Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
SUTTON
We ignore the first crackle of thunder. Ignorant of the harsh line in the sky and gray, endless clouds chasing behind us.
Above us, through the open top of Cooper’s Jeep, is a cotton candy sky.
The day fading into warm oranges and pinks, watercolors blending as if the sky is one of Meave’s pieces of art.
“Turn it up?” he asks as ODESZA’s “Line of Sight” comes on.
I reach to turn up the radio, my fingers twisting the knob, making sure it is on an increment of five for him. I lift my hands when the song hits its peak, stretching up through the roof.
Wind on my fingertips and billowing in my curls. Contentment on my face.
I tip my head up and take a slow inhale of air and the lyrics.
Is he taking them in, too? Can he hear the way I sing the lyrics as a plea to him?
A single rain drop hits the tip of my nose, and as I open my eyes, I debate telling Cooper we should put the top back on.
We checked the weather before programming the directions to campus.
There was a ten percent chance, but the radar only showed a minuscule speck of green.
I turn my attention to him and decide not to.
From his passenger seat, I stare over at him.
Wind in his hair.
Smile on his face.
He’s the Cooper I remember. The Cooper I know he’s fighting to get back to.
Without another warning, thunder shakes the car. Lightning painting over the sunset by gray clouds. The heavens open up, droplets beating down on us.
Cooper curses. “It wasn’t supposed to rain.” He urgently turns on the wiper blades.
Definitely should have suggested putting the top up.
“Do you want me to put the cover on?” I ask, tugging my hair into whatever messy ponytail it’ll manage. We were having a good hair day. And by we, I meant my curls decided to behave, but we are one raindrop away from it becoming a chaotic mane again.
When I reach to unbuckle myself, I plan to climb into the back to attempt to pull the soft top back on, Cooper’s hand drops on top of mine.
“Don’t.” His gaze jumps to me before returning to the road ahead as the rain starts coming down aggressively. “People drive like shit in the rain. I’ll pull over at the next exit.”
“You sure? I don’t mind.” Cooper won’t remove his hand from mine. “I’ll be quick. Nothing will happen.”
“Right. Yeah, I’m not letting you do that. I’m not putting you in a position to get hurt, Dave.”
“Okay,” I say, licking my bottom lip.
Cooper releases my hand, and I search on my phone, shielding it from the rain, for a place we can stop. I reprogram the maps. The stretch of road ahead of us doesn’t have many exits but plenty of farmland. That’s the middle of the Midwest for you.
We get a reprieve from the rain ten minutes later, but that doesn’t last long. The rain kicks up again as we hit the three-mile mark to our stop.
Cooper puts on “Unwritten” and laughs out, “It says to feel the rain on your skin.”
Soaking, we finally pull into the parking lot of a strip mall. Next to it, a neon sign flashes. One of the letters is missing. So, instead of The Cork Stop, it reads The Cok Stop.
Cooper reads it aloud. “There or McDonald’s? I have a change of clothes in the back.”
“We have to go to The Cok Stop.”
“Thank god,” he groans jokingly, pulling into the half-packed parking lot. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing veined forearms. I suck in a short pull of air, silently, watching them flex as he turns the wheel.
We get out of the car and immediately pull the soft top back into place. In his trunk, luckily covered and dry, we find a towel and try to dry off the front seats.
I grab his duffle from the back, and we sprint to the front doors.
Under the covering, we laugh, taking in our drowned rat appearances.
His shirt is glued to his body, dipping into the carvings of muscles.
The light fabric is entirely see-through.
His trousers are heavy and cling to his quads.
Brown hair is flat. He runs a hand through the front strands, pushing only half off his forehead.
I probably don’t look any better.
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us. I can’t put a finger on it, what it is, or why it feels important, but it lingers. My body is buzzing from the inside out. I’m forced to swallow, but it’s slow, and my throat is dry.
“You good?” he checks in.
“Great.” I nod, deciding tonight I’m running to him instead of away. And maybe listen to Meave’s suggestion.
Cooper holds the door open for me, taking the bag from my shoulder. We ask a bartender to point us in the direction of the bathroom.
“Over there.” She hands us a wooden stick covered in stickers with a key attached to the end. “Only one bathroom.”
We head in the direction she points.
I’m not sure what I expected of The Cork Stop.
The exterior screams dive bar with stale cigarette air and cheap beer.
However, the interior is moody and cozy.
Wine bottles line the wall behind the bar, and there are barrels as standing tables.
Cracked linoleum booths line two walls under decor that is all wine puns and dated to whenever this place opened.
My personal favorite being the painting of two glasses, with one glass saying nice legs to the other.
If I were in my early thirties, I think this would be my dream spot. A wine dive bar.
Single file, we head down a short hallway that leads to the bathroom. I use the key to unlock the door and walk in. Cooper follows me inside, locking it behind us.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing,” he says casually.
“After me?”
“Sure. I don’t care.”
