Isaac slides into his seat and smiles at me across the space. He looks so happy, so present. So certain life will always be good to him. He turns on the truck, and I wince. The music blares through thespeakers.
“Sorry,” he yells, pushing a button on the steering wheel. The volume decreases until it’s only backgroundnoise.
I stare at him. “Seriously?”
“About which part? The volume or…” His lips twist. “Theselection?”
I keep the stare going a few more seconds. It won’t hurt him to sweat a little. When his eyes widen, I break my silence. “My dog died,” I croon, trying not to laugh. “My six-pack is warm,” I sing off-key on purpose. “My lady just left me, but I’m country down to my roots and myboots.”
Isaac throws me a disgusted look and puts it into reverse. I purse my lips, my muted laughter shaking my shoulders. We pass through the residential area and move into the commercial part oftown.
“So…” I say, drawing out theword.
“Not all country music is about dogs, beer, and women.” Isaac’s voice is defensive. Not a lot, but just enough to tell me that he really likesit.
Still, I can’t help myself. “What about boots?” I laugh when I say the last word. “Boots and roots?” This time I can’t keep it in. I’m laughing so hard I might as well slap myknee.
“Oh, so now Aubrey isfunny?”
I sober a little. “No, not usually. But that music… it really struck a chord with me.” I bite my lower lip, my shoulders shaking again with containedlaughter.
Now Isaac laughs too. “Fine.” He takes one hand off the wheel and holds it in the air. “I have a thing for country music. There, I saidit.”
I tap his knee. “Admitting is the firststep.”
“What’s the next step?” He stops at a red light and turns to meet my eyes. He’s backlit by the lights of the cars driving the oppositedirection.
Suddenly the cab of his truck feels full, the air thick. I drag in a breath, my chest expanding with the thickened air. How quickly we’ve gone from lighthearted teasing to whatever thisis.
I don’t have words for him. I don’t havenext steps. I have only me, and the jagged scars that tell the stories on myheart.
I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know who leaned in first. All I know are Isaac’s lips on mine, his softness yielding, melting, until we’re breathing the same air. So different from the chaste peck at the frontdoor.
A car horn slams through the comfort our lips create. Isaac jerks back, regains control, and moves the car forward. I donot.
The seat back catches my slouched position, cradles my lower back, as I try to understand whathappened.
“You OK over there?” Isaac asks. He flicks a wary look atme.
“Yeah,” I whisper. I’m letting the tail lights of the car in front of us mesmerizeme.
I am definitely not OK. I can blame last night on tequila.Haha, remember that time you introduced me to tequila and we almost hookedup?
Even the short kiss when we left tonight could be labeledfriendly.
But not this. That kiss was us. Isaac andAubrey.
And the hardest part, the part I can’t stand to think of but won’t stop racing through my mind, is how good, how veryrightit felt justnow.
* * *
Whatever I feltfor Isaac on the drive here, it’s gone now. It’s just me, him, and this battle. He brought me to this place with games, and now he’s paying theprice.
I’m competitive. And not in your average,winning is fun, light-heartedway.
I play to win. Always. It’s why Britt won’t play games with me. She claims I suck all the fun out ofit.
“All right, Cordova. Are you ready to be dealt the death-blow?” I’m also a shit-talker when I playgames.
