After the Shut Up Ring

Chapter 7 – Brandon

It’s Saturday night,I’m at the gym, and Angie’s going out, but not with me.

I had to hear it from Maddie. They’re going into the city to the Power Plant. Girl’s night.

It’s fine. I have no right to be pissed. We’re taking it slow. Sometimes she sends me memes. I think about calling her all the time. We talk when I come over to the house. Nothing heavy. She tells me about work and the girls, and I listen.

The weights clank as I let go too soon. Shane says, “Whoa.” Everybody looks over. I wince. This isn’t that kind of gym.

I take a deep breath. A night out at the bars is no big deal. Angie’s not cruising for dick.

I’m not fucking everything up again by giving her time.

The day after the shed debacle, I figured she’d get skittish if I gave her space, so I showed up the next morning with pea gravel to level up the driveway. Mom had been talking about doing it for a while.

I got Tamblyn to help, and Ivy’s at the age where rocks are the best, so Angie had to sit out on the front porch and watch us work. She wasn’t obvious about it, but she was as fascinated by my arms as Ivy was by the rocks.

I thought I was good, and I was gonna ask her out again for this weekend. Then Maddie called me, and from how reluctantly she was breaking it to me, I thought she was gonna tell me Aunt Sylvester out in Ohio finally died, but she said Angie asked to go with her out to the bars. She wants to “have fun.”

I’m fucking fun.

I slide ten more pounds on the bar and start a new set, lifting fast, paying no attention to form.

I guess I understand. While the rest of us were out making bad choices—including Tyler, who I saw down at Donovan’s more weekends than not—Angie was at home raising her babies. She deserves a night out, especially since, as best I can tell, Tyler’s still at the bar on the weekend, and she’s still home with the kids.

I finish my set and re-rack the bar. Shane is supposed to be spotting me, but he’s scrolling on his phone. In fairness, we’ve been here for almost three hours at this point, and he tapped out a half hour ago. I’ve still got too much energy.

“You can hit the showers if you want,” I offer, hopping up from the bench. “I’m gonna get on the cable machine for a while. I’ll meet you down at Donovan’s.”

“Dude, you drove,” he says.

“Oh, yeah.” My head isn’t exactly screwed on straight. I keep picturing Angie in a dress and high heels with her hair done. Before the wedding, I hadn’t seen her dressed up since homecoming senior year. She was too far along with Tamblyn to go to prom.

At homecoming, her dress was baby blue and sparkly, and her hair was up with curls hanging down. She smiled and blushed all night. You could tell she felt pretty.

She’s gonna be smiling like that tonight, and some asshole’s going to mistake it for flirting. Or maybe she will be flirting. Fuck.

“Gimme another twenty minutes,” I say to Shane. He wanders off to the back of the gym to sit at the circuit’s bicep curl machine and play on his phone. No one’s gonna bother him there. I’m probably good for another forty-five minutes.

Angie doesn’t flirt. She’s too surprised that someone’s paying attention to her. Her parents did a number on her. That’s why Tyler got in so quick and easy, and why she stuck with him. Because she’s grateful.

Maddie calls it “co-dependent,” and I guess that’s bad—I don’t really follow therapy shit—but I don’t think it’s totally fair to be down on her for it. Tyler is the asshole. She tried to make it work with the father of her children. I didn’t like it—hated it, in fact—but what would people say if she didn’t? They’d say she took his kids from him. They’d call her a bitch.

I don’t want her hard-hearted. I like her how she is. I’m not a raging dick like some, but I am a man, and hard times are inevitable. I don’t want her tough. I want her clingy.

I guess you’re not supposed to want that these days, but I still like vinyl records and manual transmission, too. What gets you hard, gets you hard.

I want to talk to her about this shit, but I don’t know how to start, and whenever I get her to myself for a minute and ask how she’s doing, she goes off on something like Tamblyn can “read” her elephant and piggie book—not really, she memorized it, but that’s still impressive for her age in my opinion—and she’s just so happy and chatty that I don’t want to mess up the mood. Happy Angie is hot.

So I just walk around with a semi and a bunch of pent-up feelings, and spend too much time at the gym, and piss off my friends, and make up every excuse I can think of to go over to my mom’s house.

For months at this point. And I’ve gotten so far that she’s going out downtown without me. I’m doing this wrong.

“Dude, you almost done?” Shane leans over the railing that separates the machines from the free weights. He hit the showers. His hair is wet, and he smells like he spilled his cologne on himself. “I told Hannah and Ashley we’d be down there by nine.”

I blink and glance around. It’s so late on a Saturday night that we’re the only guys under thirty left in the place.

“Why’d you tell Ashley I’d be there?” We had a brief, casual thing a few years ago, and every so often, she texts. I don’t know what to do, so I reply with a thumbs up.

Shane shrugs. “She asked. You have something against getting laid?” He thinks that since I haven’t nailed Angie down, I’m free.

