The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett(62)

I rocked on the porch swing and thought about Enzo until I was shivering in the cool October night. I considered going in and getting a sweater or just climbing into bed in my dress and heels and bobby pins. I also thought about walking to the back of the house to get warm around Sundog’s fire. But I didn’t do any of those things. It would have taken too much energy. So instead, I just sat and felt sorry for myself.

When the headlights swept across my front lawn, my heart leaped. Enzo. Maybe something happened with the bus and he’d had to find a ride to my house? I held up my hand, trying to shield my eyes, but couldn’t see anything in the glare. Then the headlights were turned off, and the yard plunged into darkness. Before my eyes could readjust, I heard a car door slam and an incredulous voice.

“Thorny? What the hell are you wearing?”

Not Enzo.

Connor plodded up the porch steps, grinning. He stopped when he saw my glowering face.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m supposed to be at the homecoming dance,” I said. “Clearly, that didn’t work out.”

“Was the dance taking place in 1985?”

I gathered a handful of my pink skirt and examined it. “I thought it would be a funny thing to wear. It’s not.”

“So why are you sitting here like the rest of The Breakfast Club went out partying and forgot to take you along?”

I kept looking at my dress, because I couldn’t bear to meet Connor’s gaze. “That’s not so far off, I guess. Enzo was supposed to take me to the dance. He must have found a better party.”

“He’s a dick,” Connor said.

I expected for us to exchange small talk for a few more minutes, then for Connor to excuse himself to see Rush. A little while later, they’d come out of the house together and leave for some college party, passing by me, sitting there in my pathetic pink dress with only the slightest acknowledgment.

What actually happened next was Connor held out his hand and said, “Come on.”

I stared at him. “What? Are you going to, like, take me to the dance as a pity date or something? This really is an eighties teen movie.”

Connor laughed. “I’m not exactly dressed for a formal dance. But I can get you off the front porch at least.”

He was still holding out his hand. It’s not like I had anything better going on, so I reached out and took it.

? ? ?

It was the second time in the past month I’d been in Connor’s car, which was pretty weird.

I leaned over and scanned the radio stations, finally settling for an oldies channel. Boys and girls from another lifetime sang about how breaking up was hard to do and how words of love weren’t enough to win a girl’s heart.

“I feel like I’m in a horror movie,” I told Connor.

“You what?”

“You know, it’s dark, and we’re driving through the woods, and there are scratchy-sounding old songs on the radio, and I’m in this stupid dress.”

“I’m still not getting the horror movie part.”

“Like, any moment now, a shadowy figure is going to dart in front of the car, and you’ll slam on the brakes, and there will be a girl standing on the side of the road, wearing some white 1950s dress.”

Connor laughed, getting what I meant. “And she’ll ask us for a ride home, right?”

“Yep. And then somehow, we’ll find out she died sixty years ago in a car accident on this very stretch of road.”

I sighed and rested my head on the back of the passenger seat, imagining a situation like that actually happening. I liked the idea that Enzo standing me up could be a good thing because I would end up doing something way more fascinating than going to a stupid dance.

Connor glanced at me and reached into his backseat, fumbling for a moment before pulling out a sweater.

“Here. You must be freezing.”

Being cold was the last thing on my mind, but I pulled the sweater over my head anyway. What did it matter if I was wearing a poofy dress and a men’s pullover? It’s not like I was going to homecoming.

The sweater smelled like boy, that earthy, almost dirty smell, like trees and beer. If it was Enzo’s sweater, it would have smelled like cigarettes too. I’d put his leather jacket on once when I was cold, and even after I took it off, the scent of tobacco clung to my skin.

For a while, we drove and listened to music and didn’t say much to each other. Then Connor asked if I was hungry. I hadn’t realized I was it until he asked. He pulled into the parking lot of DiCarlo’s, where you ordered pizza by the slice, and it came topped with a layer of unmelted cheese.

There wasn’t a dining room, so we took our food outside and sat on the hood of Connor’s car, eating quickly and shivering. The air felt heavy, like a storm was coming.

“So,” Connor said eventually. “What happened tonight?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. We were supposed to go to the dance. Enzo didn’t show. There’s not, like, a big story or anything.”

“So are you and Enzo together now?”

“No,” I said, focusing on my pizza.

“But you like him?”

“I don’t know.”

I pulled the sweater around me more tightly, wishing I had jeans covering my legs and tennis shoes on my feet instead of my embarrassingly optimistic high heels.