Page 113 of First-Time Caller
“No, I meant you don’t need to drive me back.”
The shop is deserted, the lights low. She must have come to get me at the end of her shift. She probably wants to get home.
Lucie nods, eyes stuck on the steering wheel. “That’s fine.” Her lips twist down, and if I could punch myself in the face, I would. “You can grab a cab out front. I’ll be in touch about your car in the morning.”
She swings open her door, but I reach over before she can slip from the seat. I grab the handle and snap it shut again. I hold myself extended across the front of her, my palm braced against the window.
“Lucie.”
“What?” She keeps her face tilted away from me. As much as she can, anyway, in three feet of crammed car space.
“Look at me.”
“I don’t really want to.”
I sigh. “Please.” I let go of the door to touch my thumb to her chin. “I know I’m not doing this right. Please, Lucie.”
Her eyes snap up to mine. Our faces are two inches apart. I can see every shade of green that rings her irises.
“Hi,” I breathe, every other thought evaporating from my brain.
Lucie is unamused, her lips in a flat line. “Hello.”
“I’m not saying the right things.”
“That keeps happening, doesn’t it?”
“Because you’ve got me all twisted up,” I confess, hoping she can see the sincerity on my face. Maybe if I show her enough of myself, she can tell me what the hell is happening. How to do better. “I’m a mess, Lucie.”
“Because of the closet?”
“Because of a lot of things.” The edge of the pizza box digs into my side. The radio spits static. The truck rumbles beneath us and I have, once again, lost control of the situation. “Because of the closet. Because I kissed you and I want to kiss you again. And because I’ve been sitting over here trying to figure out how to hide the fact that I have a pineapple pizza on my lap, but it feels fairly obvious.”
Her eyebrows jump up. She glances at the box in my lap and then back to my face. “You have a pineapple pizza?”
I nod, annoyed with myself. “I do.”
“You said pineapple on pizza is disgusting.”
“It is.”
“Then why do you have it?”
“Because you said it was your favorite,” I admit. “And I want your favorite to be my favorite.”
Because when the guy behind the counter asked me what I wanted, I said “pineapple” without thinking. Because my brain has been rewired to only think about one thing, apparently, and she’s sitting next to me in a tow truck looking a combination of bewildered and bemused. I’m not used to letting myself feel things. I’m not sure I like it.
“Don’t look at me like that.” I groan. “This is why I was trying to hide it.”
“Look at you like what?”
I touch the edge of her smile where she’s trying to fight it. Poorly.
“Like that,” I tell her. I drop my hand in my lap.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just—” She rubs her fingertips across her lips like she’s trying to wipe away her grin. It is absolutely not working. “You are comically distressed about the pineapple pizza.”
“Because it’s embarrassing.”
