Page 39 of Better Than the Movies
“Y’know what? Forget it.” I was glad he’d just put the car in gear and was pulling away from the curb, because if he looked at me, I was certain my cheeks were crimson. “You smell like ass.”
That made him slide into a full-on laugh. “Spicy, piney ass, you mean.”
“Hilarious.” I turned on his radio in hopes of a subject change.
It seemed to work because he said, “I can’t believe you’re actually wearing the clothes.” He turned on his blinker and slowed for thecorner. “I fully expected to see you in a grandma dress when I showed up.”
“I spent money on them—of course I’m going to wear them.”
He glanced over and looked directly at my outfit before returning his gaze to the road.
What the hell?I toyed with one of the threads on my shredded jeans and wondered what he thought. Not that I was thirsty for a compliment from Wes Bennett—because I so wasn’t—but you couldn’t look directly at someone’s outfit and not comment on said outfit, right?
It was totally disconcerting. Did it not look good?
I scratched at the crisscrossing shreds and said, “I suppose I owe you a thank-you. Not for trying tomake me over, you asswad, but—”
“Still not over that, I see.”
“Because I like this outfit. I never would’ve noticed it on the rack, but I like it.”
“See? I’m good—”
“Nope.” I leaned forward and started scanning radio stations. “That’s all the props you’re getting from me today. Unless you want me to spew like your blond friend.”
“No, thanks.”
I glanced into his empty back seat. “Where are ‘the guys’?”
“They’re at Adam’s house. We’re all going to load into his minivan, and he’s driving.”
Just like that, my stomach was a ball of nerves. I didn’t know his friends, so that was stressful enough, but the thought of sitting in the back of a minivan with Michael brought out all the worries.
Because I wanted—so badly—for him to see I wasn’t Little Liz anymore.
“Everyone is super chill, so don’t worry.” It was like he read my mind, but before I could give it too much thought, he said, “Ooh—I like that song.”
“I do too.” I stopped scanning, surprised that Wes and I agreed on anything. It was “Paradise” by Bazzi, which was pretty old and pretty poppy. But it was one of those songs that just had a feel to it, like along with the notes, you also received a healthy dose of summery sunshine that kissed your shoulders as you walked downtown at dusk.
His phone buzzed at that moment, and we both glanced down at where it sat in the cupholder. The top of the little notification box said “Michael Young.”
“Looks like your boy is texting.”
“Oh my God!” I pictured Michael’s face, and my heart speed picked up.
“You look. I don’t text and drive.”
“How very responsible of you,” I said as I grabbed his iPhone. Holding it felt oddly personal, like I was holding the book of his social life in my hands. I wondered who was saved in his favorites, who he texted on a regular basis, and—God help me—what images lived on his camera roll.
“Not really. I just hate death and prison.”
“Understandable, although I must tell you, I’m utterly fascinated by someone so casual about having their phone in someone else’s hands.”
“I have no secrets,” he said, and I wondered if that were true.
“Passcode, please.” His lock-screen picture was a shot of his dog, Otis, which was pretty dang adorable. He’d had that old golden retriever for as long as I could remember.
“Zero-five-zero-four-two-one.”