“I don’t know if I’m actually up to go out tonight,” I say, stretching my traps. “I could use a hot shower.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Sure. A hot shower.”

“What? I’m tight.” I stretch an arm across my body. It’s true. I’ve been spending more hours with the weights than usual. I’m also bulking up since I’m eating more of Mom’s cooking, and to her, butter is a food group.

Shane snorts. “You mean you’re a simp.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.” I grab my keys and water bottle off the floor.

“You gonna head over to your mom’s after that cold shower?” Shane watches me from the corner of his eyes, smirking.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, I slap his back a little harder than is friendly and say, “Come on. I’ll drop you off.”

And yeah, after I leave him at Donovan’s, I consider going around to Mom’s, but I think better of it.

If I’m there when she gets home, Angie will know I’m checking up on her. And if she comes home late—or not at all—I’ll lose my shit. I can control myself well enough not to let it show, but I don’t want that energy around the girls, even if they’re tucked in bed.

What the fuck is she doing?

She likes me. I’m not stupid. It’s obvious. She likes it when I touch her.

I’ve gotten ridiculously handsy lately. I rest a hand on her lower back when she passes through a door ahead of me, and she glances up at me and blushes. I inch my chair real close to hers at dinner, and she doesn’t scoot away. She lets her thighs relax so her leg rests against mine. She wants this, too, but something’s holding her back.

Does she think she’s got to prove her independence or sow her wild oats or some such shit?

I wouldn’t think she’s the wild oats type, but Maddie is, and she’s in her ear all the time. I rub my chest. I’m hungry, and I’ve got indigestion at the same time. And I’m only twenty-five years old. Goddamn.

When I get home, I do take a cold shower. I turn the TV on and ignore it to scroll my phone without really paying attention to anything. It’s midnight. Is she home yet?

Maddie usually doesn’t roll home until past closing time, but Angie’s a mother. She’s probably too worn out to close down the bar. Unless she met someone. She wouldn’t go anywhere with a stranger, though, and besides, Maddie wouldn’t let her.

I can breathe normally. There’s no reason to stress.

I toss my phone on the couch and go see what’s in the fridge. Same shit as the last time I checked. I eat a few cold wings from yesterday’s carry out, and about a minute after I lick my fingers, I regret it.

If I drove past Mom’s, I wouldn’t even know if Angie’s back or not. They took a ride share so they could drink.

I should not have eaten those fucking wings. I brush my teeth, but it doesn’t help. Now I’ve got minty-flavored heartburn.

I’m considering lying down in bed and staring at the ceiling when my phone rings from the other room. I sprint for it and get it before the third ring.

“Brandon?” It’s Maddie, shouting to be heard over raised voices in the background. Men’s voices.

My heart thrusts into my throat like a fist. “What’s wrong?”

“Brandon?”

“Yeah, Maddie, what’s going on?” I put her on speaker so I can shove my feet into my boots. I don’t spare the time for socks.

“Can you come get us?” She sounds pissed, not scared, thank God.

“Yeah, what happened?”

“I forgot my purse. I’ll tell you about it when you get here.”

“Are you and Angie okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. We’re at the Power Plant. At Piano Man. We’ll be out front.”

“Wait inside.”

She laughs. “No can do.”

“You’re not waiting in the street with a bunch of drunks, Maddie.” I yank my laces tight. Besides, it’s cold. Fall came late this year, but it’s here now.

“It’s the Power Plant. There are Segway cops everywhere.”

“You can wait inside.” It’s not even one in the morning, and I can make it there in thirty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.

She laughs. “No, we seriously cannot. I’ll tell you about it when you get here. Just bring your wallet.”

By the time she hangs up, I’m hopping into the truck. It would be a fifteen-minute drive if it was a straight shot, but I live on a peninsula, and most times, I love how it feels like the country even though we’re less than a mile to the city line. Tonight, though, I’m crawling out of my skin, crowded forward in my seat, forcing myself to stay close to the speed limit.

It won’t do any good if I plow into a deer on my way, and as far as I can tell, the bastards spend their nights wandering back and forth across North Point Road, taking occasional breaks to hang out on the yellow line and gape at oncoming headlights. When I get to Peninsula Expressway, I hit the gas. It’s two lanes in both directions, and I’m fairly sure I can slalom around any deer who tries its luck.

I slow down again when I get into the city. The roads are mostly empty in this part of town. I stop at a red light with no cars in sight in any direction, and I sit there, sweating, for what feels like an eternity before it changes to green.

This part of town is lonely at night—the cranes in the distance, the office buildings with the lights on like jack-o’-lanterns, the men huddled and shuffling in front of the gas station convenience stores, passing time, waiting for morning. You can’t find parking around here during the day, but at this hour, there’s no one but folks working the midnight shift or left behind. Like a ghost town.

