Page 3 of The Summer of ’98

“By the way,” I watched the streetlights illuminate his features as I slipped a palm-sized canister out of my pocket. “I have pepper spray. And the will to live. So—don’t be weird.”

He burst out laughing and my heart skipped a beat at the sweet sound. “I was planning to kidnap you and lock you in my basement. But you’ve convinced me otherwise.”

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“Colorado,” he answered. “I’m going to Baylor at the end of August. I’m here to finalize a few things.”

“What are you studying?”

“Is it this one?” he asked, the car slowing down.

“Sorry. Yeah.” I’d been staring at him instead of the road. “This one. Just pull over beside the curb, and if you don’t mind, help me get her through the window?”

“How old are you two?” He switched the car off and stared at me with incredulity.

I was tempted to tell him that we were fifteen as a joke, but I thought better of it. “Eighteen. And yes, we’re allowed some freedom. But drinking at a frat party? She’d be in trouble and so would I.”

It was an effort to get Amber conscious enough that she could help herself out of the car. With some maneuvering, we managed to get her out and push her through the window where she landed on her bed. I leaned through and asked if she was all right.

“Mmhmm,” she mumbled.

“You’re a good friend,” Leroy whispered. I appreciated him taking our sneaking about seriously. “I’m guessing that you’re supposed to be staying here tonight as well?”

I chewed on my lip, replied yes, and peeked through the window again to the bright red digits of Amber’s clock that said 10:30, and I sighed with frustration that she’d gotten so wasted so freaking early.

“I can drop you off again later if you want to come back to the party?” Leroy said.

“Really? Do you . . . do you want me to come back?”

“Yes,” he said, “I need more time to get to know you.”

The frat house was still pumping when we got back. Leroy put his hand at the base of my spine and steered me through the crowded entrance, where groups were gathered on the stairs, cheering as people slid down on cardboard and collided with the wall. There was a group of boys leaning over the railing around the top floor, throwing darts at a dartboard that was on the living room wall on the bottom floor.

“I was going to suggest that we sit in here,” Leroy said, looking up at the half-drunk college kids flinging darts around. “But I don’t really feel like getting stabbed in the head tonight.”

He had a point. I looked at all the people gathered in the living area, all of the heads that could be the victim of a stray dart.

“Let’s go out back,” he said, leaning in close and taking my hand. “You feel like dancing?”

“I’d love to.”

We went through to the kitchen and passed a game of suck and blow. I laughed as a girl hollered in protest when the guy beside her dropped the card from his lips and kissed her. Guys were making a tower of solo cups on the table and someone was throwing up in the trash can. Outside, the antics were much the same, but the air was easier to breathe and there were dozens of couples dancing together, which made it easier to insert ourselves into the crowd and do the same.

Leroy and I danced to “Tell It to My Heart” by Taylor Dane. His hands rested on my waist, tugging me in close as my heart fluttered, painfully so.

“So,” Leroy said, staring down at me. “What brings you here tonight?”

“An invitation,” I said and tried to steady my voice when it came out with a hitch. It was hard to be calm when his thumbs were circling the bare skin on my waist. “And Amber and I are celebrating graduation. How about you?”

“I know someone in the frat too. He’s a family friend. His dad knows my dad sort of thing. I’m sure glad I decided to come along. I almost passed.”

My chest squeezed. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

A light breeze ruffled his brown waves of hair, tousling it so that it fell across his face. He quickly swept his fingers through it and pushed it back, looking amazing as he did. I tried not to salivate at his bicep that expanded when his arm was in the air, but wow. Surely, he couldn’t be sweet and drop dead gorgeous.

“I like your accent,” he said, putting his hand back on my waist. “Southern belle.”

“Ooh, no,” I said, wincing. “Nope. So, the Antebellum era is where the idealization of the Southern belle originated. And as you know from your history class,” he chuckled, “that era was defined by slavery and its profitable gain. Southern belles were often from high society plantation-owning families. I’d never want to be associated with someone who was in favor of slavery.”

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