“Stevie…” She shakes her head. “We can’t. I’m sorry.”
“But… I don’t want you to go.” I force out a pathetic-sounding laugh, hoping she can’t see my glassy eyes. “I hate this.”
“Me too. But it’s too risky. We’ll see each other real soon. Okay?” She puts her arm around me and kisses the side of my head.
“When?” I ask, digging my fingertips into her leg.
“I know you have the spaghetti dinner on Friday, but my mom is heading up north for a farming convention. It’s like the only day of the year she isn’t at home and she’ll be thereovernight.” She turns my face toward her and catches the tip of my nose with hers until I lift my chin. “Why don’t you come over after, and we can pick up where we left off?” she whispers, sending a tingle all through my body.
I walk her out to her farm truck parked in the driveway and open the door for her to climb in.
“Here.” She grabs my backpack from the floor in front of the passenger seat and hands it out to me. “I’ve been thinking and I really can’t keep it at my house. I don’t have a great hiding place, and if my mom ever found it… well… it would be really bad. So put it back in your vent. Okay?”
I nod, glad to have it back. I’m having a harder time than usual letting her go. These little secret moments together are starting to feel like not enough. How did we do this for two years? “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”
“I’ll see you Friday night. You better bring me a plate of that spaghetti.” She smiles as she manually rolls her window down.
“I will.” I shut her door but hop up onto the running board, leaning into the window to kiss her again in the darkness of night. “Oh my gosh, this is so lame. I donotwant to let you go!” I kiss her again and again. Cheek. Forehead. Nose. Eyelid.
She giggles cutely.
“Good night, Stevie.” She grabs my chin and plants one more kiss on my lips before I finally step back and watch her pull away.
I stand there for a long time in the dark, staring at the point where I last saw her taillights, feeling a little like half of my heart just left with her.
Four days. I can make it four days without seeing her, right?
CHAPTER 32
NOTHING SAYS AUTHENTIC LIKE CHEESYItalian music playing out of crackling ancient speakers and red wine served in Styrofoam cups. Fortunately, I don’t think any of us here in Wyatt would recognize authentic Italian food if it hit us in the face.
Two of the volunteer servers have already dumped spaghetti sauce down their white button-downs, which Monsignorinsistedwe all wear, as if that’s going to make people think we know what we’re doing.
“I’ve got four adults, one with no meatballs, and two kids,” I say to Mrs. Dashnaw through the kitchen window as I dab the sweat off my brow. I keep my attention focused on the kitchen as I notice Savannah’s red ponytail in my peripheral vision as she takes orders at a nearby table with Rory.
“Make that three kids, Mrs. Dashnaw!” My serving partner, aka Ryan, calls back into the kitchen as he leans on the wall beside me with a bottle of red wine in hand. “The small one rethought her hunger strike,” he says to me.
“This serving thing is no joke, and those plates areheavy.”
“You’ve gotta hit the gym, Green,” he says, shaking his head.
“Why does everyone keep saying that!” I ask. “And also, why am I even serving the food? You’re the one with all the experience.”
“Because I serve a perfect pour.” He straightens up and holds the bottle out like a fancy wine man, and I roll my eyes at him.
Mrs. Dashnaw appears back in her window with a tray of three plates. “I’ll be right back with the rest,” she says.
“Hey, Stevie, should we be like… limiting these people?” Ryan asks while we wait. “Old Big Beard over there just put away his fourth glass.”
I open my mouth in disbelief.
“Ryan.You’re only supposed to pour one glass with each meal!”
“Oh, I havenotbeen doing that,” he says as my mom approaches us through the window. “Don’t tell any—Hi! Mrs. Green. How are you? The meatballs are a huge hit out here.”
“As is the wine,” I say. Ryan jabs me in the side, out of sight.
“I know!” She leans toward me. “We’ve raised over six thousand dollars for the mission trip, which means they’re going to be able to send even more volunteers over this year, and Monsignor just told me it’s the best spaghetti and meatballs he’s had since he was assigned here forty years ago. I think he’s going to ask me to take over the Lenten fish fry, too!”
