I break off abruptly, embarrassed all of a sudden, not knowing how to continue. Not knowing exactly what Gabe and I are. The idea of turning up at the biggest event on the Donnelly calendar with anyone other than Patrick is enough to clam me up completely, enough to have me wondering who in the hell I think I am. Gabe and I kissing in the station wagon is one thing—a selfish, stupid thing, admittedly, but one that’s fun and free and easy and ultimately harmless. It’s a secret, one that’s not really hurting anybody.
The party? That’s a different animal altogether.
“Me who you’rewhat?” he prods, kind of teasingly. He reaches out with his free hand and draws a circle on my bare, slightly stubbly knee, fingertips creeping higher until he reaches the hem of my shorts. I breathe in. “Me who you’rewhat,hm?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, feeling my skin go prickly in all the places he’s touching, not to mention some he isn’t. I wait a minute before I continue, can hear the faint sound of cicadas and the far-off hoot of an owl in the pine trees. “You who I’m screwing around with in the car every night, for starters.”
“Oh, isthatwhat you’ve been doing?” Gabe grins at me, near wolfish, but there’s something else behind it, something I can’t entirely read. “That’s what this is, huh?”
“I mean”—I wave my hands a bit, vaguely, feeling awkward in a way I hardly ever do in front of Gabe—“isn’t it?”
Gabe shakes his head. “I don’t know, Molly Barlow,” he says, eyes steady and even on mine. “I’ve been waiting for you to offer to make an honest man out of me, but so far, no dice.”
“You have, huh?” I ask, and my voice comes out a lot softer than I’m expecting it to. “That what you want?”
“Yeah,” he tells me, the quiet pitch of his voice matching mine almost exactly. It sounds like he’s been thinking about it, like it’s not something that’s only just occurring to him in this moment. “It really, really is.” He’s still got his hand on my knee, and he squeezes once before he says it: “What about you?”
“I don’tknow.” I yank a hand through my tangled hair, feeling cornered and exhilarated in equal parts. It’s like I’ve lost all decision-making capability since I came back here, like I can’t tell the difference between love and loneliness. IlikeGabe—I like Gabeso much, his smile and his steady heart and how easygoing he is, like he expects the world to be on his side and so it is, simple as that. The days I spend with him feel like gemstones threaded into the long, fraying rope of this summer, valuable and unexpected. “I meanyes, but—”
“Yeah?” That makes Gabe smile.
“Maybe!” I throw my hands up, laughing a little, nervous or something else. “Come on, you’reyou, obviously I’ve thought about it.”
Oh, he likes that, too. “I’m me, huh?” he asks, eyebrows up.
“Ugh, don’t be gross.” I roll my eyes, trying to picture it: how I’ll never be accepted by anyone in his family, how dating Gabe for real would be opening myself up to all kinds of fresh torment, ripping the scabs off injuries that have barely even begun to heal. Not to mention that I’m headed to Boston the first week of September—what happens at the end of the summer, do we just high-five and say it was fun while it lasted? The threat of distance was the thing that undid Patrick and me to begin with—or at least, it was one of the things. There were a lot of them. Still, it’s piling stupid on top of stupid to start something with Gabe that’s already got an expiration date stamped on the container with indelible ink.
But Patrick never asked me to be his girlfriend like this, I realize suddenly. We always just sort ofwere. No conscious decisions, just the two of us sliding right into it—sliding right into each other—and staying there. Neither one of us knowing how to climb back out.
“What would it look like?” I ask finally, sitting up a little straighter, my spine pressing against the passenger side door of the wagon. “You and me dating, how would it look?”
“What, to other people?” Gabe asks, shaking his head.
I boggle. “To yourfamily, to start with.”
“They’ll get over it.” Gabe’s voice is urgent. “Or they won’t, but they’re not over it now, either, are they? Why are you going to let people who are hell-bent on not forgiving you keep you from something that could actually be great?” He stops short then, looking suddenly embarrassed, like it’s just occurring to him that maybe he’s taken things too far. “Assuming that’s all that’s holding you back, I mean. Like”—oh my God, he’s actually blushing—“assuming you want to, otherwise.”
“Idowant to,” I blurt, realizing as I say it that it’s true: I want to take a chance with him; I want to try being happy for the rest of this summer. “Screw other people, you’re right. I mean, no, you’re not right, not totally, I think there’s a lot of stuff you’re not considering, but—”
“Molly.”Gabe laughs and nudges his mouth against mine then, a clumsy bump that’s nothing like the smooth moves I’m used to seeing out of him, how sometimes I get the impression he’s thinking a half beat ahead. This is spontaneous, a little awkward. Our teeth click. Still, it’s maybe my favorite kiss from him all summer; when it’s over Gabe smiles and leans his warm forehead against mine.
“I’m still not coming to your freaking party,” I mutter stubbornly.
Gabe laughs, low and pleased, against my cheek. He wrestles me into the backseat of the wagon, all our limbs and the smell of his neck and clean T-shirt; out the window I can see the white moon rising, heavy and nearly full.
Day 26
I startle awake at four-thirty, heart pounding, and throw my messy covers off. The thrill of what’s happening with Gabe—and itisa thrill, how my body was still humming a full hour after he dropped me off at home, the ghost of his mouth on my stomach and ribs—didn’t exactly translate to a full night’s sleep. The opposite, in fact. Now, after three Patrick-themed nightmares, I give up and slip into my running shoes in the darkness, my mind churning with memories and regrets.
Eventually, my legs give like hair elastics, sweat dripping down my spine—I’m woozy with heat and dehydration, a sprint like something is chasing me, a dash like my life is in danger. When I quit it’s with my hands on my knees and my face red and blotchy, a stitch in my side that feels like someone’s grabbed my lungs and twisted,hard.
I can’t believe there was a time when they actually wanted me to come to Bristol specifically so I could run, but that’s what happened: the tan, athletic woman in the stands at my meet against Convent of the Sacred Heart in March of sophomore year, then again at practice the next morning. They called me into Guidance after lunch, sat me down in a plastic-y chair, and handed me a pamphlet.
“Think about it,” the recruiter urged me. Her hair was pulled into a neat little ponytail at the crown of her head, athletic sneakers on her feet like possibly she was planning to run on back to Arizona right after this meeting. “It’s just something to consider, for next year.”
I found Patrick in the parking lot after last period, waiting for me in the driver’s seat of the Bronco. There was an old county law on the books that said kids could get their licenses six months ahead of everyone else if their parents needed their help with farm work, and because of the way the Donnellys’ house was zoned, all three of them got to drive way before everyone else did. Gabe usually drove us anyway, ’cause he was oldest, but Gabe was getting a ride with his sort-of-girlfriend, Sophie, and Julia had cheer practice until quarter of five. Tuesdays always worked that way, me and Patrick alone for the ride. Tuesdays were my favorite.
He was listening to Mumford with his head tipped back against the worn leather seat when I opened the door, afternoon sun making patterns on his smooth, April-tanned face. He kissed me hello with two hands on my face, familiar and good. “Whatcha got?” he asked when I handed him the pamphlet, curious gray eyes flicking from it to me and back again. His expression clouded over as I explained.
