Chapter 10 Daisy #2
He shows me where to put my hands, where to position my feet, then turns on the ignition. I feel a surge of adrenaline shoot
straight to my heart.
He shows me how to take the gearshift out of park. I press my foot on the gas pedal, and we fly forward a few feet. I immediately
hit the brake, and we jerk to a gravelly stop. Mateo is laughing hysterically, which is not at all helpful.
“Maybe this is a bad idea,” I mutter.
“No, no, you’re doing great, try again. Touch the pedal lightly, but leave your foot on it. And steer us off the shoulder.”
As if it’s that easy!
But somehow, after a few tries, I start to get the hang of it. We get back onto the two-lane road. There is not a single lick
of traffic anywhere to be seen, thankfully, and I start to coast along the flat country road at around thirty miles an hour.
After a few minutes, it starts to feel really good.
“Wow! I’m doing it!” I say, which comes out a little more squeal-like than I intended. We go down a little hill and I let out a terrified whoop!
I glance over at Mateo—is he seeing how I’m absolutely slaying this?
“Whoa, watch the road!” he says, grabbing the wheel as we start to swerve into the opposite lane. “Jesus.”
“Sorry! Sorry!” I grip the wheel, humiliated now.
“It’s okay, you’re getting it,” he says with a smile. A smile that I have to stop getting so distracted by.
We keep going. He shows me how to slow down at a couple of intersections; thankfully, there is no one passing us, and the
risk of danger feels extremely low. Yet somehow, I feel like I’ve been injected with a powerful drug. I had no idea driving
could be such a thrill, that it would feel so . . . I don’t know, liberating.
I start experimenting, taking us up to forty miles an hour, and then forty-five, which is in fact the speed limit around here.
As we ride up and down gently sloping hills, through sunlit fields, a feeling of euphoria washes over me. It feels like the
road belongs entirely to us, and for some reason I start laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Mateo asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say, giddy. “This is just so fun!”
“You’re doing great,” he says encouragingly.
The breathy laughter keeps flying out of my chest, and then all of a sudden, I can’t explain it, but there are tears coming
down my face.
“Wait, are you laughing or crying?” he asks, bewildered.
“I don’t know!” And I really don’t. I don’t know what’s happened to me, what’s come over me, but I’m starting to shake, tears
rolling down my cheeks. I’m starting to feel—breathless.
“Pull over. Daisy, pull over,” Mateo orders.
“How?” I ask-laugh-cry. My arms are trembling.
“Gradually lift your foot from the pedal and place it on the brake pedal but not too hard. Turn the wheel this way. . . .
Yes, and then press the brake all the way—whoa!” We jerk to a stop. “Yup, just like that. Now gearshift,” he says, but his
words sound far away. He puts the gearshift into park for me and turns the key. The ignition settles into silence.
“Want to switch back?” he asks.
I nod, still overcome and shaky. I don’t know why I’m crying.
I get out of the car slowly and walk to the front. Mateo gets out on his side and meets me at the hood of the car.
“Are you all right?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. “No? I don’t know. I’m not upset, I’m . . .”
He wraps me into a hug. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”
I try to—I inhale a deep, shuddering breath, but it only makes me cry a little harder, straight into his chest. “It was fun,”
I blubber. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“It’s probably an anxiety reaction or something,” he says. “Maybe you’re relieved we’re both still alive.”
I laugh through my tears. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?” I pull back so I can see his face.
He still has his arms around me. “Nah, you were fine. A little more practice and you’ll nail it. I mean, you could win a race with a turtle or a bicyclist any day.”
I laugh again, and he reaches down and wipes a trail of tears from my cheek with his thumb.
“You’re okay,” he says.
I nod. “I know. Thanks.”
“Thanks for what?”
“For being so . . .” But I choke up again and shake my head.
“Don’t worry, I get this reaction all the time. Hot girls crying all over me.”
Once again, my tears turn to laughter . . . and somehow through it all, I feel my cheeks heating up again.
