Chapter 22
Mom needs the car for work this weekend, so Evie is lending me Big Bird to drive to Storrs. I was supposed to inherit Nicky’s
old Pathfinder when he went to school. But when I didn’t win the parking lottery, it made more sense for him to keep it so
he could come home to visit.
Still, it doesn’t mean that in moments like these I don’t wish we both had cars.
If I still had my money from the show, I could buy myself a car, I think, not without bitterness. I try not to dwell, because what’s done is done. But sometimes it’s hard.
At least it works out perfectly, because Evie picks me up on Friday to drive to school, and I’ll drive Big Bird home and leave
first thing in the morning. I could have gone tonight, but Nicky and I figured it would be more fun for me to come out tomorrow
instead, since he’ll probably be spending all Friday thinking about the upcoming game.
Before AP English, which is third period for me today, Ben catches up with me in the hallway.
“Hey, stranger,” he says, jogging over to me. “Are you ghosting me again?”
I laugh nervously. “What? No. Of course not.”
“I know. I was joking. But, hey, are you going to Fall Fest tomorrow? Eddie has spent all week trying to convince a group of us to go.”
“Of course he has,” I say. “Evie’s dragging him. Misery loves company.”
Ben shrugs. “Could be fun. I signed up for the dunking booth. You could dunk me.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I can’t. I’m visiting my brother at UConn.”
“Oh, that sounds fun,” he says. “You going to a game?”
I hook my thumbs through the loops of my backpack and nod. “Yeah.”
He looks at me, as though he’s trying to figure something out. “Maybe another time, then.”
I agree, before we both go our own ways to class. He asked if I was ghosting him again. The word that rattles around my brain
is again. I stopped texting him because of what Evie said about Chelsea wanting to get back with him. But from his perspective . . .
maybe I did ghost him this summer. I feel terrible. If he was just trying to figure out how I feel about him, I know he can’t
see it anywhere on my face—because I don’t even know the answer. Everything inside me is one big, confused soup.
In second-to-last period, my phone vibrates. Usually, I’m good about not using my phone during class, but today, I check it.
LUKE:
I was able to move everything. We still good to go?
As sneakily as possible, I text back that yes, we’re still good, and that I can go get him first thing in the morning.
LUKE:
And you’re sure it isn’t too public for you?
I’ve thought about this. I’m not nearly as concerned about being seen with Luke at UConn, where I’ll be a nameless face. It’s
back in Glenridge, where people know me, my family, my name, where things feel far more dangerous.
I’m sure, I text.
“Claire?” Ms. Lee says.
I jump. “Yes?”
She walks over to me, holding out her hand. “This is unusual for you. I’ll keep your phone up here until the end of class.”
A few people mutter something along the lines of “Oooh, caught out.” I apologize and hand it over. Even though he claims he’s
coming, deep down, I don’t think he will. I think he’ll bail at the last minute for some reason or another. But there’s no
cancellation text or phone call from Luke when the bell rings and I get my phone back. There’s nothing new for the rest of
the afternoon or evening, aside from a text letting me know his address and asking what he should bring.
I guess this is really happening.
I’m not surprised by where Luke is staying when I arrive the next morning to pick him up.
It’s a brown 1960s mid-century modern house, right on the border between Glenridge and Westbury.
It’s nestled in a grove of trees, hidden behind a long, winding driveway.
I’m familiar with the house because it’s been written up in our local paper as an “architectural gem,” with photographs of the interior after its last faithful-to-its-time-period renovation.
It’s a beautiful house, but part of me also feels sad. He’s only nineteen, and he’s staying alone in a house for two months.
I’m eighteen, and even though we’re not exactly close, I still get lonely when Mom is gone for more than a night. Luke’s career
has forced him into a stage of adulthood that I don’t have to think about yet, because—at least for the last five years—Mom
thinks about it for me.
I honk twice, letting Luke know I’m outside.
As I wait, I feel a shiver of excitement. I stopped at Java Hut on my way, so the car smells like toasted bagels and coffee,
and the weather is perfect for a road trip and football game. It rained last night, but the sky cleared up this morning, making
the air especially crisp and refreshing. A few minutes later, Luke is locking the front door, a duffel bag slung around his
shoulders.
Instead of going around to the passenger side, he comes to my window and motions for me to lower it. He’s wearing a pair of
dark sunglasses and a backward hat.
“Hey,” I say, once I’ve rolled the window down. “I brought breakfast.”
“You read my mind. I was going to ask if we could stop. But hey, listen, are you sure you don’t want to take the Bronco? I’m
happy to drive.”
