Someone grabs on to my shoulder and spins me around, and I’m looking down at a short, stocky guy in khaki shorts and a polo. His hair is all messed up, and his mouth is all swollen, and I’m a little embarrassed for him.
“You Bryce?”
The guy scowls at me. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?”
I put my hands up, but not in a way that would make him think I’m ready to surrender. “I’m just here to get Amy’s keys back. Give them to me, and I’ll gladly leave.”
His eyes shoot to Amy, still standing over by the door, watching us. I don’t miss the fact that her ex is looking at her, too.
Bryce nudges me, and I want to punch him. “What are you going to do if I refuse? Beat me up?”
I snort. “Look, I’m not much for fighting. I’d rather just let the cops take care of it. How many underage kids do you think you have crammed in here? How much have you had to drink, Bryce?”
He doesn’t even blink.
“You seem like a charming guy. You can probably get off with a warning on the whole alcohol thing. But the car? Well, technically, if you stole Amy’s keys, you stole the whole car. How much time do you think you’d get in juvie for grand theft auto? Oh, wait. Are you eighteen? Make that jail.” I don’t know if any of this is true, but it sounds legit, and it’s putting traces of fear in Bryce’s eyes, so I go with it.
But then Bryce makes a kind of horse noise with his big lips. “They’re not gonna put me in jail for taking her car keys.”
“You willing to risk it?”
He blinks up at me, and the fear is back. Chances are good that if the cops show up, they’ll just ask Bryce to give Amy her keys, tip their hats, and move on. But a coward like Bryce isn’t about to chance that we might catch them on a bad day.
“Fine,” Bryce says, rolling his eyes and reaching into one of the cargo pockets of his shorts. “Here.” He dangles the keys in front of my face, and I snatch them away quick.
When I turn back to where Amy is standing, it isn’t to find the scared-looking girl I saw a moment before. Amy is looking at me, and she’s smiling so big that every light in the room dims in comparison. I can’t help but smile back. What is this girl doing to me?
When I get to her, I hand her the keys, and maybe she doesn’t notice the way her fingertips brush mine, but I notice, and it sends chills up my arm.
Once the keys are firmly in her hand, she turns and looks at Jackson, and so do I. He hasn’t moved an inch since the last time I looked. I see the pride in Amy’s eyes when she turns and walks out of the house.
“Are you working tomorrow?” she asks once we’re outside. We stand at the end of the sidewalk, and I know that we have to separate, her in one direction and me in the other.
“Yep.”
She bites her lip, but it doesn’t hide her smile. “Great. I’ll see you then.” She pauses for a second, rattling the keys in her hand. “Thanks, Oliver.” She turns, and I watch her walk away, the snow falling onto her hair, until she’s completely covered in shadow.
My truck feels empty when I get back to it, but there’s a scent lingering in the air, some kind of floral perfume.
In the back seat, my dad coughs and sits up. “What’s going on?” he asks, his eyes fuzzy as he looks out the windshield.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Go back to sleep.”
OLIVER
WHEN AMY WALKS into the shop on Saturday night, she walks straight to the counter and hands me a CD. It’s a burned CD, a blank white disc with no writing on it.
“What’s this?” I ask, my fingers clutching tight to the case.
“It’s a thank-you gift. For last night.” She taps her fingers on the counter. She bites her lip, and then those dark brown eyes meet mine, finally. “You’re not going to tell anyone about … about all that? Are you? It’s just because this whole situation is a little embarrassing, and I don’t want everyone to know. I didn’t even want you to know, but now you do, so—”
“Amy.”
She stops, and her eyes widen, the way they always seem to when I say her name, like she’s surprised I remember it.
“Who am I going to tell?”
Her eyes shift, going straight to where Brooke is helping a customer with something in the back of the store.
“I’m not going to tell Brooke,” I say. What does she care what Brooke thinks anyway? But that’s easy for me to say. I’ve known Brooke for three years. I know she isn’t as tough as her exterior would suggest. I know that she has a soft spot for people and loves Celine Dion as much as she loves the Smashing Pumpkins. She’s a big old softie. But to someone who doesn’t know her, she’s just that badass half of herself. It’s always the hardness that people see first.
Amy takes a deep breath and nods. And that’s it. She walks away from me, into the office to clock in, and I’m left standing at the front desk, the CD still in my hand.
We don’t speak for the rest of her shift. She stays behind the register while I stock and help customers, and while normally the shift would have been pretty ideal for me, I’m feeling a little antsy. Amy is trying to be bright and optimistic, but as soon as a customer walks out the door, I see the light in her eyes dim a little, see the way she seems to deflate.
And then it’s closing time, and the two of us are standing together in the back office, clocking out on Brooke’s computer. I try to keep my eyes off her, focusing only on the click-clacking of her fingers on the keyboard, but in the last three hours, I’ve found it increasingly more difficult not to look at her.
“Walk you out?” I ask.
She looks over her shoulder at me, her hand on the doorknob of Brooke’s office. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Okay.”
“Night, guys!” Brooke calls to us as we head out of the shop. She locks the door behind us, and then Amy and I are standing on the sidewalk outside, and it’s the first time we’ve ever been completely alone.
“Did you park across the street?” I ask, pointing at the lot at the end of the shopping center where I always park. She nods. Cars still rush past us, but the shops on either side of Spirits and across the street are completely quiet. In the lot, she smiles at me, her arms crossed and the cold wind making her bangs flutter, her face half blue with shadow. I’m not good at getting to know people or letting them in or being a good friend, but I want to be her friend. I’m also not good at telling people that I want to be their friend.
“Be safe driving home,” I say. “The road is icy.” I want that to be enough to tell her that I suck at this but that I’m here for her. She just sends me a close-lipped smile and nods.
“Thanks, Oliver. I’ll see you later.” She turns away from me, walking to her car. I climb into my truck, but I wait until she’s turned on her headlights and pulled out onto the road before I take out the CD she made me and stick it in my CD player.
The first song is Jeff Buckley’s rendition of “Hallelujah.”
I press my head to my steering wheel.
I’ve liked girls before.
Maybe I’ve even loved girls before.