Chapter 15
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Like is not love. I keep having to tell myself that as we cross the South Carolina–Georgia border.
Why I feel the need to issue constant reminders of that fact, I don’t care to contemplate.
Hollis said he likes me, but of course he doesn’t love me; we’ve only been traveling together for three days.
Even I, die-hard romantic that I tend to be, will admit that no one falls in love after three days—not really.
And then a little voice in the back of my head that sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Nash’s questions if it’s been three days for Hollis or if it’s been two years.
But I put the kibosh on that because I’m fully aware that the sentiment might have that quiet, slightly raspy quality that I miss hearing so much, but it’s still being generated by my own brain.
And my brain needs to cut it the hell out.
Besides, I barely said more than two words to him before the night he drove me home from Josh’s book release party.
Even once I was in his car, I’m not sure we discussed anything beyond my address and maybe the weather.
If he does love me—which he doesn’t —it would be based on nothing but watching me across the room at a handful of events.
That might sound romantic in theory, but in practice it’s delusional bordering on creepy.
Now, wanting to kiss me, get me naked? That I could see being a persistent desire from afar.
I mean, didn’t I feel that exact way about Hollis almost immediately after we started traveling together?
And now that he’s gotten to know me a bit, he likes me.
As a person. A friend. A friend-person. That is all very normal and rational and not love.
But what if...?
This repetitive cycle has been going through my head now for over an hour.
I went to this restaurant once that had a whimsical vintage travel theme, and the centerpiece of the place was a toy train that chugged along on an oval-shaped track suspended from the ceiling.
If you missed it passing by your booth, no big deal—wait a minute and it would come around again.
That’s the way my thought process feels right now.
It would take something pretty major to derail it.
I’m vaguely aware of the guitar opening to Hall his head is still bowed, eyes focused on his notebook.
But when I sneak a glance, he’s undeniably moving his lips.
Considering his objections to my music up until now, I am never going to let him live down this little singalong.
I wait until the end of the song to say anything (is he even aware that he’s doing it?), but as soon as the last note ends, I pounce.
“Ah-ha! You like Hall & Oates,” I say.
The way he startles at the accusation gives him away, even though his voice reveals nothing. “I don’t know what makes you think that.”
“You know every word to ‘Sara Smile.’?”
“It’s a fairly popular song. I guess I might know some of it through cultural osmosis.”
“And you sang it!” I hit my palms against the steering wheel in triumph.
“Hmm,” he says, still managing to sound way too chill for someone who has been caught enjoying something he insists he can’t stand. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
“Hollis, I saw your mouth move.”
“I was talking through a wording issue with myself.”
“I heard you singing.”
In my peripheral vision, I see him look up from his notebook. “Maybe you heard someone singing, but it was not me.”
I let out a muted scream of annoyance. “Who was it then?” I demand. “If it was not me, and it was not you, who was singing along to Hall & Oates?”
“Probably the same person you were talking to in the bathroom last night.”
I don’t even need to look to know that the corners of his mouth are trembling as he fights off a full smile.
“We should stop for gas up here,” Hollis says, peering over at the dashboard’s fuel indicator.
I exit the highway, wondering if the offer to punch him once we arrive at the gas station was exclusive to the Wawa back in Virginia or if I can redeem it now.
“That song’s okay,” he admits at last as I pull up to a pump and shift into park. “I will even acknowledge that most of your music is fine. All of it except for—”
“I swear, Hollis Hollenbeck, if you start talking shit about Stevie Nicks again I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he asks, his voice deep and husky.
“I’ll... I’ll...” For all the dirty thoughts my mind has constructed in Hollis’s presence, it’s really letting me down right now.
So why on earth am I talking anyway? “Do stuff to you. Stuff you’ll like a lot.
Too much even. And then you’ll be so overcome by the pleasure you’ll explode into a million pieces.