When I get a few blocks further, closer to midtown, the vibe changes. Everyone is still awake here. I drive past groups of folks stumbling to their rides and vaping in front of the pizza and burger joints as bright and crowded as if it’s two in the afternoon, not two in the morning.

I’ve been to the Power Plant—everyone has—but not often. It’s for corporate bros and college kids. I prefer Donovan’s or The Fort where I’ve already made a drunk ass out of myself in front of everybody and a domestic beer doesn’t cost as much as a venti mocha Frappuccino.

By some luck, I find street parking two blocks down from Piano Man. My nerves are strung tight, but I’m breathing a little easier now that I’m here. I don’t need to jog. They’re okay. Maddie said so, and she’s a shitty liar.

I see them before they see me. They’re both sitting on a planter in front of the club. Maddie’s arm is around Angie’s waist, and Angie’s head is resting on Maddie’s shoulder. Maddie is running her mouth, and by her face, I can tell she’s trying to coax Angie into smiling. I’ve done the same myself, more than a few times. It sounds messed up, but getting Angie to smile is like getting a dog to roll over for belly rubs. It feels the same, like you somehow got God’s stamp of approval.

Something’s upset her tonight. Her shoulders are slumped, and her mascara is smudged. She’s still beautiful, of course, in a pink dress with bare legs and those Han Solo boots. No coat, just a thin white sweater. She must be freezing.

All of a sudden, my temper flares. I don’t care that we haven’t officially gone out yet. In my heart, she feels like mine, and here she is, dressed up for someone else and sad. Again.

I glare down the sidewalk. They haven’t seen me yet. Maddie says something, and Angie fakes a weak smile. I feel a jerk as the hook sets in my chest. The flare of temper fades. She’s mine, all right. Time to get her.

I approach slowly. Maddie notices me first. She pops to her feet and shrieks, “Finally!”

Angie blinks, confused. Her eyes are bleary. She’s buzzed.

So is Maddie. She zigzags to meet me, and the rum fumes hit me well before she does.

“I need your credit card.” She holds out her open palm.

Behind her, Angie hangs her head. I reach for my wallet.

“I forgot my purse, which we thought was fine because we had Angie’s bank card, but when we closed out the tab, it got declined because—you’re never going to believe this—” She pauses to snatch my card from my fingers.

Behind her, Angie shrinks in her thin sweater.

Maddie rants on, ever more belligerent. “Tyler cleared her out. While we were here. He took himself on a shopping spree at Thom’s Cycle.” Maddie shakes her head, and the motion makes her tip from side to side. I know better than to steady her. If she goes down, she’ll take me with her.

Maddie clutches my arm. “He literally picked the girls up, saw that Angie was going out, and went straight to Thom’s Cycle and just cleared out their checking account. You know how much he left?”

“Go pay the tab,” I say quietly. Over on the planter, Angie looks like she’s leaking air by the second.

“Sixty-seven cents. He’s like the freaking Grinch. He Whoville-d her. He even took the roast beast.” Maddie’s voice has climbed so high that she has no choice but to drop it. “What kind of person does that?”

An asshole, but I don’t know why any of us should act surprised. “Maddie, it’s almost closing time. You better go settle up.”

“And then that bartender, he said we better go find some money, or we’re getting banned, and he took our picture with his phone—without permission—and he said he’d be passing it around to all the other places here, and no one will serve us.”

At “he took our picture,” my blood rushes to my brain. My vision telescopes, and my hands fist. Immediately, I hear my dad’s voice. Whoa, son. Think.

Maddie watches me carefully, a spark in her eye. It takes a lot for me to lose my shit, but this might do it. She loves trying to wind me up and aim me at someone. Most times, I’m too smart.

But Angie’s shivering, and she’s wilting every second that ticks by. She’s not having fun, and I know I was mad about it a minute ago, but now I just want to get her in my truck and blast the heat.

“Go pay him,” I tell Maddie. “Make him show you while he deletes the pictures. If he doesn’t, take a picture of him and send it to me.”

“You’re not coming in?”

“Do you need me to?” She doesn’t. Maddie is like my mom—vicious when provoked. Like a hippopotamus.

She huffs, pissed that I won’t lose my temper on her behalf. Besides Dad, that’s probably what taught me how to control myself growing up—the satisfaction of not letting her push my buttons.

“Watch Angie,” she barks at me as she twirls and flounces back into the bar, remarkably confident for someone almost falling off her high heels every few steps. It’s like watching a clown on stilts.

My body is ready to fight, but I don’t want to give a beatdown to a dickish bartender doing his job; I want to break Tyler Reynold’s face. I want to smash his bones into tiny pieces until he’s a heap on the floor, and he can never strut around like a big man again, lifting himself up by stepping on the woman in front of me.

I’m angry—at him, and her—but I also need to be next to her.

I close the distance between us with slow steps, giving her time to finish scrubbing her eyes with the cuffs of her sweater. She glances up at me with a forced, watery smile, and I’m pierced through the chest.

