The Best Laid Plans(64)

“I wish you could too,” he says, and then he pulls me into his arms and kisses me in front of everyone. I’ve never had an audience to a kiss before. It makes me feel powerful, like I’m finally a real girl—one that counts. But there’s another part of me that can’t help the embarrassment that washes over me as Dean pulls away.

I know it’s because Andrew is watching.

Andrew’s truck has only two real seats, with a little bench connecting them that’s only really big enough for a child. Luckily, I’m pretty much child-sized, so we all fit up front—Andrew in the driver’s seat, Danielle in the passenger seat, and me squished in between them.

It’s uncomfortable, to say the least.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I ask as Andrew slides his key in the ignition. Danielle turns on the radio and when a Beyoncé song comes on she blasts the music, singing along loudly, her voice raspy and off-key.

“I’m fine!” Andrew shouts so I can hear him. I turn the music down.

“Bitch!” Danielle says. She leaves it but continues mouthing the lyrics.

“I only had a few sips at the restaurant,” he says. “I knew if I got drunk, I’d, well . . . I just knew it wasn’t a good idea.”

“Thanks,” I say, because I know what he’s implying—what he can’t say in front of Danielle. He’s worried if he drank he would have given something away, would have let something slip about the Plan he wouldn’t be able to explain. “And thanks for taking me home.”

“You’re on the way,” he says, and the casualness of it stings a little bit.

The night is warm, but the air streaming through the window is raising goose bumps on the bare skin of my arms. I feel awkward sitting in between the two of them. Like I’m intruding. This is the end of their date, the part where he drives her home and drops her off and tells her he had a nice time. Now I’m here, squished in between them, each side of me touching a side of them.

Nobody is talking, and so I wonder if they feel weird too. I’m thankful for the music playing on the radio, because it drowns out some of my anxious thoughts.

It only takes about five minutes to get to Danielle’s house, and when Andrew pulls the truck to a stop in her driveway, I feel the awkwardness expanding—like the truck is a tank filling with water and we’re slowly going to drown.

“You’ll get inside okay?” Andrew asks. Danielle rummages through her bag for her keys, pulling out a key chain with a leopard-print heart. She pulls down the passenger-side mirror and checks out her reflection, using her thumb to wipe the skin around her eyes.

“My parents go to sleep at like nine thirty.” She snaps the mirror shut and turns to us, smiling at Andrew and me with equal dazzle. “But just in case—do I smell like booze?”

She leans closer to me and breathes in my face and I cough. Her breath is sharp and tangy, the remnants of red wine. I start to nod but she leans past me toward Andrew. “You’ve been drinking too, Collins. You won’t be able to smell it.” And then she grabs the front of Andrew’s shirt and pulls him even closer, so her mouth is only a few inches away from his. She breathes again. “All good?”

Andrew laughs and shakes his head. “You smell like a bar.”

“Shut up, Reed,” she says. “Like you’ve ever been in a bar.” And still their mouths are only a few inches apart. She’s leaning over me, her body pressed into mine like I’m not even there, and her hair is in my face. I move it out of the way so I can see them, even though seeing them is making it hard to breathe.

“Thanks for dinner,” she says, and then kisses him squarely on the lips. It’s not a real kiss, just a quick pressing of her lips to his, and it’s over in a second—but it hits me in the chest. Before I can help it, I make a strangled sound and then feel my face turn a brilliant shade of red, because I’m horrified I’ve made any sound at all.

She pulls back and then seems to remember I’m sitting between them.

“Oh, sorry, Collins.” She pulls her hair behind her shoulder so it’s out of my face. “Forgot you were there.” I turn to look at Andrew’s face, to see if he’s embarrassed or excited or sorry, but his expression is blank and unreadable. “All right,” she says, opening the door to the truck and hopping out. “I’ll see you kids later.” And then she slams the door shut and we’re alone.

He doesn’t start the truck right away, and we sit silently beside each other, listening to the radio, which has changed to some local commercial for a grocery store, some silly song about fruits and vegetables. I focus intently on the words of the song, trying not to think about what just happened. I don’t want to process my thoughts, don’t want to think about the sharp pain in my chest, the way my breath felt strangled when I saw their lips touch. I’ve seen Andrew kiss so many girls, in way more intimate ways—tongues and teeth and hands—so this innocent peck on the lips shouldn’t matter. It’s just—this is the first time I’ve seen Andrew kiss a girl since he kissed me.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and then he reaches out and turns the key. The truck rumbles to life.

“Okay, let’s get you home.”

So he’s not going to talk about it.

He looks behind him and backs the truck out of the driveway. I move into the passenger seat and buckle the seat belt—far enough away from him now so our arms are no longer touching.