Midnight Sun(33)

We’re about to walk out the door when my dad calls after us. “Wait! Let me take your photo.”

I whirl around, embarrassed. “Dad…”

But Charlie seems perfectly happy to oblige my father’s mortifying whims. He puts his arms around me from behind. “What do you think, prom pose?”

I laugh. My dad raises the camera to his eye. “Ready?”

I look up at Charlie and he looks down at me. We’re grinning at each other. No phony smiles for us. The flash goes off, and we’re on our way.





16

“The train station?” I say as Charlie pulls into a space in the parking lot.

I’m trying not to look disappointed—I don’t know what I expected for our date.

“You might know where we are, but do you know why we’re here?” he asks, pulling me along by the hand.

I shake my head. “No, but I hope you’re not trying to make me play on the platform tonight. Remember how awkward that got the first time around?”

Charlie laughs. “How could I forget the dead-cat funeral you had to go plan? It is where we first met, though.”

He has a point. And I start to feel the disappointment slip away.

We stop short right in front of Fred’s little window. There are two tickets waiting there for us.

“I believe these are yours,” Fred says, grinning at me.

I look from Charlie to Fred and then back to Charlie again. “Where are we going? And why do I have my guitar?”

Charlie shrugs and smiles. I try Fred. He gives me an even more exaggerated shrug.

“I know nothing,” Fred tells me.

“Fred…” I try to implore him to spill it with the most innocent and sweetest look I can muster.

“Don’t even try it,” he tells me, pretending to lock his lips and throw away the key. “I’m a steel trap.”

The train is approaching. Taking us on an adventure to who knows where. I’m so excited.

The doors open and the conductor gives me a huge smile. We’ve exchanged hellos before when I was playing here, but he’s certainly never had me as a passenger. “All aboard,” he calls out.

Charlie and I climb the stairs and head into a car. It’s basically deserted. Just us, dim lighting, and the rumble of the tracks underneath the wheels.

“Your seat, mademoiselle,” Charlie says, gesturing to an empty row.

I put my guitar down in the aisle and slide in. Charlie sits across from me. He starts setting up paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware on the table between us.

“I slaved all day on this,” he says, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a big bag from my favorite Chinese food place. I shake my head in disbelief when I realize all the trouble he went through to make tonight perfect for me. He’s included all my favorites: lo mein, orange chicken, fried rice.

“Did you just pull Chinese food out of your backpack?” I laugh. “Do you always travel with hot food?”

“This is a romantic picnic!” Charlie exclaims, trying to keep a serious look on his face and totally not succeeding. “You can’t ride a train without Chinese food out of a backpack.”

“I don’t know, that could be true, I’ve never been on a train before,” I say.

“Neither have I,” Charlie tells me.

“Really?” I thought I was probably the only person on earth who hasn’t. I love that it’s the first time for both of us. We “clink” our chopsticks and dig in.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” he says when we’re almost done eating. “How insane it is that you’ve lived right here since you were little and I’ve never seen you riding your bike or, like, out with a lemonade stand. I would have bought your lemonade!”

My heart skips a beat. The last thing I want to discuss right now is why we never met until a few weeks ago. I just want to enjoy the dinner, the ride, the date. Keep things light while we still can. I promise myself that I’ll tell him before the night is over.

When he drops me off tonight, before he gets out to walk me to the door (like I know he will), I’ll come right out and say it. I’ll be factual and to the point. No drama. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us,” I’ll say. Easy-peasy, just like that.

When I imagine it this way, I can’t imagine Charlie, like, screaming and running away or rejecting me or never talking to me again. I really don’t think my worst fears will come true. He’s too good of a person to freak out over some faulty DNA. And he’ll understand why I didn’t tell him. I know he will.

For now, though, I tell him, “I don’t like lemonade,” as if that covers it.

He presses his lips together and gives me a look. “You do know I know the truth, right?”

I’m about to apologize for not telling him myself when he leans forward and looks left, then right, then directly at me again. “You’re an international spy. You were always off on missions in exotic locations while I was sitting in the cafeteria, bored out of my mind. I’m sure Katie Price isn’t even your real name,” he whispers.

I’m relieved that he was only kidding around, but I feel like it’s one close call after another. Maybe my news can’t wait until the end of the night. Might as well rip this Band-Aid off now—as quickly as possible—and just deal with whatever happens as a result. Reality is reality; I can’t change what is. “That’s very close. The real truth is…”