Chapter 25
Stevie
About an hour earlier
I don’t want to admit it, but Diana did a decent job setting me up. Jake is okay. In fact, if I hadn’t spent so much of the last week with Adam, I might even be interested. Marlow has been gloating behind the counter since I got here.
Jake is an objectively handsome man. I can acknowledge that.
He’s all sun-bronzed skin, golden hair, picture-perfect stubble, and broad shoulders.
He also has a job. It’s something techy at a startup that manufactures e-scooters.
I zoned out halfway through his explanation, but he’s passionate, and he’s smart.
On top of that, Jake doesn’t seem to mind talking about sasquatch, and his mom didn’t drive him here. Yep. The bar is on the floor.
When he sauntered back to my booth, he had a black motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. Three weeks ago, Jake might have turned my head. Tonight, it’s like I’m having a fun night with one of my brothers, and dinner is almost over.
“Well . . .” I loop my purse over my shoulder, the universal sign that the date is winding down. “I should get going.”
“What about that ride?” Jake slides out of the booth ahead of me, tucking his helmet under his arm. “You still haven’t been on an X-Eighty. That’s a crime, Stevie.”
“Wellll . . .” I hitch my purse higher, the universal sign that I’m in a secret relationship and shouldn’t go on motorcycle rides with objectively handsome men.
“C’mon,” Jake prods with a crooked smile as we stop at the cash register. “No strings. Just a quick zip around the neighborhood.”
Marlow clears her throat.
Jake passes her his credit card. “You’re going to love it. Trust me.”
“Wellllll . . .” I stall, scrambling for a reasonable excuse to skip out early.
Marlow clears her throat again.
“Do you need a glass of water, miss?” I mutter pointedly while Jake signs a receipt.
She rolls her eyes, gesturing with her head toward the motorcycle helmet.
“Okay. I’ll go,” I say with forced lightness. Apparently, I have to. I refuse to be accused of half-arsing my end of this bet.
I follow my date through the glass door and a few feet down the sidewalk.
I scan the parking spaces for a motorcycle, but Jake doesn’t walk toward the parking spaces.
Tucked against the brick diner is . . . something I didn’t envision when he offered me a ride on his X-Eighty.
I didn’t know what an X-Eighty was. I do now.
“It’s a Segway?” I bite my lip.
“That’s a similar brand, but this is better. First of all, this has enough under the hood to carry two passengers.”
What hood?
But Jake’s not done. “It feels goofy at first, but trust me. You’re going to have a blast.” He holds out his helmet, all chivalry. “Are you in or what, Sullivan?”
Okay, he’s almost adorable. He’s no Adam, but Marlow is also watching us through the window. I can feel her eyes on me, plus half the eyes of Cape Georgeana. I have to be a good date.
I snatch the helmet, popping it over my red hair. “Let’s do this.”
Jake grins, helping me tighten the chin strap. “How’s your balance?”
Since the concussion? Abysmal. “It’s okay,” I lie. How hard can it be to stay upright on one of these things?
He winks. “Just hang on to me.”
I let out a fluttering laugh, and we climb aboard clumsily.
I’m situated between Jake and the handlebar, our feet wedged together on the footboard.
It’s awkward, but we make it work. After a short tutorial on how to turn and balance our weight, Jake starts it up.
We peel off down the sidewalk, and I screech.
I’m sure my hair is whapping him in the face.
But ten minutes later, I’m laughing and having fun with Jake—the same way I have fun with my brothers. We’re flying through town at half the speed limit, the salty night air whipping around us.
When we pull up to Cape Georgeana's lone stoplight, a golf cart rolls up beside us.
Its high-pitched engine revs, taunting us.
When I peek over, a boy from my freshman men's choir class is at the wheel. He’s disguised by sunglasses, but his blond cowlick and Cape Georgeana High School Choir T-shirt give him away.
“Hey, Beckett.” I offer a brave wave, quickly resuming my grip on the handlebar. “Having a good summer?”
He raises his sunglasses, jutting his chin in greeting, then lowers them.
Twisting a knob on the dash, his mouth tightens into a firm line.
The iconic opening riff of “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC fills the air around us.
Beckett feathers his gas pedal, and the menacing one-cylinder engine of his golf cart sputters.
Fixing Jake with a dead stare, he revs it a few more times while we wait for the light to turn green.
His golf cart lurches ahead slightly. Those things aren't built to be revved, but Beckett makes it work.