I back up out of his embrace and wipe my face on my T-shirt sleeve. “Ugh, I’m being so gross. Sorry. I guess I was just overwhelmed,
and . . .” I lean my butt against the hood of the car, and Mateo takes a seat beside me. “I always thought my dad would teach
me how to drive, which probably sounds stupid. Out there on the road—it felt so great. I felt so free. But it was also like
letting go of this fantasy that I didn’t even realize I was still holding on to, you know?”
Mateo sighs. “I’m not gonna pretend I know how that feels. But what you’re saying makes perfect sense.”
“I guess when I say it out loud, yeah.” I let out a breath, starting to feel calmer again. “That’s probably what it was. And relief that I didn’t kill anyone, ourselves included.”
He nods, quiet.
“Anyway, thank you.”
“For teaching you to drive? Or attempting to, at least? I’m not sure I really taught you all that much, but no problem.”
I laugh. “And for calling me a hot girl.”
“When did I call you a hot girl?” he asks.
I blush. “Shut up! Just then. The hot girls crying all over me comment.”
“Oh,” he says. “I was speaking generally, you know . . .”
“Oh.”
He nudges me in the ribs. “Daisy.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
I look over at him.
“I’m kidding. Of course you’re hot.”
My whole body feels overheated and shivery at the same time. It’s not just that he’s calling me hot—not exactly the world’s
most original compliment. It’s how he’s saying it, how he’s looking at me.
“Shut up.” I swat at him. Because honestly, how else am I supposed to respond?
“You shut up,” he says, swatting me back lightly.
“No, you shut up.” I swat back again.
But this time he grabs my wrist—not tight, just enough to prevent my hand from making contact with his upper arm. “Make me.”
I nudge him with my shoulder, and he drops my wrist. My hand falls onto his thigh, and then . . . I don’t really know what happens, but we’re turning toward each other, and his hand reaches up to my face. He tilts my chin, and I feel his intake of breath as I lean up toward him. And our lips meet.
The kiss isn’t intense and urgent, like the kiss with Owen was. That kiss had felt like a long time coming. But this kiss . . . I don’t know. It’s . . .
Perfect?
Fluttering and hesitant, each of us a little uncertain.
He pulls away just enough to ask, “Are you . . . okay with this?”
I nod.
We kiss again, deeper this time, and his tongue gently finds the tip of mine, and his lips are so warm and soft and . . .
oh wow. Mateo is a really good kisser.
Electricity moves up and down my spine, and I never want this to stop.
It doesn’t seem like Mateo does either.
I can’t believe this is happening I can’t believe this is happening I can’t believe this is happening.
It’s the only coherent thought in my brain, which is fine, because I don’t need any distractions right now.
His hand finds its way to my waist, sending tingles everywhere, and oh, so this is how older guys kiss.
I’ve kissed a few boys before; nothing fancy. Once at camp, as a dare, when I was all messed up about Dad’s death. Once at
a high school dance. And then Owen.
And now: this. It’s a whole other level.
Sexy and exciting and overwhelming. I’m afraid to show how much I like it, but Mateo pulls me closer.
He stands up and leans over me, and we press together, and the kiss is slow, and .
. . in a weird way it feels just as liberating and exciting as driving for the first time did.
Like I’m learning as I go. Like I’m both more in control and also less in control than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
And then—a car whizzes by along the road—that road that I briefly thought belonged to us—honking loudly, and we pull apart,
catching our breath.
I start to laugh, and Mateo does, too.
“So,” he says once we’ve both recovered somewhat. “Still want to go to the beach?”
I look at my watch. “Oh wow, it’s time to pick up Eden. Let’s get her and we can all go.”
I’m relieved to have a plan, otherwise I’m not sure how I would know what to do with myself next. On autopilot, I get back
into the passenger seat, and Mateo takes the wheel. He puts his music back on, and we’re quiet on the drive to Laurel—the
tension of that kiss lingering in the air between us, taut as a stretched rubber band, while out the window, the fields fly
by, speckled with gold.