Dom picks up a stuffed jackalope. "I've never seen your apartment, but I strongly feel this guy has a home there."
I snag a navy blue hat with THE THING embroidered in bright yellow stitching. "Only if you promise to proudly wear this on your way to work."
Dom points behind me to a display with the same colors and theme. "Shot glasses, bumper stickers, coffee mugs, I could go all out."
In the end, we chose against the stuffed creature and swag. I opt for a crisp bottle of Coke, and Bugles, of course. Dom goes hard with a Gatorade and shelled pistachios.
"Turn your back," I tell him, when it's time to check out.
He frowns and gives me a look, but I show him my sternest eyebrows and he listens.
I grab a bag of candy rocks at the register and add them to the purchase, looking at the cashier and pressing my finger to my lips. The cashier winks and rings up our things.
"I'm turning back around," Dom warns, while he's already spinning.
"Go for it," I say, as the cashier hands me the thin plastic bag containing our items.
"Would you like to purchase tickets for THE THING museum?" She asks the question in the resolute tone of someone who is required to query every customer. "They are one dollar each."
There is no way I'm saying yes. That is exactly how people in horror movies die. This is the desert roadside equivalent oflet's check out the sound we heard coming from the basement.
"Is that where the mummified people are?" I feel bad for the cashier. How many times in a day is she told no?
"Sure is," she answers.
Dom takes the bag from me. "Thank you for offering, but?—"
"He's afraid," I tell her, taking the bag back from him.
"He looks afraid," she volleys, leaning around me and signaling for the next person in line to step up to the counter.
It's not until we're back inside Bernice that I reach into the bag and give Dom his silly present.
"It's no scorpion lollipop." I press the bag into his hand. "But it is a desert delicacy."
Dom turns the bag of speckled and muted tone chocolate rocks over in his hand. "These aren't really rocks, are they?"
"I'm not sure, but I don't think so. That would be pretty mean."
"Thank you." He gives the bag a shake. "I think you might be sweeter than you act, Cecily."
I gasp dramatically. "Blasphemy."
He reaches into the back seat for his backpack, tucking the candy rocks safely into a zippered pocket where he's been keeping the scorpion lollipop.
His bicep flexes when he replaces the backpack. Something akin to delight passes through me. I had this man in my mouth this morning.And he wants me. He's made it abundantly clear.
He starts the car and shifts into Drive. "The lollipop was a gift for defending you. And you already thanked me this morning in a way that was very generous and"—he pauses, thinking—"fucking lovely. What are the rocks for?"
I lean on the console, using my forearm for leverage to reach his cheek, where I plant a kiss. "For the way you defended me last night. I thought you hated my car."
He navigates to the freeway and picks up speed. "I do hate your car."
"That's what I thought! You were horrified that first day I picked you up in it." I cross my arms and nod, so proud to have been right about how much Dom hates the newly minted Miss Independence.
"I couldn't sit there and listen to them talk about a car you worked hard to get. Even if they were just teasing you, there was an undertone of mocking. I didn't like it." He rubs a hand over his jaw. "I thought maybe they didn't know about how you ended up with that car, and if they didn't, they should be told."
"You named my dad's carTeenager." I snicker. "It's so accurate."
