Chapter 16
They are approaching.
They are approaching the truck right this very second, and there is lipstick on Daryl’s face, which means Alvina’s lips have been ON HIS FACE—
“Gah!” I squawk, like the twelve-year-old I apparently become when thinking about my mother kissing Dom’s father.
At least I’m not vomiting.
My head whips toward Dom’s as he’s turning to look at me. His wide eyes are full of the same panic I’m feeling, an unusual expression on someone who’s normally so unflappable. We’re mirrors of worry, though, and for two seconds we stare at each other before erupting into chaos.
“What do we do?” I shout over the deafening chorus of Ave Maria now playing. My body automatically makes itself as small as possible, and next to me, Dominic does the same. “We won’t fit on the floor!”
Having heard not one word I’ve said, Dom begins trying to cram himself to the floor anyway. I whack him on the back a few times to get his attention, but it’s unnecessary; he pulls himself back up to the seat, his head craning back and forth.
When I see his gaze land on the blanket we’re flattening, I look at it too. And when he grabs my arm, pulls me roughly closer, and then cups his hands around my ear, I freeze.
“Under the blanket,” he says, words I hear but also feel as his lips crush against my skin when his balance teeters. I ignore my skittering pulse and nod; he lets go of my arm and tugs on the blanket, both of us shifting our weights awkwardly until it’s out from beneath us.
His lips move again when he glances up to check how close our parents are. I don’t hear what he says, and it’s probably for the better; I’m pretty sure there’s some cursing in there. Then he settles on the seat in a deceptively normal position, sitting upright, feet on the floor.
He looks over at me and hesitates for a second, until he glances over his shoulder at our parents. Then he gestures at his lap, tapping his legs impatiently.
I stare at him, my jaw dropping. “What?”
And I can’t hear him any better than he can hear me over the Gregorian chants rattling my bones, but I can read his lips clearly as he points at his lap again: Come on!
We’re pretending to kiss. That’s where he’s going with this idea.
It’s the arrival of Daryl and Alvina that spurs me to action; I scramble onto Dominic’s lap, straddling his legs but staying so far back that if I teeter even a little, I’ll tumble right off.
A knock sounds at the window just as Dominic throws the blanket around the two of us, the tops of our heads visible but presumably little else. I lean forward and talk directly into his ear, because if we’re going to pull this off, we’d better be convincing.
“Put your hands on my back outside the blanket,” I shout. “I’ll hold the blanket up. Come on—move your hands around.”
He protests with words I half-hear, but only for a second; when another knock sounds on the glass of the window, sharper this time, I snatch the top edges of the blanket. Then he pushes his arms out of our cocoon and places his hands on my back.
I slump forward a little, partly because I’m uncomfortable but also because his grip pulls so naturally, tugging me closer until I’m forced to accept this moment for what it is.
So I let my head drop until it rests more or less on his shoulder, my hands still clutching the blanket up by my ears. I scoot it down slightly so I can peek at what’s happening out there, only to find Alvina with her hands cupped around her eyes as she tries to see inside.
“She’s looking,” I say quickly, my voice muffled by Dom’s shoulder. “She’s looking inside. Are your hands moving?”
“You can feel them, can’t you?” Dominic mutters.
He’s correct, of course. I can feel his hands, and they’re sliding very convincingly over my back.
“Yeah,” I breathe into his neck, a word I’m not sure he hears over the deafening Latin. I shift my knees, trying to ease some of the bendy discomfort—
But the Gregorian chant stops abruptly, plunging us into silence, and I know a brief moment of panic that sends all thoughts of comfort from my mind.
Dom swears under his breath. “Half my butt is on my phone,” he says into the quiet that leaves my ears ringing, and one hand drops away from my back.
Daryl’s voice drifts toward us in the absence of the monks whose aural presence I clearly did not appreciate before. “Excuse me,” he says, accompanied by a knock against the window. “Excuse me?”
Alvina speaks next, her words sharper. “Very rude behavior. Hello?” She raps against the window again. “Hello! What are you doing in there? It’s rude to ignore people who are talking to you, you know.”
“Dom!” I whisper frantically.
“I know,” he mutters. “I’m trying—hang on—”
The rest of his words are drowned out, swallowed up by new music, both better and worse than the monks or the heavy metal—the slow wobbling of a synthesizer and strumming guitar, followed by the longing voice of David Gates.
I freeze with recognition, and Dominic does the same, a tiny motion I can feel because of how close we are.