“Are we doing this?” my date asks under his breath.
“I think we have to.” AC/DC's pounding bassline fills me with confidence I shouldn’t feel as someone riding tandem on a scooter built for one. I'll never hear the end of it if I lose a street race to Beckett on a golf cart, though. “Let's do it.”
Thun-der!
Beckett revs and lurches his golf cart again.
Thun-der!
Jake and I brace for maximum speed: twelve miles per hour.
Thun-der!
The light turns green.
With a screech from me and the distinct, loud sputter of golf cart exhaust, the race is on.
Unbelievably, it's neck and neck. We might have a shot at winning this thing. With a laugh I holler, “Punch it, Jake!” into the wind.
“I am punching it!”
Then Beckett pulls ahead, and I whine. He leaves us in his dust, the thumping bass of AC/DC fading in the distance. I can’t help but laugh, even though the beginnings of stubborn braids want to sprout on my head. We need a rematch.
Jake laughs with me, easing off the speed. “Take the handlebars!” he calls over the wind.
I grab them cautiously. What is he doing?
Jake leans forward, pushing the X-Eighty back to top speed. Then he straightens his arms at our sides and hollers, “I’m king of the world!” into the wind.
A cackle shoots out of me. I can’t help it. “What are you doing?” I ask, breathless with laughter as Jake resumes steering.
“Oh, come on. You know. From Titanic?”
Still unsure whether he was having a serious moment or making a joke, I say, “I haven’t seen that one.” That’s nice and neutral.
“Seriously?” There’s disappointment in his voice. “It’s my all-time favorite movie. Hands down.” We zoom around a corner, headed back toward the diner. “What’s your favorite movie?”
I have a new favorite every month, so I go with my current love. August got me into it, and it tends to filter my dates efficiently whenever I bring it up. “Somewhere in Time.”
“Auuugh!” Jake laughs. “That movie is so bad!”
Objectively, maybe. But that’s strike three for objectively handsome Jake. Poor guy. Strikes one and two are that he isn’t Adam. We argue about movies until we roll past the diner to my car.
Then a dark figure steps onto the sidewalk at our side.
With a holler, Jake jerks the handlebars, and we tumble onto the ground, a tangle of limbs and electric scooter.
“Stevie!” a familiar voice calls.
There’s no time to care that Adam is watching me kiss the pavement. My right hip and shoulder absorb the impact with the old bricks, which feel like a cheese grater against my bare knees. Jake and I finally stop rolling and land in an undignified heap.
“Ugh . . .” I moan, curling up to sit on my bottom.
The whole world spins thanks to my barely-healed concussion.
But, because of Jake’s helmet and the sacrifice of my hip and shoulder, my brain is safe—I think.
This doesn’t feel the same as my last fall, anyway.
I’m rattled, but the pain is centralized in my hip and legs.
“What were you thinking?” Adam barks at Jake, kneeling at my side.
Jake groans, holding a hand to his head.
Marlow pushes through the diner doors. “What on earth happened?”
“Some guy stepped in front of us on the sidewalk,” Jake mumbles, his eyes pinched shut.
“It was Shirtless Adam,” a woman calls helpfully from the park bench a dozen feet away.
Adam buries a growl, looking me over. “What hurts?”
“Yes,” I whine, aware that I’m making no sense. Everything hurts.
“Your head? How’s your head?” Adam reaches for my shredded knees but stops himself. His hand clenches into a tight fist.
“I don’t know.” I press my fingers to my temple. “Good, I guess.”
“My head was fine without a helmet, thanks.” Jake wasn’t this whiny before the fall.
“I texted August.” Marlow drops her phone into her apron. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I mumble. I need this date to be over so I can go home, clean my gashes, and cry into a bowl of Lucky Charms.
“Can I help you up?” Adam murmurs.
I nod, peering up at him. “Thanks.”
I don’t need a doctor for road rash, and I don’t need help standing, but I like having a valid excuse for Adam to take my hand in a public place. He helps me to my feet, and I hang onto him a little too long.
Meanwhile, Jake groans, pulling his non-Segway upright. “I’m good, thanks,” Jake mutters.
“Are you really?” I ask. I was wearing his helmet, after all. I unbuckle it, passing it to Jake. “How’s your head?”
