Without Merit

He nods. “You’re giving short answers, like you aren’t interested in having a conversation. It should be a two-man sport, like a Ping-Pong match. But with you it feels more like . . . bowling. Just going one way down the lane.”

I laugh. “You should learn social cues. If someone is answering your questions like they don’t want to answer them, maybe you should stop asking questions.”

He stares at me a moment and then opens his container of beef jerky again. “You want a piece yet?”

“No,” I say again, growing more agitated with him by the second. “Are you dumb? Like . . . are you a legit stupid person?”

He closes his container and sets it on the floor between his legs. “No, I’m actually very smart.”

“What’s your issue, then? Are you on drugs?”

He laughs. “Not any illegal ones.”

He’s smiling at me, taking this entire conversation in stride. This is normal for him? He’s completely at ease. It makes me wonder what other kind of people he’s encountered in his life for him to think what’s happening right now is normal.

I exit the highway and decide the best course of action would be to drop him off at the only gas station in our town.

“You got a boyfriend, Merit?”

I shake my head.

“Girlfriend?”

I shake my head again.

“Well, is there anyone you find intriguing?”

“Are you hitting on me or is this just you asking questions?”

“I’m not actively hitting on you, but that’s not to say I wouldn’t. You’re cute. But right now I’m just making conversation. Ping-Pong.”

I blow out a frustrated rush of air.

“You’re about to hit a turkey,” he says, matter-of-fact.

I slam on my breaks. Why would there be a turkey on this road? I scan the road in front and around us but see nothing. “There’s no turkey.”

“I meant metaphorically.”

What the hell? “Never tell a driver they’re about to hit something metaphorically! Jesus Christ!” I let off the brake until the car starts moving again.

“It’s a bowling term. Three strikes is a turkey.”

“I am so lost.”

He sits up straighter and pulls his leg up in his seat so that he can face me. “Conversation should be like Ping-Pong,” he repeats. “But conversation with you is like bowling. It’s a long, one-way lane. Three strikes in bowling is a turkey. And since you aren’t answering my questions, I used turkey as an analogy to describe your lack of . . .”

“Okay!” I say, holding up a hand to shut him up. “I get it. Yes. There’s a guy. Anything else you want to know before you start overexplaining metaphorical road kill again?”

I can already sense his excitement that I’m agreeing to participate in his conversation. Even if it is just to shut him up. “Does he know you like him?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Does he like you?”

I shake my head again.

“Is he out of your league?”

“No,” I say immediately. “That’s so rude.”

But even though his question was rude, it does give me pause. When I first saw Sagan at the antiques store, I had a quiet fear that he was out of my league. But when I found out he was dating Honor, it never even crossed my mind that she was out of his league. I hate that I might have thought she deserved him more than I did.

“Why isn’t he your boyfriend?”

I grip the steering wheel. I’m a mile away from the gas station. One more stop sign and I can drop him off.

“Don’t hit the metaphorical turkey,” he says. “Why aren’t you dating this fellow you find intriguing?”

Fellow? He seriously just referred to another guy as a fellow. And his turkey metaphor doesn’t even make sense. “You use analogies wrong.”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he says. “Why aren’t you and this guy dating?”

I sigh. “He’s my sister’s boyfriend.”

The words are barely out of my mouth before Luck starts laughing. “Your sister? Holy crap, Merit! What a terrible thing to do!”

I give him the side eye. Does he think I don’t realize how terrible it is to be attracted to my sister’s boyfriend?

“Does your sister know you like him?”

“Of course not. And she never will.” I motion toward his phone. “Let me see the picture of your sister’s house. I might know where it is.” I’m more eager than ever to drop him off now.

Luck scrolls through the pictures on his phone. Right when I get to the stop sign, he hands me his phone.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m being pranked, right? I immediately throw the car in park. I zoom in on the picture of Victoria standing in front of Dollar Voss. The picture looks a couple of years old because the white picket fence my dad put up last year isn’t in this picture.

“Looks like it might have been a church at some point,” Luck says.

“Victoria is your sister?”

He perks up. “You know her?”

I hand him back his phone and grip the steering wheel. I press my forehead against it. Five seconds later, a car behind us honks. I look in my rearview mirror and the guy behind us holds up his hands in frustration. I put the car in drive. “Yes, I know her.”

“You know where she lives?”

“Yep.”

Luck faces forward again. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.” He starts tapping his fingers on his leg again. “And you’re taking me to her house? Right now?” He seems nervous again.

“Isn’t that where you want to go?”

He nods, but even his nod seems unsure.

“Does your sister know you’re coming?”

He shrugs his shoulders as he stares out the passenger window. “There’s not really a correct answer to that question.”

“Actually, there are two potential correct answers. Yes and no.”

“She may not be expecting me today. But she can’t abandon me without expecting me to show back up at some point.”

I had no idea Victoria had a brother. I’m not so sure my father knows Victoria has a brother. And he’s so . . . different. Nothing like Victoria.

I turn onto our road and then pull into our driveway. I put the car in park. Luck is staring at the house, still tapping his leg and bouncing his knee, but not making an effort to get out of the car.

“Why does she live in a church?” He pronounces church without the r. Chuch. All of his annoying confidence is gone, replaced by an equally annoying amount of vulnerability. He swallows and then reaches to the floorboard to pick up his container of beef jerky. “Thanks for the ride, Merit.” He puts his hand on the door and glances back at me. “We should be friends while I’m in town. You want to exchange numbers?”

I shake my head and open my door. “That won’t be necessary.” I pop the trunk and get out of the car.

“I can get my own stuff,” he says. “You don’t have to help.”

I open the trunk. “I’m not. I’m getting my dog food.” I struggle to pull the bag out from beneath all of Luck’s belongings. Once I have a secure grip on it, I head for the front door.

“Why are you taking your dog food to my sister’s house?” When I don’t stop to answer him, he starts following me. “Merit!” He reaches me just as I stick a key in the front door. When it unlocks, I face him. He’s still staring at the key in the door.

“Your sister is married to my father.”

I wait for him to absorb that information. When he does, he takes a step back and tilts his head. “You live here? With my sister?”