Sitting taller in my seat, I said, “So, it’s my turn again.”
The goal for this round was two-fold: shift the attention away from me, and crack Justin’s impenetrable shell. I grinned when the perfect question came to me and I leaned in close. “Secret love?”
“What?” Eyebrows shot heavenward as he snapped his head back, banging it with a thump against the window. He glanced at Rosalyn, still jamming out to Rod Stewart, before asking, “You mean like girls or something?”
“No, nothing as horrifying as that,” I teased.
Note to self: avoid all uses of the “L word” in the future.
Ignoring my tingling spidey-senses, I said, “What I mean is, what gets your heart racing? Or, just the opposite, what calms you down? What’s the thing you enjoy doing more than anything else in the world but no one else knows about?”
When Justin shifted uncomfortably, I gave him one final nudge. “Hey, you’re the one who said I’d softballed you before.”
At my teasing smile, he huffed. “Yeah, well, remind me never to correct you again.”
He dropped my hand and rubbed the back of his neck, the skin around his mouth growing taut. When he shifted in his seat, tugging on the leg of his jeans, I took in his narrowed eyes and dropped my mouth open in surprise. I’d actually gotten to him.
The unflappable Justin Carter was flapped!
I watched, gape-mouthed, as he turned to face the window, and I figured that was it. Game over. Either that or he was preparing to toss out another flirty one-liner. What I hadn’t expected was hearing him clear his throat and mumble, “I like to write.”
The words, spoken softly, hung almost visibly in the air between us.
That he had answered… and then how he’d answered… left me so stunned, so speechless, that I just sort of sat there. Writing obviously encompassed any number of things—something as simple as keeping a diary to writing full-length novels. But the literary geek in me was awake and swooning hard.
Justin glanced at me from the corner of his eye and barked a laugh. “Jesus, Peyton. I’m not a total dumb jock.” He stretched out in the seat, picked at a nonexistent piece of lint, and just like that, his bravado was back, slipping on like a well-worn pair of Nikes.
Quickly, I said, “No, of course not. It’s just…”
It’s just that I want to peek inside your brain and learn ALL the things. What makes you tick, what prompts you to write, how it started. And maybe sniff you some more while I’m at it.
“Write how?” I asked. “I mean, in what form? Can I read any of it?”
“Hell no,” he shot back, eyes wide. He laughed again, sort of breathless, and that along with his borderline vulnerable smile softened his words. “I believe it’s called secret love for a reason,” he said, bumping my shoulder with his. “As for what kind of writing, well, that’ll cost you your last question.”
Oh, the boy was good. Giving in was tempting, so very, very tempting, but for now, other things—relationship things—were equally as important.
“Nah, I’ll let you keep your secrets.” I grinned and silently added, for now.
He flashed me a smile. “That means it’s my turn again.”
I nodded, already plotting how I could steer the conversation back to his secret bookish side, and Justin tilted his head. “Your name. Don’t get me wrong, I think Peyton is damn sexy on a girl—”
“But you’re wondering if I’m named after a football player,” I finished for him.
Justin lifted his shoulder. “I heard someone call you Manning in the hall.”
I banged my head against the seat. “Our teacher in homeroom is obsessed with roll call,” I explained via way of complaint. “Manning is actually my middle name, but she refuses to remember that. After the first day or two, it was easier just to go with it.” Truth was, I liked my name. The family tradition around it, the uniqueness.
“Manning’s always been one of my dad’s favorite athletes, even back when he played in college,” I went on. “The University of Tennessee is his alma mater. But Dad’s equal opportunity when it comes to sports. My oldest brother, Jesse, is named after Jesse Owens, and Lars is named after Yogi Berra.” I grinned. “Lucky for him, Dad went with Yogi’s real name, Lawrence.”
“Wow.” Justin nodded, impressed. “Your old man’s some sort of sports nut, huh?”
“That would be an understatement,” I agreed with a laugh.
We came to a stop and I glanced out the tinted window. We were at the light in front of the railroad tracks near my house, which meant we were about five minutes away depending on traffic. Time to bring in the big guns.
“Final question.” I paused as the ending notes of one song faded and a new one began, then watched Justin carefully as I said, “You’ve got quite the reputation with girls.”
His smile was slow, confident, and amused. “That’s not a question.”