The Lineup(65)

“Jesus . . . Christ,” Knox says through the phone. “What now? I thought I told you to make a move.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t initiate anything.” I was nervous.

“Will you grow a goddamn pair? Fuck, man. It’s not hard; say, ‘Will you go out with me?’ ”

“But she’s different. She’s so cold, emotionless at times, and she’s hard to read. And we had a moment last night.”

“Yeah, please, tell me about this moment. I’m just waiting on pins and needles,” Knox says sarcastically.

“You know, I could call Carson instead. I don’t have to share my intimate life with you.”

“I’d prefer it that way.”

“Well, you’re going to hear it, you insensitive prick,” I seethe, ducking to keep my eye out the window, the phone pressed tightly against my ear. Fuck, the hours I spent listening to his whiny ass over Emory. Years’ worth. Now it’s my turn.

“Joy,” he deadpans. “Okay, so the moment.”

Even though he acts like this is painful, I know no matter what, Knox would be there for me. He’s there for every one of us because he’s always been the glue that held us together. The guy we all turned to. Our captain.

“We were about to go to bed and we had this odd embrace before we took off, not a hug, but more of a touching of sorts.”

“You touched her boobs?”

“No.”

“Her side boob?”

“No.”

“Her ass?”

“No.”

“Her . . . pussy?”

“No, for fuck’s sake.”

“Then where did you touch her?”

I take a deep breath and think back to how smooth her skin was, how beautiful it was to see her chest rise and fall with her breath so close. On a dreamy sigh, I answer, “Her collarbone.”

Silence.

More silence.

“Did you hear me? I said collar—”

“I fucking heard you. You touched her collarbone, and you’re acting like you had access to her nipples? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I scoff. “You wouldn’t know what romance was if it tapped at your dick and asked you to fuck it.”

“That makes zero sense, and I’m two seconds from hanging up. So you touched her collarbone,” he says in a girly voice. “And?”

“I was going in, man, I was prepping to kiss her but then, I froze. I fucking froze. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to kiss her or what, but when it came down to it, I put distance between us, stumbled over a goddamn table, and then ran away with my tail tucked between my legs.” I drag my hand down my face. “What is wrong with me? She’s so goddamn beautiful and funny, and a force, but when it comes to actually committing the last two inches, I can’t seem to make it happen. I don’t know, I really think I’m nervous.”

“I can’t handle you right now.”

“That’s not helpful. What do I do?” I whine.

“I don’t know, maybe stop acting like a ball-less asshole and actually take what you want? Stop being all talk, and actually take some action.”

Dottie takes that moment to appear from the gas station.

“Oh shit, I have to go.”

“Don’t call me until you’ve done something. We’re back in two days, and you better be at least kissing by then.”

He hangs up before I can reply. I stuff my phone in my pocket, look straight out the window with both my hands on the steering wheel, holding them at ten and two. The door opens and she takes a seat, going straight to her seatbelt to strap herself in.

This entire car ride has been uncomfortable. We haven’t really spoken, we haven’t played music, we’ve just sat there in silence. Every time I try to talk to her, she shuts me down quickly. I know how to read a room—or car for that matter—and she’s pissed.

Yup, really fucking mad.

She’s tense, she has a pinch in her brow, and she’s curt with me. To say the water is icy over on her side is an understatement. So I’ve stayed far away.

I clear my throat. “Go pee?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you wash your hands?”

Her head tilts to the side. “What kind of question is that?”

“A valid one. No one wants public restroom hands all over their car.” Not the way to win her heart, saying she has piss hands, but then again, at least she’s talking . . . right?

“I washed my hands, and I don’t need reminding from you about it either.”

“Sheesh,” I say, pushing my luck. “Sorr—eee for asking.” Because I’m curious, I ask, “Did they have the beef jerky I wanted?”

She glances at me and then lifts her bundled-up sweatshirt to the window and rests her head against it, closing her eyes immediately and shutting me out.

“I’m going to take that as a no.”





What was supposed to be a relaxing weekend full of fresh air and the sounds of nature flittering in and out of my ears has turned into a tension-filled mess.

Car is parked. Bags have been removed from the back. And we’re currently exiting the elevator to our respective apartments, Dottie leading the way in an almost all-out sprint.