Bekah’s phone buzzes. “Oh, shoot, my sister’s here.” She turns to Tucker. “We could give you a ride.”
“I’m giving him a ride,” I say before Tucker has a chance to answer. “Prom court biz,” I add through gritted teeth.
Bekah smiles and her bright-blue eyes bounce from me to Tucker, who nods. “Well, I’ll see y’all later,” she says, excusing herself.
As we all head our separate ways, Tucker follows me to my truck. “You really don’t have to give me a ride.”
“You going to run home now too?” I ask.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a stroll.”
“Get in,” I tell him. “But I’m surprised one of your good buddies wasn’t here to pick you up.”
He doesn’t take my bait and we drive in silence until I roll to a stop at a red light at a totally empty intersection. “So how is it that a mechanic’s car breaks down?”
He throws his head back with a laugh, his stubble-covered Adam’s apple bobbing. “A shitty truck is still a shitty truck.”
“Do you need a ride in the morning to pick it up?” I hate myself for even asking, and I rarely stir before eleven on a Saturday morning, but I’m starting to feel like I’m not in control of my brain.
“Nah. I’ll get the tow truck so I can fix it in the shop.”
“Hey, Tucker, were you embarrassed of me today? Inthe parking lot with Bryce and Patrick. Is that why you wouldn’t look at me? Because if you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, it’s best if we go our separate ways now.”
“No,” he says firmly. “God, no.” He runs his hands down his thighs, pushing so hard his nails turn white. “I was being stupid and I—”
“I’m sure being paired with me for prom court hasn’t been... easy on you,” I say, laying the guilt on thick just like Mom.
“I wasn’t embarrassed by you. I was embarrassed to be seen with those asshats.”
“Well, you didn’t do a great job of showing it. Aren’t those asshats your old football buddies?” It’s hard not to feel his answer isn’t some kind of cop-out.
“I’m not going to tell you I haven’t spent years hanging out with those guys or pretend like I haven’t known them my whole life. Your parents dump you in peewee football when you’re a kid and in a place like this, that means you’re basically stuck with the same guys forever. But I don’t really think of them as friends. They wouldn’t, like, help me out of a bind or anything.”
“My dad tried to get me into football,” I tell him. “Second grade. I didn’t make it past the first practice.” I try to imagine, for a moment, what things would be like today if I’d stuck with it. Maybe I’d be the best queer football player Clover City had ever seen. Or maybe I’d be just another meathead, suppressing who I really was.
He grunts. “You should have stuck with it. Turns out football is super gay.”
“Is it really now?” I ask, my hands immediately sweating. This is what I was trying to explain to Clem. Endless mixed signals!
He bites down on his lower lip, eyebrow arched. “Trust me.”
I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding. My mouth is dry and my palms are slick on the steering wheel. “Do you remember in sophomore year when you asked to switch seats so you didn’t have to sit next to me?”
He grimaces. “You gonna make me answer for all my sins tonight?”
The click, click, click of my blinker is my only response. I want to let Tucker in. I want to be friends. But I can’t do that without retreading the past. I have to know why he despised me. He has to say it out loud or else the wondering will never end.
“I felt bad. I felt bad about ditching you on our group project, and I—I had stuff going on and then when we were seated together that one time... I figured if I didn’t have to see you, I wouldn’t have to think about it. And I wouldn’t have to think about you.”
My heart stops and all I can hear is that he thought about me. Years ago, before I even knew who I wanted to be, he thought about me. I felt so entirely alone, and I wonder what would have happened differently if when we first met up for that group project, I asked Tucker to stay for dinner or walk to Sonic.
I want to ask him why he ditched me to begin with and what kind of stuff he was dealing with. But I can barelyeven register that we’re here at his dad’s shop where they live in the apartment above, and he’s practically out of the car before I’m even in park.
“I gotta go,” he says in a hurry, but before he can even shut his door, his dad is rambling through the dusty gravel toward my truck with a graying mutt who I recognize as Duke trotting behind him.
“Thanks for the ride,” Tucker says. “I’ll text you later.”
I might be petty, but Mom didn’t raise me rude, so I call past Tucker, “Hi, Mr. Watson.”
