Page 46 of Fighting for You
I burst out laughing, mostly as a way to expel the last of my nerves. Brooks’ face turns even pinker. “I’m so sorry,” I say, still giggling. “I’m not laughing at you. That’s just the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.” I reach over and grab my coat from the hook and step outside. “Let’s go, Killer.”
I lock up, and we make our way down the couple of steps. Brooks gently places a hand on my lower back as he leads me to an older model truck. As I reach for the handle, he places his hand on the door, preventing me from opening it.
“Let me,” Brooks says but doesn’t immediately open the door. I turn to him to see what he’s waiting for and find him looking at me. My eyebrows raise in question, and he seems to snap out of whatever trance he was in. His other hand comes up, and his fingers gently play with one of my curls as he says, “You arescarybeautiful.”
And just like that I forget how to think or breathe. A hazy memory flickers to life in the back of my brain. Kissing. Kissing Brooks. My hands running over his chest and shoulders as he pulls me impossibly close.
Oh my God, I kissed Brooks.
Just as quickly as the memory flashes, it disappears. I’m hit with a pang of sorrow. Sorrow for forgetting. Sorrow for all the missing details I didn’t get a chance to lock away in my hippocampus, like the way his lips taste, the sounds he makes, the exact temperature of his skin under my fingertips. All the details I would recall daily and inspect and reinspect because I just know kissing Brooks is life-altering.
I’m never drinking with Thea and Ripley again.
By the time I tune back in, Brooks has let go of my hair, and the car door is open. I climb in and buckle up. Disappointment claws at me. I ruined our first kiss. It’s stupid, juvenile, but the idea of the first kiss is something I hold dear. It makes me feel too young, too inexperienced, but I can’t help it.
Brooks must notice my pouting after he gets in on the driver’s side and asks, “Everything okay?”
Keeping my eyes forward, I say, “I kissed you.”
“Yeah, you did.” His words are gentle, and I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t make myself look at him.
“I’m sorry. That’s… that’s not how it should have gone.” I look down at my hands and chew on my lip.
There’s a long pause. Long enough for me to wonder if he heard me, so I glance over and find him smirking. He turns himself forward and starts the truck. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll have plenty of do-overs.”
I have no idea where he’s taking me. The Red Clay Strays play quietly in the cabin of the truck when I ask for the second time, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” I’m getting really sick of those two words.
We’ve filled the drive with idle chit-chat about work and the crazy things my patients get up to when they think no one is watching. We caught Georgie in the bed of another patient again yesterday. While it’s not against the rules, fraternizing between the residents of Saint Stephen’s is discouraged. And I’m getting tired of hosting condom use demonstrations to a crowd of people who could be my grandparents, many of whom—sadly—don’t even know where they are.
Brooks finally slows and turns off onto a side road, which we follow for a few minutes before it ends at the opening of a large open gravel lot with a sign for ‘Southbury Drive-In’ at the entrance.
The realization of where we are and what we’re doing brings a huge smile to my face, a smile I couldn’t fight if I wanted to.
“Oh my God, I’ve never been to a drive-in before!” I say, my face plastered to the window, looking at all the other people and cars, the concession stand, and trying to find a sign showing what movie will be playing. I’m familiar with the local drive-in, but it only opened about a year ago, and I haven’t had a chance to go yet.
Brooks drives up to one of the high-school-aged kids directing traffic and rolls down the window.
“Reed, what’s up?” he says.
“Hey, Brooks. We got your spot set up. Just go left here and around, you’ll see it.”
“Thanks, man.” He bumps fists with the kid, and then we’re moving down the lane. As soon as we round the corner, Brooks heads toward a spot set away from other cars marked off by LED tea lights set in the gravel. He backs into the spot so the bed of the truck faces the huge screen at one end of the lot.
Looking out the back window, we have a perfect, unobstructed view of the screen. Our spot has also been isolated by parking cones preventing other cars from parking immediately next to us. It feels like we’re the only ones here, even though I know there are dozens of other cars parked nearby.
“You have an in with the high school crowd?” I ask.
“I had to call in a few favors,” he says with that sexy teasing tone I’ve come to crave.
“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
His face suddenly rearranges into something too serious for the moment. “I probably should have done more. I’m just not good at this.”
I don’t have a response. This is already way more than anyone has ever done for me for a date. I’m used to the tireddinner and a movie, with the meal taking place in a stuffy, too-fancy restaurant where the food is great but the atmosphere suffocating, followed by whatever rom-com is currently out.
I’m saved from answering by another young person at the window.
