This gets a little laugh out of her, and the tenseness eases a fraction.
“Remember what Shakespeare wrote, Shortcake.” I silently will her to believe my words. “About beauty bein’ in the imperfections.”
She slowly nods before whispering back, “Thanks, Hollis.”
“Anytime.” I move to drop my hands from her shoulders, but she stops me, placing hers over mine. Our eyes lock in the mirror, mine silently questioning.
“Will you save a dance for me?” Her question is so faint that I have to strain to hear her.
“Of course.”
She smiles back as her hands release mine, and I step away.
While I wait for her to change back into her clothes, a text comes in from Charlotte.
Charlotte: Hey, handsome. Last night was amazing. Hope you’re not too tired today. Let me know if you want me to bring you food for your lunch break later. Mom’s making red beans and rice and her famous cornbread.
My stomach growls in response to her text. Good Lord, Mrs. Benson’s cornbread is so good I could easily eat my weight in it. Just as I start to text back a yes, please, she sends another text.
Charlotte: P.S. I’m still smiling like a weirdo today. And tingling. Because of you last night.
Shit. Every molecule of my body ignites, thinking about last night. Damn. This girl’s addictive.
“Everythin’ okay?”
I jump in surprise at Magnolia’s question, lose my grip on my phone, and end up juggling it to keep it from crashing to the floor. I finally manage to clutch at it clumsily.
My best friend eyes me like I’m one of the odd folks who jump the barricades during a Mardi Gras parade and risk getting run over by the floats just to nab beads or a moon pie. Then her eyes narrow on me.
“You look guilty.” Her gaze darts to the phone in my hand. “What’s goin’ on?”
I do my best to act nonchalant. “Nothin’. Just a text from Charlotte.” I shove the phone in my back pocket and hurriedly say, “All set?”
She nods quickly, raising one hand that holds the hanger of the garment bag. “All set.”
Once we’re in my truck and heading back to her house, she says, “Y’all seem to be doin’ well.” Her overly casual tone makes me uneasy for some reason.
“We’re good. Just takin’ it day by day.” Aside from last night, that is. One edge of my lips tugs upward at the reminder.
“Are you still a virgin?”
If I hadn’t already slowed to a stop at the four-way intersection, I’d have slammed on the brakes hard enough to give us whiplash. Making sure there aren’t any cars behind me, I whip my head around to stare at her.
“What?”
She’s as cool as a cucumber, sitting in the passenger seat like she didn’t just blurt out a question like that.
“Are you still a virgin?”
Magnolia and I talk about anything and everything—that much is true—but ever since Dallas came into the picture and then Charlotte, things have shifted a bit. Which is why I’m caught off guard by her sudden interest in my sexual status.
I study her for a moment before I answer quietly. “Yes.” My voice seems to echo within the truck cab. When she doesn’t react or respond, I stare. “Are you askin’ for a reason?”
“No.” Her tone is defensive. “I just wondered.”
I force a laugh, trying to inflect humor to detract from the awkwardness I’m feeling. “You’re suddenly wonderin’ whether I’ve had sex or not?”
She lets out an exasperated sound. “I was just askin’. Don’t be gettin’ a bee in your bonnet, Hollis Barnes.”
I grin, shaking my head at her, and continue driving. When she makes no move to say more, I prompt, “Well, go on. You can’t just ask me if I’m a virgin and not offer up your own status.”
She lets out a loud sigh. “Of course, I am.”
I screw up my face in disbelief. “How is that an of course? You’ve been datin’ Dallas for what? Almost two years?” I toss her a look of disbelief. “I honestly thought y’all would’ve done it by now.”
I swear I can practically feel her prickle with defensiveness. Her voice takes on a prim and proper tone. “Just because people date in high school for a while doesn’t mean they’re fixin’ to just…drop their drawers and knock boots.”
God, she sounds like she belongs back in Scarlett O’Hara’s day right now. So self-righteous, her Southern accent growing thicker.
“Well, then I reckon I should tell you we dropped our drawers last night, but no boots were a knockin’.” I attempt a joke before realizing in horror what I’ve just confessed to.
Shit.
The silence is now deafening.
Finally, when Magnolia speaks, her voice sounds hollowed out and small. “I reckon that was a little more information than I needed.”
I scrub a hand down my face, frantically scrambling for a way to salvage this conversation, but I come up empty. I pull in her driveway, then shift to put the truck in park. I always get out and open the door for her—her and Charlotte both, for that matter—but I stop with my fingers resting on the door handle, not yet pushing it open, and turn to blurt out, “I’m sorry, Shortca—”
“No worries! I’ve gotta go. Thanks for goin’ with me.” Then she bounds from the truck with a speed that rivals the time she ran the bases during her best hit at a baseball game one summer.
Leaving me sitting here with my hand still on the door handle.
I watch her go because that’s all I can do. I’m not welcome in her house, even if I wanted to chase after her and apologize.
She disappears inside, and I back out of the drive to head around the corner and turn onto my street, making an immediate turn into my driveway.
As soon as I turn off the ignition, I let my head fall back against the headrest with a soft thump.
What a colossal mess.
Magnolia
SENIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL
April
It took a few days for Hollis and I to get back on track after that awkward conversation on the way home from the dress shop. I’m pretty darn certain every molecule in my body sighed in relief at getting my best friend back one hundred percent again.
Next month, we graduate. My mother’s making me endure a final summer etiquette camp before I head off to college. I admit, I’m dreading it more than usual and not just because Lora Ann will be there, fresh with insults to sling at me like always. It’s really because I don’t want to miss out on this last summer with Hollis before everything changes. It sounds dramatic even to myself, but I feel it in my bones that once we head to Auburn, our friendship will shift. And that worries me.
I walk over to my bookshelf, my bare feet soundless on the plush carpeting. Reaching behind a large stack of books—collector’s editions by Shakespeare and Hawthorne and other classics that my mother approves of—I withdraw what’s tucked behind them and hold it in my hands like a priceless treasure.
In a way, it is.
The model car Hollis repaired for me is one of the sweetest gifts I’d ever received. All the expensive gifts in the world pale in comparison to this. Because not only did he give me something meaningful, but he also committed time in making it for me.