Even with a clown face of smudged makeup, she’s pretty as hell.

“Can I sit?” I ask, nodding to the planter beside her.

She sniffs, which I take to mean that it’s cool. I check my pockets for a handkerchief, but all I’ve got is my wallet and the mostly empty plastic container of nicotine lozenges I carry around in a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency kind of way. A tissue wouldn’t really help at this point. The damage is already done to her sweater sleeves.

She sees me noticing and tries to tuck her hands far enough into her sleeves to fist the cuffs and hide the mascara stains, but it doesn’t quite work. All of a sudden, I’m mad, and I want to pull her onto my lap, press her face into the crook of my neck, and mumble sweet shit in her ear until she forgets anything that’s ever made her sad.

But obviously, I can’t. She’d fight me off again, and I’d get pepper-sprayed by one of these chicks walking by. So instead, I say, “Rough night?”

She summons up another half-smile. “Could be worse. You heard Madison. I’ve still got sixty-seven cents.”

“Hey, that’ll buy you a stamp.”

“Not anymore.”

I raise an eyebrow. Now I’m mad and ridiculously pleased that she’s going along with my dumbass joke.

“They raised the price to sixty-eight cents,” she says.

I widen my eyes. “Highway robbery.”

Her smile kind of finds its feet. “We’re being had.”

“They dipping stamps in gold these days?”

“Must be.” She’s quiet for a minute. Folks stumble past, laughing and loud. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

My instinct is to argue, but I refrain. I don’t want her to feel indebted. I want her to feel like she doesn’t need to go looking for fun. My temper simmers, and I try not to look like I’m breathing in her vanilla perfume.

I nod and change the subject. “So were you having a good time before shit went south?”

She sighs. “I tipped the piano guy my last twenty, and he didn’t play my song.”

I’ve been dragged to Piano Man a few times. Their schtick is a grand piano in the middle of the place. You jot down what song you want on a scrap of paper with a golf pencil and drop it in a big glass bowl along with some cash. They’ve got guys who can play and sing and do a little crowd work. It’s fine if you don’t mind hearing “Sweet Caroline” at least three times in one night.

“What song did you ask for?” I ask.

“‘Stand By Me.’”

“Good choice.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t say what I don’t mean.” I watch her consider that and conclude that, yeah, I’m telling the truth. I am. I’m very good at keeping my mouth shut if I don’t have something nice to say. There’s a lot of shit I’m not saying right now.

She glances up at me, her eyes shiny. I see the moment when she decides she’s too tired to keep up the front. “It’s the first time Tyler’s taken the girls for a weekend.”

I nod like I’m totally following the direction the conversation has taken.

“I just didn’t want to miss them all night.”

I nod again. I get that. And now I feel like an asshole for being mad that she went out.

“But I ended up missing them at a bar instead of from the comfort of home.” Her eyes lock on mine while the rest of her mask falls away.

Pain and worry are etched on her face, and still, somehow, she looks years younger than she did a minute ago. My lungs freeze. She’s talking to me. Really talking. This is what I wanted. In a way, it feels like scoring a touchdown in overtime, but at the same time, her sadness, and my inability to fix it, claws at my heart.

She sighs. “I wanted to get dressed up and feel confident, you know? Go dancing and be in my twenties for once, but all I did was stand around and go to the bathroom and sit in the stall and look at pictures of the girls on my phone.”

I have no real concept of what she’s feeling. I’ve got no similar experience, and even if I was a single dad, I don’t think it would hit quite the same. It doesn’t seem to be the same for the guys I know who are split from their kids’ moms. It’s ugly for them, too, but it wears different. At least it seems that way from the outside.

I don’t know what to say, so I bump her with my elbow. “Show me?”

“The pics?”

I nod. She smiles, surprised, but also like that’s exactly what she wanted to be asked. Score. Two points. I feel seven feet tall, even though I’m sitting down.

She pulls out her phone from where she tucked it in her bra, and her fingers fly.

“This is down the ocean last year.” She shows me a picture of her with the girls, all lined up, one behind the other. She’s furthest back, her legs spread in a V. Tamblyn sits crisscross-applesauce in front of her, leaning back against her mama’s chest. Angie’s arms are wrapped snug around her.

Ivy is lying on her belly, her chin propped on her hands and her feet kicked up, inches from nailing Tamblyn in the face. All three of them look dipped and rolled in sand, their wet hair in matted tangles, smiling their matching, orange slice smiles.

It softens my insides, but at the same time, jealousy grips my chest. “Who took the picture?” I ask.

“A lady on the blanket next to ours.” Angie looks up from the screen, a shadow crossing her face. “Tyler bailed. At the last minute, he got free tickets for seats right behind the dugout.” Her expression hardens. “I know he was no good.”

