Sweet Nothing(20)

A few steps behind Avery was her friend Deb. The moment Deb noticed me, she tapped Avery on the shoulder. Avery chuckled as Deb whispered something, and then laughed out loud as her friend placed money in her hand. Avery’s heels clicked against the pavement. She strode confidently toward me, but her expression told a different story. Deb veered off toward her own car, and Avery took one last glance at her friend before stopping a few feet away from me.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said as she looked up at me, her nose scrunched as if regretting her words.

“Deb bet against me?” I asked, glancing down at the wadded up bill clutched in her palm.

“Me, actually. She thought I’d back out.”

I nodded, trying to figure out what that said about Avery. “Well then, we better go before you make a run for it.” Placing my hand on her lower back, I guided her to the passenger side of my car and pulled the door open.

“Who knew you were such a gentleman?” She slipped inside and I closed her door. I tried not to jog to my side, but I was anxious to begin our night.

I started the car and cringed as AC/DC blared through the speakers. “You can change that,” I mumbled, reaching out and turning down the volume knob.

“No, it’s fine. I like it.”

I felt her watching me as I backed out of my parking spot. I shifted into drive and glanced to my left to see Deb dragging her finger across her throat in warning of what was awaiting me if I hurt her friend.

“So … where are we going?”

I cleared my throat as I looked down the street before pulling out into traffic. “Are you hungry?”

Avery glanced into the back seat, and her smile faded. “Please tell me you didn’t cook.”

“I still have my eyebrows, don’t I?” I said. She didn’t seem amused, so I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous. Avery was the type of woman who was attracted to a guy like Doc Rose. She was right; I was going to have to step up my game. “No, ma’am, I didn’t cook. Not tonight.”

We drove out of town to back country roads, winding over small hills. I pulled into the back entrance of Bud’s junkyard. Avery stiffened at my side, craning her neck to glance over the rows and rows of dilapidated cars.

“I knew it. You brought me here to kill me.”

I laughed, pulling my car into line with the other vehicles, and cut the engine. As my headlights faded, a bright light from overhead shined onto the old white sheet that hung haphazardly on a stack of twisted metal.

“Come on.” I pushed my door open and grabbed the mystery box from the back seat, along with a fitted sheet that matched the one hanging in front of us.

Avery hesitated before following.

Spreading out the sheet on the patchy grass in front of my car, I sank down on my knees and waited for her to join me.

“I figured since we both hate people who talk at the movies, this would be the next best thing. We’re thirty acres from anyone in every direction.”

“Said the serial killer,” Avery deadpanned.

My lips formed a hard line, but it was hard to be frustrated when she was looking at me like that. “No one is going to talk through this movie.”

She winked, nodded, and then glanced around. “This is … really thoughtful of you, Josh.” We fell silent for a moment as we listened to the crickets chirping in the distance.

“Wait,” I said, chuckling. “I’m not done, yet.” I began to pull the wrapped plate from the basket, my stomach growling at the sight of Mrs. Cipriani’s pie. “After the movie, you’re going to pick a car.”

“What?” She scrunched her nose as she glanced around the mass of rusted and broken vehicles.

“Don’t worry about what they look like. I can make any one of them look good as new. These cars have been through a few drivers, but show them a little love, and they are reliable. You need something that can keep you safe. Not expensive and unreliable.”

“We still talking about cars here?” She raised an eyebrow.

The last thing I wanted was to remind her of Doc Rose. I knew how I looked compared to men like him. He was mature and had his shit together. I had yet to commit to a car payment, much less a girlfriend.

“Of course … and things we hate, remember?”

“That’s easy.” She laughed. “Next on my list is Christmas.”

“You hate baby Jesus’s birthday?”

She giggle-snorted. “No, I just hate the whole build-up. It never ends up the way it’s planned, y’know?”

“Life rarely does,” I agreed. “But now you need to explain, because this confession has traumatic childhood written all over it.”

“After my parents …” Her smile faded, and she slipped a mile away into her own thoughts. “Christmas is just a really lonely time for me. Probably not first date conversation.”

I realized I was right, and it felt like all the blood had drained from my face. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” She waved me away, dismissing my apology. “How about, um … how about before?”

“My mom was Jewish. The kids at school used to go on and on about their tree. Maybe I was a little jealous,” she confessed. She pressed her lips together, but then her laughter escaped and echoed throughout the salvage yard.