Page 17 of My (Not So) Perfect Plan

“You checking me out, Claire?”

I have no response, so instead I toss his crutches in the back of the truck. I have a sneaking suspicion he did that whole rippling back muscles thing on purpose now. He starts lifting his injured leg in and I help him maneuver it so he doesn’t inadvertently bang it on the car.

I clamber up into the driver’s side, disoriented by how far I am from the pedals and how the steering wheel is at the wrong height from the seat.

I start trying to adjust everything, but I can’t figure out where everything is. Evan leans across to point it out, tantalizing me with the smell of him and his proximity. A light dusting of blonde hair coats his arms as he points out to me where theheadlights are and how they work and all the rest. By the time I’m situated, my nerves are strung out tight.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“Why?”

“This is not a good idea. This is your baby, Evan. Didn’t I tell you I never passed driver’s ed?”

“Are you planning on never learning how to drive?” he asks.

“Well, no, I’m going to learn. Some day.”

“All right then. Let’s go.”

At a loss, I hesitantly put the key into the ignition. I turn to him one last time. “Are yousureyou want to do this? I would be perfectly happy with not driving your truck, like, ever.”

“Oh, I’m good with it. If for no other reason than that I get to get out of the house.”

The reminder that I am doing him a favor as well makes me feel a little less flustered. I turn the truck on and it roars to life. Thankfully, there is no music on to distract me. Suddenly he leans toward me and puts a hand around my shoulder, drawing me closer to him, until his nose rubs the tip of my ear.

“Relax, I trust you,” he whispers.

I shudder and, just to escape what he’s doing to me, push his hand off my shoulder and put the truck in reverse. I manage to get out of the parking area in front of the huge garage, even if it is at a jerky pace that has him covering his eyes and trying not to laugh.

We make it out onto the road past his gate and I start to get the hang of it. He yells at me a few times because I don’t stop at a stop sign or was speeding a bit and there were speed bumps (which does make me feel genuinely guilty about every wince ofpain). He scoots toward me a bit more and I’m very aware of his long, solid length next to me. But it’s really hard to drive when half my brain is telling me to pay attention to the guy next to me.

“What’s wrong with you? How did you not see the red light?” he asks me in disbelief (thankfully, not in anger).

“I don’t know! I’m nervous!” We are able to stop at the stop light, but only just barely. I have to reverse a few feet so we can see the light change.

“What do you mean you’re nervous? What are you nervous about?” he asks.

“You! You make me nervous,” I snap before I can stop the words from coming out of my mouth.

“What?” He sounds so clueless and innocent, it drives me over the edge

“Yes, and you know it. Getting in my space and making me feel buzzy things I shouldn’t be feeling with your muscles, and your smell, and that half-smile thing you do.” I clap a hand over my mouth in the sudden realization of what I’ve been saying. And a hand over my mouth is not enough so I hide my face in my hands and turn away. He doesn’t say anything and I am cringing so bad, I want a hole to dig so I can cover myself up and not come out for another twenty years like Rip Van Winkle.

A car horn blares behind us and I jump. I put my hands on the wheel and press the gas, slowly bringing us up to speed.

“I didn’t mean that,” I say into the silence. “Those were just, um, nerves talking. You know, like when you’re mad and you say something you don’t mean? That was nervous verbos… a. Yeah, nervous verbose. It’s a condition some people have. Like me. I have this condition where I say stuff I don’t really mean when I get nervous.”

I take a risk and glance over at him, hoping against all hope that he’s buying what I think is a rather clever line of bull. He’s wearing a smile like the cat that swallowed the canary. The only thing he’s missing is the feathers.

“Uh uh. Nope,” he said. I groan, mortified.

We drive around town for a good half hour. After my mortifying confession, Evan decides to spare my blushes because he eases up on his flirting. In some ways it kind of depresses me because it probably means he’s not interested. I knew that. Of course, I knew that. But him friend-zoning me actually makes me more comfortable too and we start talking about our lives. I share about my family and he shares a little bit about his. I find he’s generally easy to talk to, which is weird for me considering I’m socially-awkward girl.

“Would you mind stopping by Checkers? I could really go for a burger,” he asks me. The idea of trying to navigate his huge truck through the Checkers’ drive through makes me sweat.

“Do you mind if I order at the walk up window and bring it to the truck?” I ask.

“Probably best, I don’t want the top to be scraping anything.”

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