The Impossible Knife of Memory(39)

“You really don’t want to answer that, do you?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Okay, next topic,” he said. “Nostril cams: fascinating biological journey or humiliating fad? Discuss.”

“Where did you live before you came here?” I asked.

“The moon,” he said smoothly. “We left because the place had no atmosphere.”

“No seriously. I want to know.”

He took a deep breath and tried to balance the saltshaker on the edge of its base. “Outside Detroit. My dad was a marketing guy for Chrysler. One day he got to work and poof.” The saltshaker fell on its side. “No job.” He picked up the saltshaker. “And then poof.” He let it fall. “No house.” He shook salt into a small mound in the middle of the table. “My mom got a job here, that’s why we moved. Dad is a consultant in Boston. We only see him once a month or so. My parents are tired and miserable and it’s mostly a disaster.”

“What about your sister?” I asked.

He looked up, startled. “How do you know about my sister?”

“You told me about her. The first morning you picked me up, remember?”

He frowned, poked his finger in the middle of the salt mound, and slowly circled it into a spiral. “We don’t talk about her.”

The sadness on his face was unexpected. I held my cone so that a few drops of melting ice cream landed in the middle of the salt painting.

“Nostril cams prove that the apocalypse approacheth,” I said in a low voice.

He chuckled and tossed salt at me. After that, we swapped outrageous lies about our childhoods until the waitress said we had to either order more food or free up our table for new customers.

The gloaming had come and gone while we were in Friendly’s. Night had arrived, held at arm’s length by the bright streetlights and fast-food places. Finn started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

The quiet inside the car made things weird again. I couldn’t get comfortable. I kept shifting, looking out the window, checking the side mirror, staring at my phone, willing Gracie to call, and then looking out the window again, wondering what I should say, if I should say anything. The tension built the closer we got to my house until I found myself thinking about bailing out at the next stop sign, the way I had the first time he gave me a ride.

Finn checked his mirrors and put on his signal to turn onto my street.

“Don’t go in the driveway,” I reminded him.

“I have to,” he said as he turned the corner. “It’s dark.” He signaled again. “After a date, even an anti-date, I have to deliver you to your front door. It’s a Man Law. I screwed up last week because I thought your dad’s friends all had submachine guns. Can’t do that again.”

Before I could say anything, he turned into the driveway, the headlights running across the siding and stopping on a pile of logs in front of the garage. They hadn’t been there when I left that morning. The garage door was open and the lights were on inside, but the only sign of my father was the splitting maul leaning up against the stump he’d been using for a chopping block.

I relaxed. He was probably passed out on the couch.

Finn put the car in park and unbuckled his seat belt.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I have to walk you to the door.”

“I know how to walk.”

The hurt look on his face made me want to pinch myself. We were flirting again. Or were we? Maybe not. Why couldn’t there be a light in the middle of a person’s forehead to indicate flirting status and other confusing social behaviors?

Finn rubbed his thumb on the worn plastic of the steering wheel. He had strong hands, but no calluses. He bit his lip. I waited. (I should leave.) He opened his mouth like he was going to say something.

He didn’t say anything.

I didn’t say anything. (I really should leave.)

He put his hand on the emergency brake, turned toward me a little. Was he going to kiss me? Tell me I had chocolate sprinkles stuck in my teeth? Why was this so complicated?

It wasn’t complicated, I scolded myself. It was stupid.

I pushed the button on my seat belt. It retracted and smacked against the door, making us both jump. I put my hand on the door handle.

Finn cut the engine and turned off the headlights. The dim blue light from the garage barely reached us. Shadows fell under his cheekbones. He raised his eyes to look at me. To look through me. I finally figured it out, late as usual: I did not want him to kiss me.

I wanted to kiss him.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it was making the windows vibrate, like we had the radio on, booming heavy bass through the best subwoofers on the planet. I put my hand on top of his, horrified by the questions racing through my head. Eyes open or closed? What should I do with my tongue? How bad was my breath? How bad was his? Was I the only seventeen-year-old in America who had never kissed someone before? He’d know it as soon as our lips touched. Why did I care what he thought? And when in the course of the day had I turned into a babbling idiot?

I couldn’t stop the questions any more than I could stop myself from leaning toward his lips.

He brought his face close to mine.

And stopped.

His eyes grew wide. I hesitated. Had I made a mistake? Was being kissed by me so terrifying that it paralyzed him?