“That rang my bell a little, but I’ll be fine.” His eyes move to Adam and back while he puts on his helmet. “Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh.” I bite my lip. “Our friend, August, is a doctor. Want him to take a look at you?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” It’s dim out here, but Jake turns red. He won’t quite look at me. “I’m going to head out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup.” There’s a whirring sound when he presses a button on his handlebars. He climbs carefully on the footboard, looking from me to Adam. “Thanks for the . . .” He can’t seem to find an appropriate descriptor for this evening. “Date.”
This was, indeed, a Date.
“Yeah.” I wave limply. “Thanks, Jake.”
Adam and I watch as he rolls away, the whir of his scooter echoing in the night.
“Well.” Adam curls an arm around my shoulders, leading me toward the entrance. Then he announces for the benefit of the woman on the park bench, “I’m glad I bet on Bigfoot.”
Five minutes later, I’m sitting on a rolling office chair in Marlow’s commercial kitchen while August rubs something cold all over my road rash.
Adam is leaning against the wall, his arms folded over this chest. He hasn’t said much since he helped me inside.
“How exactly did this happen?” August asks, focused on my leg.
I can’t answer or even watch him work. Squeezing my eyes shut, I clench my jaw and bite back a whine. Whatever he’s doing burns like crazy.
“I stepped onto the sidewalk.” Adam’s voice is a low rumble.
August cringes while he works. “Right in front of the Segway, or . . .”
Adam shakes his head. “I just stepped onto the sidewalk. That’s it.”
“To be fair,” Marlow calls from the cooktop where she's flipping a row of hamburgers, “you’re like six-foot-a-million, and it’s dark out there. After an hour talking to Stevie, Jake probably thought you were Bigfoot.” She snickers at her joke.
Adam’s eyes turn heavy. He looks exhausted. “Probably.”
August smooths some bandages over my knees, then makes me look him in the eyes. He holds up a hand. “Follow my finger,” he murmurs, moving his index finger in an H pattern in front of me. He does this a few times, then he boops the bridge of my nose. “Anything unusual there? Any double vision?”
“Nope.”
“No headache or dizziness?”
“Just the usual.”
August shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re lucky.”
Adam nods. Marlow hands him a plate with a cheeseburger, and he says a quiet, “Thank you.”
While August gathers the trash from the bandages and ointment, Marlow stands next to Adam. “How was the date? Up until Adam crashed it, I mean,” she teases, nudging him with her elbow.
He chokes, and Marlow quickly hands him a napkin.
“Um . . .” I bite my cheek, twisting side to side in the office chair, unsure how to answer. I sense Adam’s focus on me, but I can’t look at him. I’ve never been a good pretender, and Marlow is watching my every move. She’ll track my heart-shaped googly eyes right away. “Jake was nice, but . . .”
“Here we go.” Marlow wipes her hands on her apron, shaking her head. “What was wrong this time? Did he chew his food too loudly? Too softly? You don’t like the shape of his earlobes?”
“No. Nothing like that.” He’s just not Adam—whose earlobes are magnificent, for the record. I glance at his ears to confirm. Yes. They are tan and slightly attached to his stubbled jawline. Well done, Adam. “We just didn’t click.” I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from Adam’s face.
Marlow tracks my line of sight. Her eyes tighten, and she tilts her head. “Adam.”
Oh, no. I don’t like the tone in my friend’s voice. In another life, Marlow was a bloodhound.
Adam looks up from his dinner with cautious eyes. “Hmm?”
Marlow grins. “Would you like to go on a date with Stevie?”
I throw my hands in the air. “Flag on the play!”
“Shh!” Marlow bats me away, turning back to Adam. “We could even double. Nothing too high pressure. What do you think?”
I feel like the last used car on a sales lot. Marlow just kicked my tires, smacked my hood, and offered Adam a deal.
I run a hand down my face.
Luckily, August saves us. “I believe”—he dries his hands on a paper towel, tossing it into the trash—“that would compromise Adam’s position on the Ad Hoc Committee to Determine the Outcome of Stevie’s Love Life.”
“Shoot. You’re right. Adam can’t go on a date with her, can he?” Marlow clucks her tongue, frowning at August like it’s his fault. She tries to tickle his side, but he dodges her. “What if the committee brings it to a vote?”
“That could work.” August snatches her hand, and my friends fall together, laughing and distracted. I look away out of self-preservation. I miss the days when these two pretended they weren’t obsessed with each other. Those were easy times.
Adam catches my gaze, his eyes dark and questioning. This can’t be good, right?
Worry ties my insides in a knot. I shrug. Probably not.