The Hard Count(24)

“Trunk?” he says, and I think he’s said the word twice. I don’t know, because I’m having a neurological response to his goddamned soap.

“Right, hang on,” I say, leaning down and pushing my teeth into my bottom lip hard enough to feel it, like pinching in a dream, though I doubt that really works.

I pull the lever for the trunk, and Nico drops his heaviest bag inside, closing it and coming back to his seat in seconds. As good as he smelled when he was outside, the effect is only multiplied by being enclosed in about one hundred cubic feet with him.

I flip the air on, despite the chill already brewing outside. Nico leans forward to press a few buttons on my stereo, and I fight my urge to be in control, wanting to be a good host—not wanting to be a bitch—when he stops on the jazz station. My brow pulls in quickly as he sits back, adjusting his seatbelt along his chest and relaxing into his seat, his arm resting along the base of his door and his fingers drumming to the beat.

I don’t think my car has ever, not once, been on this station. I didn’t know this was a station. And the music is soft, elevator-style, with some kind of xylophone and saxophone solo happening. I sigh, noticeably, and lean forward on instinct, but stop myself and push the air up one more notch instead. When I lean back in my seat, pulling up to the school exit, Nico begins to chuckle.

“How long were you going to let me listen to this shit?”

I stop hard at the light exiting the school, enough to jerk him forward, and he only laughs harder.

“I was trying to be nice! That’s it; your deejay rights are revoked!” I say, pointing a finger at him.

He pulls his knees up and clutches his fists to his chest, laughing harder while I press my favorite stations until the indie rock channel comes on.

“Oh hell no,” he says, leaning forward to press the stereo button. I grab his wrist, no longer thinking about how he smells, but instead thinking about how he’s screwing with my stereo, and the cocky bastard laughs again, leaning back in his seat. I look over in time to catch him pushing his hand through his wet hair, and my chest fills up with what I think might be hope, and my arms and legs get tingly again, sending me right back to where I started. The light goes green, and Nico gestures for me to look forward and go, so I do.

“I was just kidding,” he says. “I actually love this song.”

I purse my lips, and a part of me waits for him to take that back, too—to keep messing with me. Instead, he sings the chorus, lightly, but loud enough that I can hear it. His voice is nice, even if it’s a little off-key. I think about my damned dream again, and kissing him, and looking for secret rooms with him.

“Do you ever have those dreams where…” Shit! I’m telling him about my dream, my subconscious forcing my lips to talk even though this…this is the last thing I want to talk about, to say, to admit. I swallow and look out my window, check my mirrors, suddenly focusing on every aspect of driving my car the six blocks it takes to get to Charlie’s. We stop at the next light, because the universe is cruel and wants this trip to take me forever.

“Dreams where what?” Nico asks, and I glance to my right. He’s genuinely interested.

I draw in a deep breath and do my best to rest my palms on the steering wheel, to act natural and let myself get comfortable. I bunch my lips, stalling, looking for a graceful way to make this conversation now make sense.

“I’ve had the same dream the last three nights in a row,” I lie. I don’t need to tell him everything. And this conversation might be just right for this circumstance—just the right length, just the right depth. Polite. Interesting. Casual.

“Me and…” I stop myself, coughing to change my story before I slip and say Nico’s name. “Me and my brother are in some house we’ve never been in, and we keep opening doors that lead to new hallways and rooms and parts of this house, and every time we do, it’s like…it’s like the house just keeps on getting bigger and bigger. Every room is bigger than the last, and there’s always another doorway, or hallway, or whatever.”

The light goes green, so I glance at Nico briefly before pulling forward. His forehead is knitted and his mouth is twisted in thought. “Maybe, yeah,” he says. “It’s never a house, and usually I’m with Sasha and we’re somewhere kind of familiar, like the school. But I’ve had the door thing. Like…you’re looking for a secret door? Or you’ve found it, but you can’t open it?”

“Yes! Just like that!” I pound the steering wheel once, excited that my detour worked and that we have this weird, silly, pointless thing in common…sort of.

“I dreamt about you once, actually,” he says.

My knuckles glow with the red of the stoplight that I’ve just pulled to a stop at, pressing on the brake a little too hard. Nico chuckles as he holds out his hand to grab the dash, and my eyes are frozen on the glowing red spheres dangling from a wire about twenty feet high in the intersection in front of us.

“Not that kind of dream; don’t get all…all…girl freaked,” he laughs, shifting in his seat. I can see from my periphery that he’s adjusted enough to face me, and I suddenly feel as if every movement I make is on display.

“I’m not…girl freaked,” I say, scowling, and very much girl freaked indeed—whatever the hell girl freaked is. It might be the most genius description ever, come to think about it. I’m a girl, and I’m freaked. Nico is dead on with this.