“No. I’m driving.” I tap the wheel where I will hold it at nine and three for the duration of our trip. “Evie lent me Big
Bird specifically for this. Plus, I need the practice.”
“You need the practice? That doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“Stop whining and get in. I’m driving. End of story.”
“You’re the boss,” he says, holding up his hands. When he comes around the side to get in, he adds, “Just try not to kill
us.”
I was worried Luke was going to act all different and gentle with me after yesterday, but he isn’t. He’s being normal, which
is a relief. And as it turns out, he’s also the world’s worst backseat driver.
“Watch that truck!” he says, gripping the grab handle dramatically.
“I see it. Relax.”
And then, ten minutes later:
“Watch your lines!” he cries.
“My lines?” I repeat.
“Yes.” He motions at the lines between lanes. “You merge without a care in the world!”
And then, a couple of minutes later, he says, “Can you lay off jerking the brakes like that? I’m going to be sick.”
“Hey,” I snap. “Enough with the backseat driving. You’re worse than my mother. You are in control of the music and the music
only.”
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t let me drive,” he mutters.
“Because. This is good for you. A taste of real life where the world doesn’t bend to the whims of Lucas Cordova.” Then I swerve
the tiniest bit for good measure.
“Fine,” he says. “Just please don’t swerve like that ever again.”
He’s in the process of connecting his phone via Bluetooth when he gets a phone call.
“Do you mind?” he asks me.
“No. Go ahead.”
“Hey, Vee. What’s up.” He pauses to listen. “Aw, yeah, I can’t tonight. But I can take a shift tomorrow night for sure. Maybe
like nine to eleven Eastern? Yeah. Sure. Sign me up then. Thanks, Vee. You too.”
He hangs up. “Sorry about that.”
“Work stuff?” I ask.
“No, no. It’s a volunteer thing,” he explains. “I’m a counselor for one of those hotlines. Where people can call in if they’re
having a tough time. I try to do the same shifts every week, but whenever I’m working it gets out of whack.”
“Wow. That’s so kind of you,” I say. “What made you want to do that?”
“I mean, it’s not like I’m some angel. I get something out of it, too,” he says.
“We’re trained to use a pseudonym. I like being able to talk to someone and know that I’m being genuinely helpful because of what I’m saying, not because of anything else.
There’s no, like . . . fame halo. We’re just two anonymous people. ”
I glance over at him as he puts on a song, and something about him looks different to me now. I know people from school who
volunteer a ton, and maybe I’m being cynical, but I always assume it’s at least partly because it looks good on college applications.
That’s not the case for Luke. He’s always been a good listener, sure, but maybe he’s changed in more ways than I’ve given
him credit for.
“What?” he says, feeling my eyes on him. “What’s with that look on your face?”
“Nothing. I just thought with all that fame and money, you would have developed cooler taste in music.”
“My taste in music is cool,” he says indignantly.
“You sweet, sweet boy.” I manage to take my right hand off its three o’clock position to pat Luke’s head. “Your taste in music
has never been cool.”
“You can be a hater all you want, but Ed Sheeran is good,” Luke stresses, and I laugh. “He is!”
We get to East Hartford around eleven thirty, which is perfect, because Nicky’s game starts at noon. We park in the visitors’ lot and decide to leave our stuff in the trunk, since we’re meeting Mara and then will walk directly to the game.
I put on my UConn gear: a sweatshirt, and a hat that I loop my ponytail through. I brought my biggest sunglasses, because
I don’t want to be recognizable to any online sleuths if someone takes a picture or a video of Luke and posts it. People on
the internet are detail freaks, and I don’t want to give them anything real to work with. I’m not necessarily worried, but I figure it’s worth being cautious.
“Oh,” I say suddenly, after I’ve put on my own gear. “I forgot.” I go to the trunk and pull out one of Nicky’s UConn sweatshirts
that he left behind in his room. “For you. To help you blend in.”
He takes off his jean jacket and then the sweater he’s wearing to put on the UConn one, and as he does, I see two or three
inches of his bare stomach, and about an inch of boxer briefs peeking out from his pants. I force myself to look away.
He puts his denim jacket back on, pulls the hood out from under it, and then widens his arms to show himself off. “Look okay?”
“Yep,” I say brightly, pulling out my phone.
Nicky connected me with Mara over text last night. Luke and I are meeting up with her so we can all watch the game together.
Mara got a ride from campus to the stadium with friends, and she’s going to ride back with us after.