It’s “If,” by Bread, a song we danced to in the headlights of Dom’s truck as the music played from his car’s speakers. Very much like right now, in fact, except this moment isn’t romantic; it’s painful.
I lean back, my eyes finding his, wide and full of questions. But his gaze darts away as he digs for his phone again, his motions more frantic. His other hand is still on my back, too, and whether he realizes it or not, his grip has tightened, pulling me closer.
“Popped up randomly,” he says, barely audible over the volume, and his shoulders fall in relief as he hits the button for the next song to play—
Until the song actually filters through the speakers.
My eyes widen further at the pluck of strings, unmistakably identifiable, even around the renewed knocking of our parents against the window.
“What is this?” I say. But I already know: it’s my music. The stuff that’s on my playlist.
He still doesn’t meet my eyes; every ounce of concentration he possesses is on his phone.
“Dom,” I say more loudly. When the music stops abruptly, I’m able to speak again. “You hate Sufjan Stevens.”
He clears his throat into the sudden silence. “I don’t hate—”
“Your exact words back then were ‘This is the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life,’” I cut him off. My voice is soft now that the blaring music has stopped. “That’s what you said. ‘The worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’”
“I don’t—it’s not—” He breaks off, sighing. “It’s just—a lot of banjo—”
“Then don’t listen!” I say as something sharp rips my lungs, making it hard to breathe. “Why are you listening if you hate banjo?”
And when his gaze finally meets mine, his eyes seem greener than usual. “I don’t hate it,” he says. “But it was on shuffle, Berkeley. Coincidence.” His throat bobs as he swallows, and then he looks to the side where our parents are still outside the truck. “Let’s get out of this.”
I don’t believe in coincidences—not like this, anyhow. And yet…
Believe him, my mind whispers. Everything will hurt less if you believe him.
So I swallow my protests and nod, because I cannot carry with me the knowledge that we’re going through our lives humming the same songs under our breaths.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Okay.” I clear my throat and face the window, and then, pitching my voice much higher and speaking as loudly as possible, I say, “Go away!”
Dom lowers his voice too and barks, “Leave us alone. We’re clearly busy.”
“I don’t think so,” Alvina says. “I want a word.”
And then, audacity of audacities, she opens the truck door. The dying light of the evening filters faintly into the back seat, less noticeable than the cool breeze I feel even through the blanket.
“Vee,” Daryl says quickly—he has a cute nickname for her?!—“We can’t invade.”
It’s a good thing he says this, because his words cover up my squeak of terror. My mind has gone completely blank, adrenaline the ruling faction in the Kingdom of Reese, and my heart is racing wildly.
But Dominic?
Somehow, incredibly, Dominic stays cool and steady and composed.
As though he’s already taken a moment like this into account, he pulls me closer—so close my sharp breath gets caught between us, no escape.
He wraps one arm all the way around me outside the blanket, his other hand moving not over my back but up to my neck, exerting pressure until I tilt my head.
“Come on,” he breathes, the words puffing against my skin. “Pretend we’re kissing.”
“I am,” I breathe back as I relax, letting him guide me.
He pulls my face in, and my lips miss landing against his by a narrow margin; it’s like we’re kissing each others’ cheeks, and my body freezes again, because we are so close.
Alvina says something I’m too dazed to understand, but her voice is growing louder.
“We’ve never kissed this stiffly,” Dominic whispers, and now there’s a note of panic to his voice as his hands tug gently. I can hear it in the silence where the music was blaring before. “Come on—”
I break out of my spell and squish my cheek against his, once again letting him guide me.
And it’s fake. It’s obviously fake. If any part of us is kissing, it’s our cheeks.
Except his hands are moving so naturally over my back and my neck and my half-covered hair, and he’s tilting his head, and mine, too. The air under here is warm and stuffy, uncomfortably so.
But I have no doubt that to Alvina and Daryl, we will appear as lovers in a passionate embrace.
Our charade stretches impossibly long, although in reality it’s maybe only a few seconds; Daryl and Alvina speak under their breaths to each other for a moment, and then the door closes again.
We wait in silence, and although I hear the strains of Alvina’s scandalized voice along with Daryl’s calm, soothing tones, neither of them knock on the window again. It’s only when we hear their car start that I fling the blanket away, desperate for the cool touch of air against my skin.
“That was close,” he breathes, and I nod frantically, trying to catch my breath.