Calmly, Carefully, Completely(40)

I repeat my question. “You get everything?”

He finally looks down at me. “I got everything I need,” he says. His tone is polite but clear and soft as butter.

I clear my throat and turn Pete toward the front of the store so we can pay for the items he’s collected. “I’ll see you, Chase,” I call back. He waves at me. I feel bad because Chase seems confused. He’s pulling out his phone as we walk away, and I’m already expecting for my dad to hear from his dad. I don’t care. If my dad had a problem with Pete, he certainly wouldn’t have sent me out with him.

Pete steps up to the counter and lays his items beside the register. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and opens it up. I see a couple of foil wrappers in with his cash. Heat creeps up my face. He pays, then closes his wallet and shoves it back into his back pocket. He takes the bag from the clerk and thanks her.

As we walk out the front door, he twines his fingers with mine. I look up at him, blinking away the brightness of the sun. “You really need to learn to behave yourself,” I say. But I can’t bite back a laugh. I just can’t. “‘Jailhouse Rock’? Seriously?”

He shrugs, but he’s grinning too. “It seemed appropriate.”

I bark out a laugh so loud that I cover my mouth in embarrassment. “It was so inappropriate,” I say.

He sobers and looks at me after we get in the truck. “Who’s that guy to you?” he asks.

“He’s a friend,” I say with a shrug. “That’s all.”

“Why didn’t you tell him where I’m from?” he asks. He’s waiting with bated breath, I think.

“I did.”

He shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”

“He asked where you’re from. I said New York City. What more did you want me to tell him?”

“The truth would be a good start,” he mumbles.

“Jail is a place you stayed for a while, Pete. It’s not where you’re from.”

He snorts.

“That would be like the boys saying they live at Cast-A-Way Farms after staying for a week.”

“That’s not entirely accurate.” He rocks his head back and forth as if he’s weighing my words. Then his eyes narrow. “You didn’t let him touch you.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “I don’t let many people touch me.” I had better tell him the truth. “We went on a date once or twice,” I say.

“You’ve been on dates with him and you still don’t let him touch you?” He lifts his brow at me.

I nod, unsettled by his question.

“Good,” he says. He grins.

I start the truck and lay my right hand on the console between us, driving with my left. His injured arm comes up to settle beside mine and his pinkie crosses over mine, wrapping around it. It’s comfortable. It’s kind. It’s unsettling in a settling sort of way, and I don’t know what to do with it.

“Quit overthinking it,” he says, smiling out the window. He’s not even looking at me.

“Okay,” I say quietly. I settle back in my seat and scoot my hand closer to his.

My nerves are a mess by the time we get back to camp. Pete looks over at me and smiles. “Honey, we’re home,” he sings, grinning. But then he quickly sobers. He lowers his head, arching his neck, so he can look into my face. “You’re still overthinking it, aren’t you?” he asks softly.

I nod. I blink furiously to push back the tears. He’s so kind and he’s so sweet, but I’ve labored over this the whole way home. “I’m afraid I can’t be what you need for me to be,” I say quietly. “I just can’t.” I’ll never be normal. Never.