She meant it as a kind of peace offering, but her mother wheeled around angrily.
“If you wanted to be careful—if you wanted to respect my wishes—you wouldn’t go at all,” she said.
“Mom, listen—”
“No, Zoe, I’m not listening. Just go, if you’re going.”
Her mother refused to say another word. She picked up the orange box of tea and began reading the back, as if it were interesting.
Zoe was a wreck when she got in the 4Runner. Dallas stumbled around for something to say. Zoe felt bad about it. Dallas was so PUMPED! PUMPED! PUMPED! for the expedition, and here she was like some pathetic chick getting all messy with her feels. She was not this person.
In a surprising flurry of thoughtfulness, Dallas had brought Zoe a cappuccino from Coffee Traders and switched the radio to a country station she liked. Fiddles and acoustic guitars filled the car. Zoe could tell Dallas hated it, but he didn’t say a word. She put a star next to his name in her head.
“The Huns let you come after all,” she said finally. “That’s cool.”
“The Huns suck,” said Dallas, relieved to be talking. “Don’t get me going on how hard they suck.”
He pulled up to a red light.
“Check this out,” he said. “My boss, right? We’re supposed to call him King Rugila, which is stupid and hard to pronounce—his name’s actually Sandy. Anyway, King R gives me a massive, nut-busting guilt trip about the sacred code of the Huns and how they didn’t just abandon their brothers for some chick.” He paused. “You are the chick, by the way.”
“I got that,” said Zoe.
“So I go on Wikipedia, right? I never actually read about the Huns before because I kinda wanted to create my own character. But check this out: the Huns had no code! That was the point—they just attacked stuff!”
The light bloomed green. Dallas let a string of cars turn in front of him before pulling forward. He was a weirdly polite driver.
“Sorry to get all riled,” he said. “King R just makes me insane.”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me,” said Zoe. “You’re not going to get fired, are you?”
“No, I’m definitely not going to get fired,” said Dallas. “Because I quit.”
“Dallas!” said Zoe. “Because of me?!”
“Yeah because of you,” he said shyly. “Shut up.”
She’d embarrassed him. Who knew Dallas could even get embarrassed?
“They’ll be begging me to come back by Monday,” he added. “All those hot moms don’t come in for the food—which I bet isn’t even all that authentically Hunnic. I’m not saying I’m the biggest stud they’ve got. That would be conceited. But I’m definitely in the top three. King R’s got, like, back hair.”
Zoe laughed, grateful that Dallas was so deeply, defiantly … Dallas.
They streamed past Columbia Falls and turned north toward Polebridge. Civilization quickly petered out. All cell and Internet service evaporated, and the last of the stores and restaurants gave way to empty, rutted roads that curved through the woods. Signs saying Private Property and Be Bear Aware were nailed to firs along the roadside. Every so often a log cabin sent up a fat plume of smoke. Otherwise, the world was empty. Zoe felt it in her stomach. The closer they got to Silver Teardrop, the more anxious she felt about going caving again. Dallas must have sensed it.
“You nervous?” he said.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Seriously?” said Dallas. “Because we’re going to crush this cave. We’re both total ballers. Repeat after me: crush, crush, crush!”
“Crush, crush, crush?” said Zoe.
“That was feeble,” said Dallas. “Nothing was ever crushed by anybody who said ‘crush’ like that.”
“It’s not just the cave,” said Zoe.
Dallas frowned.
“Do you want to—do you want to talk about your feelings, or whatever?”
Zoe just stared at him. She couldn’t help it. It was the last thing that the Dallas she’d gone out with would ever have asked.
“Have you been practicing how to talk to girls, dawg?” she said.
“Maybe,” said Dallas. “Maybe with my mom—who’s a therapist. I’m saying maybe.”
“Well, it’s sweet of you to ask,” said Zoe. “But I know you don’t actually want to hear about my feelings.”
They came to a narrow curve in the road. Another car was approaching. Dallas slowed down and drove onto the shoulder so it could pass.
“Here’s the thing that girls don’t understand,” he said.
“Oh my god,” said Zoe. “Please tell me what girls don’t understand—because I’ve always wondered.”
Either Dallas didn’t hear the sarcasm, or decided to ignore it.
“What girls don’t understand,” he began earnestly, “is that guys actually do want to hear about their feelings—they just don’t want to hear about all of their feelings. They want to hear about some of them.”
“How much are we talking?” said Zoe. “Do you want to hear, like, thirty percent of our feelings?”