She says it like I’m about to tell her that, and she wants to head me off. She’s not picking up that I’m jealous if she thinks I’m trying to point out how her ex is an asshole. It’s not news. We all know that.

I want to know who made her smile like that, so I can torture myself. Would it make a difference if she knew? How would I even tell her?

“I know I should have had higher standards,” she adds. I don’t know who she’s defending herself against—probably Maddie and Mom and every other decent person who knows her or has ever met Tyler Reynolds—but I don’t want her to think she has to do that with me.

“I don’t give a shit where Tyler was. I just don’t like you smiling at guys.”

Her eyes go wide. I guess that’s how I’d tell her. Smooth.

“You’ve got to stop beating yourself up about him. You did what was best at the time.” Her brow furrows, and she searches my face. To see if I’m serious? Or if I’m just trying to make her feel better? I am, but it’s the truth, at least how I see it.

She’s got two whole humans she’s responsible for keeping fed and clothed and clean and happy. There have been several times at mom’s when I’ve wondered “Where’s Tamblyn?” or “Where’s Ivy?” because I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen or heard them in a while. Thank goodness they were always in the basement or the daycare kids’ room, but if I can lose track of them in a rancher, what’s it like to make sure they’re safe and accounted for every single moment of the day?

“I did do my best,” she says, looking up at me, fierce and defensive, like I hadn’t just said it myself, but also like the idea is new to her. “I wanted the girls to have a real family.”

“I get that.”

She exhales and glances down at the sidewalk. “I wanted a real family,” she says like she’s confessing to a shameful thing.

My brain shuffles as quick as it can through possible replies. I suck at this. I’m a man, and I’ve never had a serious relationship, at least none that required me to talk much beyond compliments and showing an interest, and I need to get this right.

There’s nothing bad about wanting a family—I want one, too, most people do—but I don’t want to be like “there’s nothing wrong with that” when it’s clear from the way she said it that she thinks there is.

She shivers and hunches a little further over. Shit. What do I say? Well, I guess if she can be real, I can, too.

“I do, too. I want a real family,” I say.

She glances over, surprised. “Yeah?”

My brain kicks into panic mode, hollering at me to make it a joke. Back away with my hands in the air. I’m too exposed. I need to say something about having a woman to put dinner on the table, something about home-cooked meals.

Why does my panicked brain sound like Randy when he’s trying to piss off his wife?

The throwaway words are on the tip of my tongue, like they’ve been written out for me, but I can also picture exactly what happens when I say them—she whacks me playfully, rolls her eyes, and collects herself to leave, pretending to be offended, but actually disappointed that she was real with me, and I didn’t have the balls to be real with her.

I am operating light-years beyond my capabilities as a man. I have no choice. I let go and let God. “I wish there was someone who looked at me like the girls to you,” I say. “I’d like to know what it feels like to matter like that.”

She peers up at me like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. I smile at her. She cocks her head. I shrug. I’d never have been so honest if I weren’t at a loss for what to say, but I said it, and I own it.

Her chin dips, coy and shy, and her lips curve. For the first time tonight, a spark returns to her eyes. I’m only noticing how brown they are—relieved that I somehow said the right thing—when I begin to fall into them. I lean closer. My breath hitches. Her ripe pink lips part. A soft sigh of expectation escapes.

She smells like rum and mint gum and vanilla body spray and whatever she puts in her hair. If my lungs worked, I’d inhale the scent so deep I’d never forget it, not in a hundred years.

I’m crazy for her.

I’d do anything if it meant she would look at me all the time like she’s looking at me now—like I’m too good to be true.

I’ve never felt more real, more out of my depth and out of my league. I’m skating on pure dumb luck, and I know it. What do I say next? Do I kiss her? Even though she’s drunk and sad, and to be honest, I’m still pissed that she came out tonight?

I didn’t know you could be mad at a woman and love her this hard at the same time. I mean, I’ve heard of a hate fuck, but I’m not talking about anything like that. This is delicate. Like defusing a bomb.

Angie kind of tilts her head, waiting, patient and trusting and so goddamn lovely that my chest aches.

What do I say so that she never stops looking at me like this?

I dig deep. I send up a prayer. Once more, I let Jesus take the wheel, and I ask, “Do you want tacos?”

She smiles, the biggest, realest, best smile. “Hell yeah, I do.”

“Tacos?” Maddie stumbles over to us, a receipt and my credit card clutched in her fist. “Let’s go.”

“He give you trouble?” I pry my card from her hand.

She pouts. “He asked for my number.”

“Bold choice,” I say.

She nods in agreement, her drunk bobblehead making me dizzy. “I told him if he wanted a shot, he should’ve covered our tab.”

“Right on.” I hold up my palm for a high five. She aims, swings, and misses. I snort. It’s my favorite game to play with blitzed Maddie. You don’t even need to move your hand away.

Beside me, Angie snickers.

