Page 10 of Car Wash
Chapter Five
John
We’rein the parking lot of a little diner that looks like it’s been here since the ’70s—the neon pink sign twisted up like a candy cane, flickering against a sky that can’t decide how hot it wants to burn.
The parking lot is packed full of cars. Some belong to cute families. Others are driven by trust-fund tech bro types in their ostentatious rides. There are also pickup trucks with kids my age, laughing in the bed or with their feet propped up on the dashboard, toes hanging out the window.
We would have gone inside, but the air conditioning was down.
Thank goodness the freezer wasn’t.
“These are the best milkshakes you’ve ever had,” I say as I unwrap two straws and hand one to John. “Trust me.”
“Let’s see if you’re lying,” John rasps under his breath, not looking at me. One of his hands grips the steering wheel, even though we’re just sitting here. My stomach flips.
I punch my own straw through the plastic lid. I turn away a little, trying not to let my dad’s straight-laced friend see me with my cheeks hollowed and my lips curled around the straw.
I swallow the decadent, sticky, frothy shake like I would drink from a river if I were lost in the mountains—desperate for something to keep me going just one more moment.
“It’s good, right?” I say.
John nods, his throat moving as he swallows. I blush, infatuated by how fucking hot he is.
A sharp jaw, strong brows, and those dreamy eyes. I don’t know if I want him to tuck me into bed or toss me around a motel room all night.
That’s not him, though. No. He’s probably one of those guys who buys the $35 smoothie from that yuppie version of 7-Eleven or whatever they have in California, where he’s been hiding out for the last few years.
Still—how happy I am that he was in town and had the chance to swing by.
The air in the car is starting to feel thick. Not hot, exactly—just charged. Like if we stay parked here any longer, I’ll say something reckless. Or worse—do something I can’t take back.
A car horn blares behind us, sharp and sudden. I flinch, and my hand flies out before I can stop it—landing on his arm.
Heat rushes through me like a pulse. His forearm is solid, warm, the muscle tight under my fingers. My thighs clench without permission.
“Sorry,” I murmur, but my voice sounds weird—too breathy, too soft. I snatch my hand back like I touched a live wire.
He doesn’t say a word. Just starts the engine, shifts into gear, and pulls us out of the lot—cool and silent like nothing happened.
But something did. My whole body knows it.
We drive in silence for a minute, the summer air rushing through the cracked windows, sticky and sweet.
“Ugh,” I grumble under my breath as we pass a little field with a projection screen and enough parking spots for about a hundred cars.
The last time I thought of this place, it was when a guy in a frat asked me to go to the movies with him—a drive-in movie. It was going to be a five-hour triple feature of flesh-eating zombies and awkward conversation. Five hours stuck in a car with a guy I barely knew. No way was I going to subject myself to that kind of misery.
Even if I were interested, it would’ve been too intense for a first date.
And it wouldn’t just be a first date with him. It would be my first date, period.
“What’s wrong?” John says, his eyes flashing over to mine.
Then he glances at the cup in my hands and tries to grab it.
“Hey!” I say, hugging it close to my chest. It’s slick with condensation and I’m very aware that it’s getting on my shirt. My fingers are sticky with strawberry ice cream and sugar.
“What the hell?” I say.
