I find myself swaying to a big-band cover of “Come On Eileen” when I realize a truck that rolled to a stop at the end of the street right in front of me seconds ago hasn’t started moving again.
The loud trumpet music is still going in my ears, but I’m barely listening to it because I know that truck.
Jackson rolls down the window. “Get in!” he calls to me, but I don’t move. “Ames, come on. Get in the damn truck. It’s fucking freezing.”
I bark out a laugh in the direction of his open window. “Right, because you’re so concerned about me being cold.” I’m not even sure why I say it. Ever since the party, and our weird encounter at the Valentine-gram table, Jackson and I have been studiously avoiding each other. The only time I’ve really seen him is in AP bio, and even then, we try to be cordial.
He’s silent for a moment, and I’m prepared for him to drive off. “Amy, come on. Let me make it up to you, okay? Get in the truck. I know how much you hate taking the bus.”
That much is true. I really hate taking the bus. I hate the way it smells and how the vinyl is somehow always greasy and how loud everyone is, like it’s a contest or something. I look down at my calculus homework. There’s no way I’ll be able to do it on the bus, and the faster I get to school, the faster I can really focus on it without distractions.
I’m doing this for my grade, for my valedictorian status, not for Jackson.
I toss my backpack onto his floorboard, and I’m swept into a moment of déjà vu. So many times when we were together, Jackson drove me to school, and I would have a textbook on my lap, my index finger saving my place, just like I do now.
“What were you listening to?” Jackson gestures at the earbuds slung around my neck.
Am listening to, I think. Save Ferris is still playing. I can hear the trumpets under the sound of Jackson’s tires moving down the street. He doesn’t listen to music when he drives. Just sits in silence or listens to sports radio. Drives me nuts.
“Ska,” I tell him, pausing my iPod.
“Never heard of them.”
I glance sideways at him. “Ska is a genre. Not a band.”
He just nods and puts on his turn signal. Being with Jackson has never been awkward for me before. We’ve always had something to talk about.
“Have a good weekend?” I ask. Ugh. I hate that we’ve wandered back into small talk territory, but what other option do I have? It’s not like we can talk about us—about how I’m pretty sure I still love him; about how I still can’t really forgive him for ditching me at his party; about how I’m happy with my new job, even if I only took it for the money and now it’s starting to take its toll on my grades.
But if I’m being honest, it’s not Spirits’s fault I almost failed that test.
It’s Jackson’s. If we were still together, not fighting, I probably would have aced that test. Calculus isn’t even a sore spot for me.
“Yeah, I guess so. Went to the game.”
I blink at him for a second. I’m not sure which game he’s talking about. Is it football season? Is it the swim team? Does the swim team have games?
Jackson chuckles. “The basketball game, Amy. God, have I taught you nothing?”
My heart flutters at his laughter. Sports are a thing I went to when Jackson and I were together that I would never do if it wasn’t for him. I don’t find sports to be particularly interesting, just like he doesn’t find studying and listening to indie rock on Friday nights interesting. He always said that staying home on Friday night was a sin.
“Right. The basketball game. Did we win?”
The corner of his mouth is perked up slightly. “Yeah. We won.” His eyes flit to me for just a second. “What’d you do this weekend?”
I think about how I spent all day Saturday going over my calculus test and reviews before work. I think about spending Sunday in my room, listening to that Blur album over and over, until I couldn’t imagine ever not knowing it. I don’t mention any of that to him. Those are two things Jackson really doesn’t care about—music and academics.
“Just went to work,” I tell him, which is true. Every second I didn’t spend at home was spent at Spirits.
“So, you like your new job, huh?”
I shrug. I don’t know why, but I feel like I can’t show him too much enthusiasm, like somehow he might use it against me. “Sure. It’s a paycheck, you know. Carlos has a job interview today, so we’ll see.”
We stop at the light around the corner from school, and he smiles over at me. “You know that’s not the only reason you’re doing it.”
I feel myself blush and look away from him. It’s easy to forget, sitting here next to him more than a week after he’s broken up with me, quiet and awkward, that he knows me better than anyone, has known me like this for almost a year.
“It’s the biggest reason,” I say, looking out the window as what’s left of the melting snow drifts by.
My phone pings, and I get a weird feeling in my stomach at the thought that maybe it’s Oliver.
But it’s not even a text. It’s an email.
Your tickets have shipped! the subject reads.
God, I can’t believe I forgot. In all the business of Spirits and Jackson and valedictorian, I forgot that I bought tickets to see the Lumineers this summer.
I glance over at Jackson, and his eyes are on the screen of my phone. On reflex, I turn it off.
“I forgot about that,” he says, as we pull into a parking space and Jackson puts the car in park.
I bought the tickets for Jackson and me. Even though he hates the Lumineers, hates all my music, he still agreed to go with me. But everything is different now. I never accounted for a breakup.
I haven’t figured out what to say, my hand already on the door handle, ready to run away. But then he says, “We can still go.”
I turn away from the window, back to him. His eyes are so soft, and as much as I want to remember him as being the guy who stood by while his best friend stole my car keys, I can only remember him as the guy who ran his fingers through my hair while I did homework, who called me right before he went to sleep to tell me good night, who brought me soup when I was sick.
“If you want.” I watch his mouth say the words, seemingly in slow motion.
I open the door. I have to get away from him. Because Jackson is so good at sucking me in, and as much as I want everything to just go back to the way it was, if I let Jackson suck me in again, I know I’ll just get hurt. Because he was right when he said it was too hard on him to be with me, that we were rarely ever together anymore. I ignored it for a long time, the way his eyes were always a little sad, because it was too hard to admit.
It’s better this way, if we both focus on what we need.
“Thanks, but I’ll find someone else to go with. See you in bio.”
Jackson is rushing to get his keys out of the ignition, to get to his backpack in the back seat. “Let me walk you,” he says, but I’m already closing the door and rushing through the parking lot. I feel like I can breathe once I’m out of his truck, the air cold and biting. I duck around the side of the building and lean against the red brick wall, looking at the empty tennis court across the sidewalk from me.