“Traitor.” Maddie pouts at her. “You like him better than me now.”

“He said we’d go get tacos,” Angie stage-whispers to Maddie as she wraps her arm around Maddie’s waist and guides her in the direction of my truck. I follow a few feet behind so Maddie can’t take me out if she falls off her heels onto her ass.

“You can’t like him better. He’s boring,” Maddie stage-whispers back. “He randomly smells like fish. He only passed English because Mom rewrote all his essays. He keeps worms in the butter compartment in his refrigerator.”

Screw her. The fish smell isn’t random. I just smell that way when I haven’t had the chance to change my clothes yet after I come back from the creek.

“Don’t ask me for any more favors, Maddie,” I call up to her.

“Hah,” she says. “If I say I’m with Angie, you know you’ll come running.”

My face heats, but I’m past acting like I don’t care. “I would,” I say quietly.

Angie darts a glance back at me over her shoulder. She knows I’m talking to her. Her cheeks flush, her eyes sparkle, and while Maddie wobbles more with each step, Angie walks taller.

She keeps her eyes straight ahead. When we get to my truck, Maddie lurches for the door, hauls herself into the second row, and sprawls across the entire bench before Angie has a chance to make a move.

I swing the passenger door open. Angie ducks her head and uses the grab handle to pull herself up.

“Buckle up,” I tell Maddie as I settle myself in.

I like a spacious cab, but at this moment, I’m wishing there wasn’t so much space between Angie and me. She’s nestled on her side, and there’s no casual way to brush her arm or grab her hand. She looks nervous.

I am, too. Nervous and alive and awake. I’m not mad anymore. I feel like somehow, I won.

“Turn the radio on,” Maddie whines from the back. I flip on the country station out of spite like I always do.

“Anything but that!” Maddie hollers.

Angie glances over.

“You choose,” I offer.

She changes it to a Top 40 station, and we’re quiet while I drive us out of the dark city, silent and still except for steam rising from grates and blinking yellow lights.

First, Maddie’s head slumps against the window. Then it droops until her chin rests on her chest, and she starts snoring.

Angie and I grin at each other. She rests her forearm on her side of the center console. I wait a few minutes and rest mine next to hers.

She’s staring at her lap, but her lips turn up at the corners.

I move my forearm over so that it brushes against hers. My heart beats quicker. It feels like fishing when you’ve been waiting all day, that fraction of time between when your bobber first disappears under the surface and the next bite that tugs it under. That moment of uncertainty and hopefulness when you’ve got to be ready, but you don’t dare act.

She glances into the rearview to check on Maddie, and then she curls her pinkie around mine.

Now I’m forcing myself not to grin like an idiot and to keep my eyes on the road while my pinkie is hooked around a girl’s like I’m sixteen again, and I could fly, I could fight a bear, I could drive like this forever.

We get to the restaurant too soon, but also just in time. The drive-through is open, but it closes in ten minutes.

“Hey, Maddie. Want tacos?” I call back to be polite. She keeps snoring. “How many can you eat?” I ask Angie.

“Oh, I-I don’t know. Two?”

That’s a bold-faced lie. I’ve been around on taco night. I order the crunchy taco combo, the burrito box, two orders of nachos, and the cinnamon rolls.

“You want the orange or blue Slushie,” I ask.

She sputters a second like she’s going to argue or bring up money, but thankfully, she ends up just saying, “Blue.”

I squeeze her pinkie with mine. I know her pride stings.

“We’re never going to be able to eat all this,” she says when they pass the bags through the window.

“You can take the leftovers home for the girls.” It’s something to see those two eat tacos. Lettuce ends up scattered under the table. Shredded cheese gets stuck in their hair. Sauce splurts everywhere. Makes ’em happy as clams, though, and God did invent brooms.

For a second, I consider parking in the lot to eat, but then a better idea strikes me.

“Mind going up the road a bit?” I ask Angie.

“Sure.” She’s holding the bag in her lap now instead of my hand.

I drive us down to the next light and turn into the neighborhood. Down a few streets, there’s a park by the water with a boat launch where I used to play tee-ball. Every neighborhood on the peninsula has a community park just like it with a pier and a playground and a baseball diamond, all of it the worse for wear, but hanging in there. A lot like the town itself.

In the parking lot, I do a three-point turn and back into a space near the boat ramp. I jump out to open Angie’s door and take the bag from her.

“Last chance, Maddie,” I call, but she’s dead to the world.

I lower the tailgate and swing Angie up to sit on it. She squeaks and clutches my shoulders. I’m standing between her knees, and all I want to do is drag her hips closer, wind my arms around her, and lose myself in her like I did behind the shed. But that didn’t end well, did it? I’ve got to play this smarter.

I satisfy myself with brushing my fingers along the sides of her thighs while I step back. “Comfortable?” I ask her.

She wiggles her butt. “Totally.”

