Page 114 of Until August
“You’re an asshole,” I shouted, but there was no bite to my words because I was laughing.
“I know, Honey Bun. Why do you think I’m standing in your driveway playing a cheesy 80’s song on a fucking boombox?”
“It’s not even a boombox.”
“Pretend it is.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just come down. You’ve made your point. I accept your apology.”
As if I’d said the magic words, he set the speaker on the roof and jumped onto the truck bed. But instead of joining me, he leaned over the side and held out his hands. “Come here.”
I took a few tentative steps closer, unsure what he wanted from me.
When I was standing right in front of him, he leaned down, wrapped his hands around my waist, and lifted me off the ground.
Just as if I was featherlight. Show-off. It must have been that jailhouse workout.
He set me on my feet in the bed of his pickup, but his hands stayed on my waist. We were swaying to the music like two kids at the prom. I wore a tank top, sleep shorts, and a messy bun. He wore a concert tee, faded denim, and a smirk.
“What are we doing, August?”
He pulled me closer, and my arms looped around his neck. “Dancing. Obviously.”
I laughed and rested my cheek on his shoulder, playing along. All my bad feelings from earlier disappeared because he knew exactly how to speak to my 80’s movie-loving romantic heart.
When the song ended, he released me, then lowered the volume of the music so we could talk without screaming.
“You said you wanted to have fun. So I thought we could have a picnic.” I looked down at the blanket under my feet as he gestured that I should sit. “I brought you a midnight snack.”
I had no idea why he wanted to sit in the bed of his parked truck in my driveway at midnight. But it was a sweet gesture, so I lowered myself to the blanket and sat cross-legged. There was a slight chill in the air, and goosebumps raised the hairs on my arms. I was always cold. It could be eighty degrees, and I’d be shivering.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when he tossed a hoodie into my lap without my even having to ask. As if he could read my thoughts and had come prepared for anything.
I thanked him, threaded my arms through the sleeves, and zipped it up while he rummaged around in the cooler. I burrowed my nose in the material and inhaled his scent. Sandalwood and citrus. I should have inspected his soap brand while I was being so nosy. “How did you know I was cold?”
“Your nipples told me,” he deadpanned.
I laughed as he handed me a beer. Then I laughed some more.
I took a sip of my beer and smiled at him. Guns ‘N Roses’ “Patience” was playing. “I love Guns ‘N Roses.”
“I know. This is your playlist.”
“I don’t have this song on any of my playlists.”
“It’s the playlist I made for you.”
Oh. Wow. Okay. That was sweet, too.
He knew my favorite music. He knew my favorite foods because he spread them out in front of me like a queen’s banquet.
August Harper knew the way to my heart.
He didn’t apologize with words. Instead, he made grand gestures.
My gaze dipped to his Dead Kennedys t-shirt, riddled with holes and stretched out at the neck, the print so faded I could barely make it out. “Oh, my God. Is that… no way. Is that the same t-shirt you wore the day I met you?”
He looked down at it and then sat, leaning against the cab, a beer in one hand and his legs kicked out. “Yeah,” he said with a laugh.
