Damage - A. M. Jenkins [18]
She’s not kidding.
Better double-check. “You mean you want me to take you straight home?”
“Yeah.”
Yeah. All right. Fine.
She’s a tease. And this particular kind of dishonesty always did hit you like a shot of ice water, straight bone.
You zip your lip, turn off the blinker, and hit the gas.
You know the drill by heart. If not this night, then maybe the next. Or the next. Or the next. And if not, there’s always the next girl.
A couple miles of silence later, when you pull up in front of her house, you don’t make a move to touch her. Just get out, walk around, and open her door. Escort her up the sidewalk. On the front porch, you just flash her a grin and give her a quick kiss good-bye. No hands. “I’ll call you,” you tell her without meaning it. The usual.
Heather’s smile drops off her face. “You’ll call me,” she echoes, as if she can’t believe she heard you right.
“Yeah,” you say automatically. “I’ve got your number. I’ll call you sometime.”
“Sometime,” she repeats in that flat, thoughtful then peers at you in the dim light. “No. I think not. I’m not some little football groupie who sits at home, pining for a phone call.”
You don’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t seem angry. Just a little puzzled. Like you’re some new type butterfly she can’t quite pin to the board.
“I would like to go out with you again,” she says with a slight frown. When you still don’t say anything, she adds slowly: “Like, maybe next weekend?” Another pause. “Oh, my God.” Her eyes widen, horrified. “I just asked you for a date.” Even in the dim light of the porch you can see that her cheeks are turning red. “I don’t do that. I don’t ask guys out. God,” she says, and puts both hands over her face, “I’m gonna die.”
“Don’t die,” you tell her, trying not to laugh. “It’s right.”
“No, it’s not,” she says, her voice muffled.
You stand there for a while; she keeps her face hidden behind her fingers. “Really, it’s okay,” you tell her. “How about Friday night, after the game?”
“I guess so.”
Finally she lowers her hands. Her face is red, clear to the roots of her hair. “It’s not that big a deal,” you her.
“It is to me. I have never, ever, had to ask a guy out.”
“Can’t say that next time,” you tell her gently, and she looks at you for a moment before a smile rises up her face, slight and slow.
“It’s too bad you’re a guy. I get the feeling we could have been good friends.”
A laugh bursts out before you realize she’s not kid-. “It is possible to be friends with a guy.”
“I think not.”
“Sure it is,” you tell her.
Now it’s Heather’s turn to laugh. “You really are this decent, nice person, aren’t you? That could be a problem,” she adds, stepping closer. “I like people who are nice, but I never quite know what to do with them.”
She slides her arms around your neck. And then she’s kissing you.
And suddenly everything’s exactly what you expected, and this time she lets you squeeze her to you for a few moments before she pushes you away.
“Ohmigod,” she says breathless. “You are too much. I’m going in now. Call me, okay?”
“Okay. Tomorrow,” you add with a grin. “I’ve never, ever, called a girl the next day. So we’ll be even.”
She doesn’t say anything, just digs in her purse for that oversize key ring. “By the way,” she says, without looking up, “I was really glad you got junior favorite last year. I voted for you.”
You don’t say anything. She pauses, then looks up at you, as if waiting for something.
“Thanks,” you tell her, and she bestows one of those beauty queen smiles as a reward.
Driving away a few moments later, you’re thinking that there are two Heathers, and the outer one is like a paper doll, all propped up with a painted-on face. You should know, you keep yourself propped up, too.
You remember Curtis’s warning. If it’s your choice, sure, you’re going to try to lay that girl with the beauty queen smile. But the girl underneath—the girl with the flushed cheeks and the embarrassed smile—well, you can see where it wouldn’t be hard to get at least a little wrapped up in her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning is Sunday. Sunday