I vault up to sit beside her and move the bag so it’s not between us. “Taco or burrito?” I ask.

“Taco.”

I pass her one and grab another for myself.

We sit and eat, shoulder to shoulder, our legs dangling. The water laps at the bank below us. The taco shells crunch. Angie giggles and groans as lettuce and cheese fall down her front. Tamblyn and Ivy come by their messiness honestly.

I dig a napkin out and offer it to her. She tucks it in the neck of her dress.

“Dignified, eh?” she says, her cheeks shadowing in the moonlight. There are no working lights on this side of the parking lot, but the moon is full, and the streetlamps along the expressway cast their reflections on the far side of the creek. Cars shush in the distance, but they’re few and far between at this hour.

Angie always has a vulnerable look to her, but not here, alone in the dark with me. Her eyes are like the woods that the man described in the poem, the only thing I remember from English class. His name was Robert Frost. He said the woods were “lovely, dark, and deep.”

She keeps darting glances at me, her need and her nerves as clear on her face as mine must be. Blood rushes to my dick.

“Beautiful,” I say, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

She ducks her head and smiles. I pass her another taco.

When she finishes, she crumples up her napkin and wrappers, tosses them in the bag, and tucks her hands into the cuffs of her sweater. Neither of us makes a move to leave.

“Cold?” I ask when she shivers.

“A little.”

I shrug off my jacket and settle it on her shoulders. It’s my work jacket. Hope she doesn’t mind that it smells like a container ship. I wish I’d thought to wear a clean hoodie.

She slips her arms into the sleeves, huddling in the bulky canvas, tucking her nose in the collar. She must not mind.

The sight pleases a part of me that I didn’t know I had, satisfying me in a way I didn’t know I could be satisfied. Angie is sitting on the tailgate of my truck, wearing my jacket, her belly full of the food I bought her. I have no idea why that makes me hard as hell, but I thank the Lord that I’m wearing lined jeans and an untucked shirt or else I’d be indecent. And thank the Lord, as well, that Maddie will sleep through the end of the world once she passes out drunk.

Angie sighs and snuggles a little closer to my side. It’s everything and not enough. I want to hold her. Touch her. I want to feel how our bodies fit together again.

We’re sitting on a tailgate, though, and my truck bed is in decent shape, but I wouldn’t lay her down on it, not without putting down a tarp or something first, and I don’t keep anything like that in my vehicle. I could kiss her. She’s watching the water, drifting off, but I could take her chin and turn her head and kiss her mouth. I think she’s with me.

I thought that behind the shed, too. I’m not a pussy, but her fighting me off was the worst feeling of my life, and I’m not going in overconfident with her again. But I’m not going to ask if I can kiss her, either. I know that’s what you’re supposed to do these days. Ms. Roscoe drilled that into our heads in eighth grade health class.

She made us watch this video about going on a bike ride with a girl, and the bike ride was supposed to represent consent, but it got really elaborate. The video started talking about the girl wanting to quit mid-ride ’cause she got too hot, and thirteen-year-old me didn’t know if that meant the guy was going too hard or too long, and I was confused because I thought you were supposed to go as long as you could.

Back then, I figured I’d go with what my dad said, which was if you make a move, and she says no, stop what you’re doing and go get dinner or something instead. His advice hasn’t led me wrong until behind the shed with Angie, when it really fucking counted.

How do I get this girl in my arms? Horizontal would be amazing, but I’d take vertical and closer if I could figure it out. Ask her if she wants to take a walk?

I don’t want to leave Maddie alone in the truck, even to go a short way. I need to hear her if she yaks, so I can get her out of the cab before she exorcists all over it. She did that once when I gave her a ride home from a kegger last year. I had to get the platinum-level detailing at the carwash, and she said she’d pay me back, but she never did.

The sky over the far bank of the creek is fading to gray. It’s getting late. I’ll need to take them home soon, and I can’t bear the thought. I don’t want to let Angie go anywhere without me.

She’s not going out on any more girl’s nights. I have no way to stop her—and no right—but all the same, if she wants to dress up and go dancing, I’ll take her.

Oh, shit. That’s an idea.

Can I carry it off? I’m not smooth. I can buy flowers and open doors and text good morning, but beyond that, I’ve got no game. I’ve got no pride with this woman, though. I will happily make an ass out of myself.

I fish my phone out of my pocket. She glances over at me, distracted by what I’m doing more than curious. I open the music app, tap, and scroll. I hit play. Bare notes from an electric guitar ring out.

Recognition dawns and her broad smile breaks across her face. My body comes alive.

I got it right.

I spring to my feet and offer her my hands. She takes them. I pull her to standing.

Tracy Chapman sings a song by Ben E. King, and I draw Angie into my arms, willing her to understand that the words are from me to her. I’d stand at her side forever, no matter what.

She winds her arms around my neck and sinks against me, softening, exhaling. I gather her to my chest.

