I check the time and nearly cry out. It’s 12:02.
Gavin’s words repeat in my mind.
“I’m leaving at midnight. With you or without you.”
A four-door silver Honda and a late-model white Ford pickup are parked on the curb. But that’s it. Emmylou isn’t anywhere to be seen.
Disappointment gathers in my throat and seeps into my chest. Not only does he probably think I stood him up or that I’m a flighty moron who lost track of time—which, in a way, I guess I am—but now I either have to call a cab and risk Afton seeing and being unnecessarily hurt, or go back inside and tell Afton that Gavin didn’t show and I need a ride.
Once when we were kids, the boys left me behind and went camping. I’d been upstairs packing my sleeping bag and dreaming of roasting marshmallows by the campfire. When I bounded down the stairs my grandparents sat in the living room wearing matching masks of sympathy.
“Dixie Leigh,” Papa had said softly, “sometimes boys just need time to be boys.”
Nana nodded. “You don’t want to be around when they start acting foolish and passing gas in the tent anyway. Let’s go into the kitchen and see if we can’t have some fun of our own.”
That night my grandparents and I had had an indoor campout. We’d made s’mores over the stove and had a sing-along at the piano. Despite how the boys had broken my heart, and abandoned me, that night had turned out to be one of my most favorite memories.
I had a feeling that this time I wouldn’t remember being left behind quite as fondly.
Chapter 16
JUST AS I’M CONTEMPLATING HITCHHIKING BACK TO THE HOTEL for lack of a better option, a cherry red ’67 Camaro SS with black racing stripes rumbles into the alley where I’m standing. My time dating Jaggerd taught me to recognize a muscle car when I saw one. I step backward as it rolls to a stop beside me. The driver leans over and swings the door open in invitation. Just as I’m about to politely decline this very intriguing yet unexpected offer, I catch a glimpse of a very familiar arm.
The rope is what I see first. It’s detailed and intricate and I know for a fact that it morphs into a serpent farther up his bicep. I’ve fantasized about tracing it with everything from my fingers to my tongue enough times that I could draw it blindfolded in the dark. The sheet music across his knuckles ripples as his hand returns to his side of the vehicle.
“Nice wheels,” I say, sliding onto the black leather bench seat beside him.
“Nice dress,” he says back even though I have yet to see him actually look at me.
Crave is barely out of the rearview before the silence and the tension get to be too much for me. “So . . . you boost this hot rod or what?”
The tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth is the only response I get for several seconds. “Something like that,” he finally says.
“I see. We planning to rob a bank later, too? I’ve only got one change of clothes, but we could grab some disguises at the Quickie Mart unless we’re going to knock it over, too.”
“You brought a change of clothes?”