He smiles. “Get in.”
He starts climbing into the car before I even have a chance to reply. I could ignore him. Turn around and walk back into the house. I consider it for a second. Consider going back to bed, alone, with nothing but my thoughts and memories of that guy’s breath on my neck. The sting of himinside me. The greasy fifty-dollar bills burning a hole in that shoebox under my bed.
Nate switches the engine on and the dashboard lights up his face. He glances over, meeting my gaze, and for a second, the frat boy in the driver’s seat of his Beemer is my Nate again.
The car has a pine tree scent, but as Nate backs out of the driveway, I catch something else. It’s him. His sweat and the way he’d smell when he slept in my bed all night and woke up with his hair stuck to his face. He was in bed when I texted, and he got up, came all the way out here, for me.
My gut churns and my pulse speeds up while I try not to look at the shape of his thighs in those grey sweats. Remind myself that this doesn’t mean shit. It doesn’t make up for all those years. For what he did, or let someone else do, back then. If I ever needed proof he didn’t give enough of a shit about me, about our friendship, then he gave it to me that night.
The stereo is on low, playing some rock song. It’s too quiet for me to recognize what it is.
“Want me to put something on?” he asks, gesturing to the speaker.
“Nah, I’m good.”
It’s weird watching Nate drive a car. The way he handles the SUV with ease. I don’t even have a license, though my dad taught me to drive. It’s kind of ironic that Nate is the responsible car owner now.
His light brown hair pokes out from under the backward cap, and I can see the Princeton ‘P’ from this angle. I try to focus on it, remind myself that Nate’s in a totally different world now.He doesn’t know you, couldn’t understandyou anymore.
Frankie’sis comingup on the corner. The F in the neon sign used to flicker, now it’s completely broken and the sign says ‘rankie’s’. The place looks like a shit hole, but the food’s good and I’ve never heard of anyone getting sick off it.
Nate parks the car and I don’t even wanna joke about it getting jacked here. I guess his stepdad’ll pay for it if it does. He doesn’t look worried.
We go in, the bell dinging above the door. It’s a familiar scene: a tired waitress in an old-fashioned diner uniform glances up from filing her nails at the counter. A couple of old men nurse cups of coffee. A trucker reads the newspaper in a booth with a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.
We take a booth a couple of rows away from the trucker and start looking at the menu. It feels weird sitting here with Nate. For a second, I imagine telling him everything. Why I let those men fuck me. How it makes me feel. How I hate myself after and how I wish I could stop. How sometimes I hope for something else I know I can’t have or that doesn’t exist.
But then he smiles at me over his menu and I don’t wanna see the look of disgust on his face when he finally knows me.
“Chili cheese fries?”
I hesitate. I don’t have any cash.
“My treat,” he says, trying to smile.
“You don’t need to buy me food,” I growl.
He rolls his eyes. “I dragged you out of the house in your shorts. It’s not charity. Relax.”
I take a deep breath, imagine refusing and sitting here in silence without even a plate of fries to distract me. “Fine … thanks.”
He’s quiet while we wait for our food. I try not to stare athis hands on the table. Try to block out the sound of his car keys jingling when he shifts on his seat.
When the waitress puts our food down in front of us, Nate immediately starts pigging out—exactly like when we were kids and we’d save up enough money to split a milkshake and a side of fries. Nate was always a pushover. Always let me eat the last fry or slurp up the last of the milkshake.
Now, he sits back in the booth, groaning and rubbing his belly.
“I never eat stuff like this anymore. Coach Sanchez has us on a strict diet.”
“I still can’t believe you play fucking tennis,” I say, reaching for a fry.
The tips of his ears get pink.
“Me, neither.”
Smearing chili sauce around the plate, I keep my eyes down as I ask, “Do you like it?”
“Sure.”