We sway in the bed of my truck, the song on repeat, the sun rising over the water stretching from Bullneck to Bear Creek to the bay. In the distance, gradually as the sky lightens, the outline of the bridge appears and then the cranes at the terminal.

The daylight also shows the blonde streaks in Angie’s hair, and the smudged makeup under her lower lashes as she gazes up at me, our eyes caught on each other. Her breath warms my cold chest through my flannel shirt. The toes of her boots bump mine. Neither of us have much rhythm.

My hands smooth down her back, inside my jacket. Her hips shift forward. She can definitely feel my hard-on. Her dress is lightweight.

Her breasts rise and fall quicker. Her fingers trail up my neck to play with my hair. I swallow a groan.

I want her so fucking bad, but we’re in a truck bed in a public park, and any second now, an old lady with binoculars is going to look out her window at the birds, see us, and call the cops. Odds are good I’ll know whoever they send, but that’s not the vibe.

I can’t let her go, though. Not for a million dollars.

I step on her foot by accident. She giggles. I lift her up and set her down so her feet are on top of mine, like I do with the girls.

“I’m gonna crush your feet,” she whispers, shifting her weight.

“They’re steel-toe boots.” I hold her tighter.

She relaxes. I cup her ass. She tenses, her butt cheeks clenching. Okay. Message received. I slide my hands back up to the small of her back, and she softens again, nuzzling her cheek against my chest. Her fingers play with my top button, and it comes undone. Her lips graze the skin she’s exposed.

I rock side-to-side in time to the plucking of the guitar.

In all the world, there is only us. Angie and me. We’re warm together, in the early morning chill.

I’ve wanted to hold her like this since before I can remember, since before I even understood what it was that I wanted from her. This is even better than I imagined.

Without warning, she gasps.

My head spins. What is it? Where? Every single muscle in my body tenses, ready to fight. I swing her behind me, blocking her body while I squint where she’s pointing.

“Great blue heron!” she squeals. “It’s huge!”

Damn. So it is. The bird is wading in the shallows, less than a yard away, staring calmly into the distance, and it is enormous. It’s almost as tall as Tamblyn.

Angie takes her phone out and begins to take pictures. She doesn’t even need to zoom in.

Most blue herons aren’t actually blue—they’re more of a dingy gray with a bluish tint—but maybe because of the way the sun hits the water, this one looks as blue as a robin’s egg.

“Your mom won’t believe it,” she says, breathless.

Yup. There goes the mood. Mom does love herons, though. She’s got the upstairs bathroom decorated with them.

Since Angie’s distracted, I take the opportunity to readjust my deflating dick.

We watch the heron for a while, Angie snapping pictures, totally absorbed, until for some reason, her wide doofy grin fades into a shy smile. She blinks up at me. She wants something. My abs clench.

“Um. Can we—um…” She turns her back to the heron and tentatively reaches out her hand to me. “Selfie?”

I don’t take selfies. Where do I stand?

I let her take my hand and pull me against her side. She holds the phone as high as she can. “Smile.”

I do, but I think I’m a second too late. She seems happy, though, when she scrolls. Somehow, she took, like, twenty pictures in no time at all. They all look the same to me, but she deletes most of them until she’s happy with what’s left.

Then she goes back to watching the heron until he finally spreads his wings and takes off for greener pastures.

“Whoa,” Angie exhales in awe. It is a sight to see. Big fella’s got the wingspan of a pterodactyl. “So beautiful.”

I watch her face as she tracks his flight down the creek towards the bay. She squints, her nose wrinkling. The daylight shows dried tear tracks in the makeup on her cheeks. Her lip liner is still there, but the filler color is gone.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Beautiful.”

She turns her head and smiles up at me.

So beautiful.

So perfect.

I stand behind her, wrap her in my arms, and rest my chin on the top of her head. Together, we watch the sun finish rising, listening to each other breathe.

She yawns.

“About time to get going,” I say. She murmurs in agreement, but I don’t let her go, and she doesn’t move, either.

“Next time you want to go out, I take you,” I tell her. I’m not sure where that came from. Maybe knowing I’ll have to let go of her eventually, and how some animal part of me is considering just not ever doing that.

“You’re not the boss of me,” she says, angling her head so it rests in the crook of my neck. Her lips brush the underside of my jaw as she speaks.

“You do what I say.” I squeeze her tighter. Our words are teasing. Our bodies aren’t.

“I’m a free agent.”

“You belong to me.”

“I didn’t agree to anything.” She presses a soft kiss to the spot under my ear so I know she’s still sweet. She’s playing sassy, and I love it.

“Squatter’s rights,” I say, and because if I don’t do it now I never will, I lift her up and gently lower her down from the truck bed. Before I let go, she looks up at me, her arms looped around my neck, smiling.

This is the picture I’d take.

Her happy face.

Her sparkling eyes.

Holding onto me with all her heart.