Page 111 of Rebel Summer

We faced forward once more to watch out the window. In the quiet, my ears tuned in to more things. The light tap of Dax’s fingers on the arm rest, the plastic sound the seats made when we adjusted our positions, and the radio…which had been background noise most of our time in the car.

Our attention stayed locked on the cart next to the book shop while a song with a familiar tune began to play. It needed no introduction, really. Even I knew this song. Everyone in America knew this song. My shoulders swayed to the beat. I made it through the entire first verse, singing along in my head, but as the lyrics began working their way to the chorus, my hand gripped the steering wheel in anticipation of everyone’s favorite moment of the song. My fingers gave the three distinct taps at just the right part when I stopped.

My body froze.

It was a facepalm kind of moment. I wanted to laugh and cry and start the song over. I wanted to memorize every word. Of course it was this song. It perfectly captured my entire summer with him. But mostly, I sat in awe and wonder at the song Dax had dubbed mine when it was really a song Neil Diamond had written long ago about a girl he’d named “Sweet Caroline.”

The song was nearly over before I gained the courage to look at Dax. He was leaning back in his seat, one arm resting near the window, holding his head with one hand, watching me, waiting for me to figure it out in his calm, patient way. Something flashed across his face just then. Something dangerous. Something alluring. Something that made my breath hitch and my stomach tighten with nerves.

“Sweet Caroline,” I whispered, turning to face him, my head leaning on the back of the seat.

“It’s your song.”

Was his voice always this low? The deep rasp and the overtly casual tone had the same effect on me as someone skating their fingers down my spine. His face was illuminated only by the sliver of moonlight through the window.

“Do you want me to drive back?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

The lyrics of “Sweet Caroline” raced through my head as I moved to unbuckle my seatbelt. The words washed over me. What in that song made him think of me? The title? A verse? Or was it…everything? I wanted it to be everything. But wanting and having were two very different things.

I had just stepped out of the car when he said, “My seatbelt is stuck. I can’t get it at this angle.”

Confused, I leaned down, my hand resting on the open door as I peered inside, trying to see what the problem was. He had a whisper of a smile curling his lips. That should have been my first clue. He wore a t-shirt today. Only the barest hint of tattoos peeked out from the bottom of his sleeve. I loved the ink on his skin, but seeing him without them in this moment softened him somehow, even as my heart bid caution.

“It’s stuck?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

The prickles on my skin flared as I crawled back inside, kneeling carefully on the driver’s seat in an effort to lean forward and examine his seatbelt. The air in the car vibrated with energy. My body trembled with anticipation.

There were so many moments in life that a person could miss because of overthinking. Over-analyzing. My time up until this point had been full of weights and measures. Bars and graphs. Everything compartmentalized and in its place. I hadn’t had a place in my life for Dax Miller. My time with him had been a constant state of calculating, analyzing and rejecting. No matter how hard I tried to spin it, X plus Y could never equal Z.

Therefore, I couldn’t have it. Him.

But this…

This.

I leaned in close and pushed his seatbelt button. It released immediately. As did the thundering of my heart.

“Liar,” I whispered.

He brushed back my hair from my face before cupping my cheeks under his palm. His thumb trailed across my lips and cheeks and every freckle, leaving me feeling exposed and tingly and flooded with a craving that threatened to consume me.

His lips found a corner of my mouth. My toes curled.

“Every word,” he murmured.

“What?” I whispered, his proximity snatching the breath from my lungs. My hands moved to his shoulders to keep me upright.

He pulled back, his eyes half-lowered with heavy lids. “Every word of that song belongs to you.”

The sentence hung in the air, his sweetness cracking the wall that had always been between us. I was done. He was done.

Our resistance had been breached.

It happened too quickly to think. Too fast to stop. Or had it been more like a crescendo, slowly building up pace and tempo over the summer? At this moment, there was nothing left to reject. Maybe I could have it all. I could refigure the sequence. I could?—

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