“Then why are you in here?”
“I’m not going to leave you in a strange place by yourself.” He drops the duffle on the sink, unzipping it. Tossing me a pair of his sweats and a sweatshirt.
He turns around, letting me change. I shiver when my checkered maxi skirt pools on the floor, skin lightly damp.
I tug the graphic T-shirt I was wearing and sports bra over my head in one sweep.
Only in my underwear, I bend down to pull on his sweats.
His sweatshirt floods me—size, warmth, smell, emotions a part of me screams we shouldn’t be okay with.
When I spin back around, I realize he was facing the mirror. My reflection is unobstructed. Arms crossed over his chest, tongue pushing into his bottom lip, he’s pretending to stare up at the ceiling.
Our positions flip, backs to each other. I take paper towels to squeeze the water out of my curls, finger-combing it afterward. In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of Cooper, it’s only fair.
He’s unbuttoning the collared shirt he wore. One button at a time, slowly. My eyes linger on the sculpted muscles, narrowing into a trim waist. I’m disappointed when he puts on a shirt.
Cooper turns around. The corners of my mouth tug up sloppily.
My cheeks are hot. He steps up behind me, an arm reaching around me to brush a strand of hair off my forehead.
I watch him intently through the mirror as he pulls off a green hair tie from his wrist. Running his hands through my hair, he pulls it off the nape of my neck, splitting it into three strands.
Meticulously, he braids it down my back before tying it off with my hair tie.
“Thank you,” I say, it comes out as a whisper.
The energy in the room is pulsing.
Whatever has been passing between us is back.
He turns me around, hands on my waist.
My butt is pressed into the sink—which is surprisingly clean. The whole bathroom is. His legs straddle mine. Arms bracketing me in, but it’s his stare that has me anchored. Has me one second from leaning forward and kissing him.
The crush I had on him at eleven, and again at fifteen is resurging. Stronger, and with a vengeance as if it never left.
His stomach growls.
I shake my head. “Always hungry.”
“Growing boy.”
“I don’t know if your body could handle any more growing or muscles.”
Cooper’s eyes have the tiniest reaction. His throat bobs slowly around a swallow, the tip of his tongue peeking out of his mouth moistening his bottom lip. “Liked what you saw?”
“I could ask the same.”
“I always like what I see.” A hand reaches for my braid, and he tugs on it, tipping my chin. “Gonna answer me, Dave?”
Our mouths are close.
My eyes drag from his lips and into his brown gaze, and back again.
“No.” Yes.
He smirks and releases a throaty laugh that scratches my insides like a match. “Liar. Such a shame. I’m awfully hungry, baby. And not for food.”
“Good thing the special of the day is apricot whipped burrata.”
“Good thing.” Cooper’s voice sends a shiver down my spine. “We’d better go order before they run out.”
***
The bartender is one of two employees in the establishment. When we sat down in a worn-out booth, she slipped from behind the bar to take our orders.
I’ve been spinning the straw of my Diet Coke since she left. Cooper is silent, drinking his wine.
We luck out, getting the last order of burrata. We also order a sandwich, in which I joke again about his hunger. Cooper pinches my side playfully, but his eyes are roaring louder with hunger than his stomach.
The bartender returns with our sandwich on separate plates. I take the pickles off my half and hand them to him—I’ve never liked them, but he does.
Between bites, we talk. Laughing like we used to do when life felt simpler. Easier. There was a bliss about being a teenager—the world at your fingertips without any idea of the responsibilities and pressures that came with it.
Cooper thumbs at the corner of his mouth. “You have a little something,” he tells me.
I wipe my napkin over my mouth, but it comes back clean.
Cooper shakes his head. “Here.” He leans forward, without a napkin, and brushes his thumb against the corner of my mouth toward the center.
I don’t know what comes over me, but my tongue darts out, licking the pad of his thumb clean. His pupils flare when he applies pressure, pushing on my tongue.
Speakers buzz to life, shaking us out of the moment, when someone puts change into the old jukebox.
Cooper pushes his plate to the center with mine and extends a hand to me.
“Dance with me?”
“You don’t dance.”
“Madeline would disagree. I’ll show you.”
I don’t know what he’s supposed to be showing me.
We move uncoordinatedly. For as graceful as we both are on the ice, the same cannot be said about right now.
Our hips bump, shoulders collide. I think I step on his feet more than I make contact with the planked floor.
Despite it all, we’re laughing. Continuously. Contagiously.
I can’t stop.
My head tips back as I burst out in another fit of laughs.
“I don’t think I’ve had this much fun since—” I attempt to find a time, but I can’t. High school, maybe? Definitely not college.
Cooper finishes my thought, “Me either,” then adds, “MOOSE and our date if anything.”
“That was fake. Practice.” We spin and his hold on me tightens, drawing me closer and closer to his chest. “But tonight?”
“Not practice. I told you, Dave, I want you.”