Then Came You - Jennifer Weiner [86]
Frank drove to McDonald’s on Broad Street. “Wait here,” he said, hopping out of the car. Five minutes later, he came back with a steaming, fragrant bag, already spotted with grease from the fries. My stomach growled, and, instead of being mortified, I laughed—I hadn’t eaten in days so I could look good in my gown.
Frank didn’t say much, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, as he drove to Fairmount Park, then up the steep, twisting road called South George’s Hill. He parked right behind the Mann Center, an outdoor concert hall that was dark and quiet that night. This was a noted makeout spot where more than a few of my dates had ended. At that hour it was too cold and dark for the runners and cyclists to be out, and too soon for the couples. The sun was just setting, the sky fading from pale blue to indigo, and the city was spread out like a gorgeous quilt of light beneath us. We sat in the car with the windows cracked open and the heater on and a wool blanket Frank had pulled out of the trunk over our laps, eating Big Macs and fries and sipping vanilla shakes.
Sitting with him, I felt none of the nerves I’d felt with other boys, none of the awkwardness of wondering whether I looked right or sounded right or was saying the right things. Frank hadn’t offered me any liquor, nor had he made a dive toward my mouth or my bra hooks. He asked me questions and listened, respectfully, while I answered. We were talking about Dana Hightower, who’d allegedly transferred to a magnet school in Center City but who had really, my girlfriends and I suspected, been sent away to have a baby, when I blurted, “Why’d you ask me to the dance?”
He lowered his lashes. I remember how perfect he looked, his white shirt crisp, his cheeks freshly shaven, how he smelled like soap and a citrusy aftershave. I remember the song on the radio was called “Angel of Mine,” and feeling once more that sense, undeniable, overwhelming, that this had all been arranged beforehand, that he and I were meant to be, that we were going to be, and that I didn’t even have much say in the matter. “Why?” he asked. “You don’t want to go?”
“No, it’s not that, it’s that . . . I didn’t even think you knew me. Knew who I was. We never talked, and I . . .” I shut my mouth and folded my hands in my lap. I’d taken off my shoes and was sitting sideways, my legs curled underneath me. There was a bit of ketchup on my finger, and I licked it off, tasting the sweetness.
Frank looked at me, and there was no trace of teasing in his voice or on his face. “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time.”
“But why?”
Smiling, he touched one of my cheeks with his fingertips. “You’re always smiling.”
“Not always,” I said, thinking about the fights I’d had with Nancy.
“When I see you, you’re smiling, and laughing, and there’s always people around you, you know?”
Now I was blushing, and I imagined that maybe he was, too, although his skin didn’t show it the way mine did.
“You always have people.” He sounded wistful. I could tell that this was hard for Frank—that he knew what he meant to say, what he liked about me, but was having trouble finding the words. “And remember that one time in gym class?”
I shook my head, embarrassed that I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“What I said about Ms. Hicks.”
“Oh, right!” Ms. Hicks had taught phys ed since the 1970s. Some years, she’d show up in September a skinny one hundred and twenty pounds, and other years she’d come for Back to School Night closer to two hundred. That year, we’d been lined up to play volleyball and Ms. Hicks, bulging in her blue polyester gym shorts, had been explaining the rules, when Frank, standing behind me, had whispered, “I think she’s been eating ’cause the Eagles had such a bad preseason.”
I’d laughed out loud, then turned around, not even sure who had spoken. Frank