I won’t bother to gather them, so all the bits of you will be at the whims of Mother Nature. A seal might eat you.”
“Wow. Can’t say I predicted that twist at the end.”
“Yeah, well. Being sexy is not my forte.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He clears his throat and adjusts in his seat. My eyes spot the return of the long, hard ridge in his jeans.
“Dude! Are you turned on because I said I’d explode you with sex and then a seal would eat you?”
“It’s not because of the seal,” Hollis grumbles.
“Did that actually awaken something in you?”
“You awaken all sorts of things in me.” He sounds extremely annoyed about it, which gives me a buzz of satisfaction.
Like is not love, I tell myself. Like is not love. Sex is not love. Sex is not like. Except sometimes it is. It is now. But like is not love.
This is getting too confusing.
“Yeah?” I say. “Things like your dormant passion for classic soft rock?” I reach over and give him a light squeeze that makes his breath catch.
“As much as it almost literally pains me to say this, I don’t think we have time right now.
” Hollis lifts my hand away and drops it onto my own lap.
He moves to get out of the car and sharply inhales at the movement.
“Can you buy me a bottle of water while I pump the gas, please? I’d go in myself, but uh. ..”
I sigh dramatically. “Since you asked nicely, I suppose I can save you from having to wave your seal-fantasy hard-on all over the 7-Eleven.”
“I told you, it’s not because of the seal!” he calls out as I head for the entrance.
Inside, I head for the cases of beverages along the back wall and grab two of the biggest bottles of water they have.
Then I walk up and down the aisles collecting various snacks until we have enough to hunker down for nuclear war.
We’d split some fries from a food truck after the parade while we waited for Ryan to finish with his students and hand over the keys, but that was hours ago.
Hopefully this assortment of cookies, chips, pretzels, trail mix, and candy will keep us from having to stop for dinner.
I pile everything on the counter. The clerk starts scanning, not glancing up until he reaches the waters. He has stringy green hair and an eyebrow piercing, which raises in recognition. “Hey, you look familiar,” he says. “Where do I know you from?”
The clock on the wall says it’s after four.
I don’t exactly have time—or, honestly, the inclination—to go through the entire Penelope to the Past fan interaction script right now inside this convenience store.
Even my extroversion has its limit, and I think I hit it several hours ago, when I rambled on about how lovely of a town Gadsley is for what felt like forever as reporter after reporter found me after the parade.
“I do porn,” I say. “Penelope Alameda.” I know it’s not the standard first-pet-plus-street-you-grew-up-on formula, but something tells me King Velociraptor Alameda wouldn’t be as believable a stage name.
He nods as he runs my credit card. “Oh, right. Cool. You’re the one with the...” The clerk makes a gesture with his fingers that I’m either too tired or too sheltered to understand. “I’m a big fan of your stuff. Thanks for making it.”
“Thanks for enjoying it,” I say, taking the bag from the counter. It’s an automatic response that I’ve said to countless Penelope to the Past fans, though I guess it means something a bit different in this context. Still works, though.
Now I guess I’m going to need to do some major searching for my porn actress doppelganger. And then watch enough of her videos until I figure out what that gesture represents.
When I return to the car, Hollis is back in the passenger seat, scribbling away in his little spiral-bound notebook. He shuts it and tucks it between his thighs as I open my door. I put our bottles of water in the cupholders and hand him the bag of snacks.
His eyebrows shoot up as he peeks inside. “Wow. Did you buy one of everything?”
“Pretty much. Except Cheez-Its. I had a college roommate who ate them pretty much nonstop and now I can’t deal with the smell.” The memory makes me gag. I attempt to recover with a super casual, “So, how’s the writing coming along?”
Hollis shrugs as he combs through the bag. “Fine. Good. I mean, it’s not good quality-wise, but words are on the page, and that’s the goal of a first draft.”
“Cool. So what’s this book going to be about?”
“Hmm?”
“The book. What’s it about?”