There, backlit by the setting sun, is Derick Haverford.
He’s just as tall (genetically), just as handsome (improbably), and here (fortunately?).
He steps into full view and everyone gasps when they see what he’s wearing: that too-small Wiley’s T-shirt. He rakes a roguish hand through his hair before announcing, “I have something to say.”
The cameras swivel around to get a better shot. Reporters raise their recording devices. iPhones shoot up and turn to LIVE mode. Something is about to go down.
“My name is Derick Haverford. I’m the son of Daniel Haverford, partial owner of Any Weather Transportation Group and the man who’s overseeing the demolition of Wiley’s Drive-In.” His voice is straight-line serious. “I’m not proud to admit that as the former social media marketing intern at Wiley’s Drive-In, I was tasked by my father to gather intel about the financial dealings of the movie establishment to determine whether his property investment was worth maintaining.”
Derick can’t go back and undo his previous actions, but taking ownership over them in front of a packed room like this means more to me than he could ever know. I’m hanging hopefully on his every word.
“Legal? Yes. Ethical? I don’t think so.” A deep breath causes feedback in the microphone. “Before I go any further, I’d just like to say that my father is a smart businessman and I love him, but he doesn’t give two shits about this town or the value of and inherent need to preserve our historic district.” This evokes a variance of big responses. The reporters, however, are eating this up, encouraging him with their eyes. “This bus-line expansion is about money and bottom lines. It’s not about your access to urban jobs. It’s not about getting you home to your families for meat-loaf night. Honestly, it’s about a hot tub on the back deck at our beach house. Plain and simple.”
When I glance down my row, everyone is leaning forward in their chairs, eyes wide, mouths agape. I’m the only one sitting back with satisfaction. Because I know for certain the cardboard version of himself he’s been asked for years to display in the storefront of his family life has been incinerated for good. He’s flesh and blood right now, flushed with freedom. He’s standing up for himself and his own beliefs, and I couldn’t be prouder.
“Derick!” Mr. Haverford clamors from his seat. Derick pretends not to hear him.
“I’m sure some of you think that’s okay. What do we need a drive-in for anyway? Our town can survive without it.” He pivots to address the greater group. “That may be true, but isn’t our town better with it? In my time working at Wiley’s, I’ve come to love the lot and”—he breaks for a fragile beat—“the people who work there…” He grows flustered, darts a glance in my direction. “It’s a beautiful, wonderful place where movies and magic and memories all come together. I, for one, think preservation of our historic district needs to be upheld. The little drive-in that could can and should rise again. Don’t let the credits roll on Wiley’s Drive-In. Thank you.”
Mr. Haverford jumps to his feet, but his wife pulls him down by the back of his jacket.
Almost as abruptly as he arrived, Derick dashes out the back door. In his wake, he leaves a riotous crowd that has climbed to its feet.
I don’t know what to feel right now. For once, I’m too stunned to psychoanalyze myself.
I check my phone for Oscar’s updates. The response is overwhelmingly positive. Derick has already been screen-grabbed and deemed the White Knight of Tight Shirts. Apt in so many ways.
This story isn’t going away anytime soon.
And, hopefully, neither is the drive-in.
Chapter 28
Derick is sitting on the front porch of Alice’s house when I drop her off. Sunset pinks and yellows float beyond the roof, highlighting the colors of his T-shirt that’s now a Twitter sensation.
Social media may have made a scene, but the council shut down production.
“I hope you’re not here to throw a celebratory house party. We lost,” Alice crankily says to Derick as she hobbles past him onto the porch, carefully clutching the railings we repurposed weeks ago, which still look loose. In a four-to-three vote, the council overturned the recommendation to deny the certificate of appropriateness—something about the reasonable rate of return on the investment and the displayed histrionics. Testimonies, apparently, aren’t sufficient evidence in matters this great. “Those bastards.”
Derick nods glumly. “I was following along on the stream.” He’s gripping his matte black phone case like it’s a grenade that might go off at any moment. Seconds pass, and he still won’t meet my eyes.
“I’d invite you boys inside for dinner, but the fridge is empty,” Alice says, struggling with her shaky hands to find the right key from the bottom of her brown leather purse.
“My stomach couldn’t handle food right now anyway.”
With a knowing nod, Alice pads inside and shuts the door, though I swear I never hear the knob click back into place. If I know her like I think I do, she’s going to be listening to all of this through the crack.
So much left unsaid swirls between Derick and me. The dismay hasn’t yet set in, so I’m standing there, staring, still appreciative of how he came to the rescue.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits, staring at the loose laces of his white high-tops. I nod. Since crash-landing into Alice’s life, this place has become a haven for me too. If I were running away from something, and maybe I was when the season started, this is the first place I’d think to come.
“What you did back there was incredible.” I’ve been dying to say it, and I know he needs to hear it. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
He pulls his knees in to his chest, squeezing his agile body onto one narrow step. This is the smallest I’ve ever seen him. “It wasn’t, but it needed to be said. Not just for Wiley’s but for me.” He hasn’t sounded this sure or steady since the night on theWavertreewhen he told me he was good with what we had. How was I to know that what we had was undercut by a secret so huge it could threaten my livelihood?
I sit down next to him, while unfastening my bow tie, but leave necessary buffer space. Closeness of any kind isn’t in store for us. Not yet at least. “Have you heard from your family at all?” I ask, testing the limits of his quietness.
He groans on an exhale. “At the end of the stream, I shut off my location settings and turned my phone off.” It sits between us, black screen almost menacing. “That thing is just another way my dad controlled me, kept getting under my skin. I’m done letting him bulldoze me into submission.”
