The Best Laid Plans(57)

“Dean,” Dean says back, bringing his arm up to match. They do a handshake all guys seem to know, full of snaps and bumps and manly aggression. “You’re the Hitchcock guy?”

“I’m a little more than the Hitchcock guy,” Andrew says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Dean laughs. “Got it. Well we’re gonna get going. It was nice to meet you, dude.” He turns to me, nodding his head in the direction of the bike. “You wanna hop on?”

I glance back at the house, wondering if my mom is watching, knowing she’d kill me if she saw me get on the back of some guy’s motorcycle.

“Do you have another helmet?” Andrew folds his arms.

“What?” Dean asks.

“She can’t get on the bike without a helmet.”

“Seriously, Andrew,” I say, feeling my face flush. “You’re not my dad.”

“Her body, her temple,” Dean says.

Andrew turns and walks over to the garage, reaching down and pulling hard on the door handle. The door rolls up slowly and he goes inside, grabbing a helmet that’s hanging from the rusty handlebars of a bicycle. It’s white with bright green reflective racing stripes on the side. He hands it to me and I turn it over, inspecting the inside for spiders.

“Can you please just wear this?”

“Drew,” I say, a warning in my tone. I glare at him but put the helmet on. To be honest, I’m kind of glad to have it. I just wish it didn’t seem like he was forcing me.

Andrew reaches up to help me buckle it, pulling the straps tight under my chin.

“Good,” he says, knocking the top of my head with his knuckles.

“All right, thank God that’s settled,” Dean says, grinning. He swings his leg back over the bike and turns it on. The engine roars to life and the bike shakes with the sound of the motor. I climb up behind him, slipping a little on the back of the seat. “Just wrap your arms around me,” Dean says, looking back at me over his shoulder. “Here, so you don’t fall.”

He reaches around and takes both of my arms, wrapping them around him and clasping my hands together. I can feel the hard muscle of his stomach through his shirt and I run my hands over it, trying not to be obvious.

Andrew kicks at the gravel of the driveway. “Where you guys headed?”

There are only two pizza places in town, a place that sells cheap slices and always smells like old beer, and Giovanni’s, the little Italian place we always go for my birthday. It’s the kind of place with checkered tablecloths and melted candles, and I’ve always wanted to go there with a guy.

“We should get nice pizza,” I say, “not slices.”

“Cool, nice pizza it is.” He nods toward Andrew. “See you later, dude.”

Andrew raises an arm up to say goodbye. “Yeah, see you later,” he says, giving us a thumbs-up.

Dean pulls the bike out of the driveway, spraying a cloud of gravel behind us.





TWENTY-ONE





THE RIDE IS bumpy and fast, and I hold on to Dean for dear life. The wind whips at my face, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes, and I bury my head in his back, against the leather of his jacket. The trees whip by in a blur on either side of the road. At each turn, the bike leans to the side and I scream, laughing and tightening my hold on Dean’s waist. I’m so glad Andrew forced me to wear the helmet—though I’ll never admit that to him.

When we get to the restaurant Dean pulls the bike up to the sidewalk and hops off. I climb off after him, my legs shaking and unsteady. I feel giddy, adrenaline coursing through me like I’ve just gotten off some amusement park ride. Who knew feeling out of control could actually be so fun? Still, I’m thankful to be back on solid ground again, and I relish the feel of the hard sidewalk beneath my feet. I’m still alive.

“High five, Prom Date,” Dean says, holding his hand out to me. I hit it with a satisfying smack. “You were a natural at that. You gonna drive us home?”

“Can I?” I ask, and then laugh in surprise.

Dean looks surprised too. “Easy, tiger. Maybe just around the parking lot.”

I feel deflated for a second at the thought that his offer was just a joke. Of course he didn’t think I would actually want to try driving. And the more I think about it, I realize it’s a bad idea anyway. I would probably just kill us both.

We walk into Giovanni’s, and it’s dim and cozy from the flickering light of candles. Classic Italian music flows through the room, something cheesy with violins and accordions, and I have a flash of Dean and me as the dogs from Lady and the Tramp, our lips sliding together over one long slippery piece of spaghetti. I wonder if that’s actually possible, if anybody in real life has ever tried. It seems like the kind of thing Andrew would find funny, and suddenly I’m thinking about my lips sliding toward Andrew’s, and I push the thought from my head. I’m not supposed to be thinking about Andrew.

“Welcome to Giovanni’s.” A waitress appears. She looks about our age, and her gaze lingers on Dean just a little too long. It makes me nervous. “We have a corner booth open,” she says. “You want that?”

“Sure, whatever.” Dean shrugs. We follow her over to the corner.

“Thanks,” I say, sliding into the booth. Dean slumps down across from me, dropping his helmet and bag down onto the seat next to him.