I glance to Tory’s phone screen, his cell sitting in the cup holder while it streams to his speakers. He’s listening to old-school R&B, and I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does.
“What? I don’t strike you as a Wilson Pickett fan?” He turns the volume up and mouths the words along with the song. It takes me a few lines of the song to notice he’s making his version up.
“You’re such a bullshitter!” I take his phone into my palm and sift through the songs, all of them as choice as this one. Then I note the name on the playlist.
HAYDEN’S SHIT
I smack at Tory’s leg and set his phone back in the cup holder.
“You like this stuff?”
I nod, singing along with the correct words. My voice, however, is terrible. This song in particular occupies space within me. Lucas and I sang this in a talent show at his parents’ house, along with a few of his cousins and my parents and some other family friends. That was back when those backyard chairs that now collect dust had people in them.
We pull into the crowded Two-fer’s parking lot and into a scene that looks a whole lot like the party I endured Friday night. Tory must sense my unease because he turns the music down and nudges my arm with his fist.
“We’ll stay in the car, do the drive-thru and park out of the way,” he says.
I smile and breathe a sigh of relief.
The drive-thru line is surprisingly short given the crowd around the joint, but most people go to the walk-up window then hang out. Two cop cars sit facing each other near the last two parking spaces. There tend to be a lot of fights at Two-fers, so the police have started filling out their reports here. I’m pretty sure they get free food.
“So, are you a dog or burger kinda girl?” Tory asks, leaning his arm out his window, waiting to give our order.
“Dog, all the way,” I say, catching the instant snicker on his lips.
“Please don’t make a dick joke,” I sigh out.
“Doggy style?” He shoots me a crooked smile but quickly apologizes. He orders two double-dog deals with Cokes and pulls around to the window. We’re a few cars back from the front, and a new quiet has settled in.
“I’m not a prude,” I say. Not sure why that’s the word I choose, but I don’t want him thinking I’m someone I’m not, or that I’m actually offended by his lame jokes. I just sometimes need a break from them.
“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” he says through a nervous laugh.
I blush.
“I don’t mean, like, well—” I stammer.
“I know what you mean. I talk a lot of shit and I’m loud and obnoxious, and fuck, can I get lit at a party!” Guilty laughter tumbles out of him. “I guess it’s a little bit my crutch, if that makes sense? Like, that’s my part that I play. I’m the douchebag.” He swings his fist from right to left to accentuate his sarcasm.
“You’re not a douchebag,” I reassure as we move up another space.
He turns his head and tilts it to rest against his seat, a wry smile playing at his lips.
“Come on, be honest. You wouldn’t have said that a week ago.”
I fess up quickly and nod.
“Oh, absolutely not. You were a douchebag then, but that’s only because I didn’t really know the other identities of Salvatore D’Angelo.” He cringes as I use his whole name.
“And what are those other identities?” he asks.
I twist my lips and look up, blowing at the loose hairs that have fallen loose from the messy bun I twisted my hair into while he was ordering.
“I think maybe . . . yeah . . . damn, I’m about to say this.” I level him with a serious look. “You’re part gentleman.”
He stares at me, unflinching, dead serious—for about three seconds.
“Get outta here!” He shoves at me playfully and waves a hand, brushing off the compliment. I let it go there because that’s his way of saying thanks. It was a rather back-handed way to say something nice to him anyhow, and that’s because I’m uncomfortable. That trust thing with me, it’s a tough nut to crack.
I flip through a few more songs on his brother’s playlist until we get to the window for our food. I notice he gives me the box with more fries, and I almost point out how that’s one of his gentlemanly qualities, but a black Nissan cuts off our path, pulling into one of the spaces to our right. It’s Lucas.
And Ava.
“We can leave,” Tory offers.
“No,” I hum, my gaze stuck on Lucas’s form as he maneuvers his truck in backward. Tory hovers near the exit for a second but lets me make this call, pulling his car into a spot almost directly across from them.
I do my best to focus on my fries after that, searching for the perfect one with slightly burnt tips and golden grooves. I lick the salt from my fingers and mumble out, “This is good” as I take a bite that clears out nearly a third of one of my dogs. I go in for a second bite, and Tory halts me, handing me a packet of ketchup. I look at it with my mouth agape and flit my eyes to him.
“Nobody, I mean nobody, puts ketchup on a hot dog,” I say, putting on the best raspy voice I’ve got. I play serious for a few more seconds, waiting for Tory to laugh, but he just shrugs and goes on drenching his food in that tomato shit.
Lucas would have gotten that joke. One summer, we watched every Dirty Harry movie Eastwood made. His dad had the collection on Blu-ray. He probably still does, last relevant Blu-ray collection in America, I bet. We liked the swearing and the violence—me, mostly because my parents didn’t let me watch that stuff at home, and him, I think, because he was the one sneaking it for me. We couldn’t eat hotdogs without laughing, but we never said the line out loud in front of our parents for fear they put it together.
That memory hangs heavy in my chest, and my eyes glance out the front window for the first time in a while. Across the way, Ava is talking out the passenger window to a few other girls, and Lucas is eating his fries one at a time, looking anywhere but at her.
I bet he’s bored. That’s me, wishing.
“Hey, don’t you work at Eight Lanes?”
“Huh?” I stir out of my trance and turn to find Tory’s eyes, his mouth full from his last bite. He glances out the window to Lucas then back at me with a muffled laugh from cheeks filled with bready bun bits.
“Sorry, I can’t help it,” I admit.
“You got a crush or something?” He takes another big bite, but stares at me through his chewing, as if that’s an easy question to answer. Besides, I’m pretty sure he knows the history there. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known Lucas, longer maybe.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Yeah, I figured. He does this same weird shit you do when I’m with him,” he says, finishing the last bite of his second dog. Meanwhile, I have one and a half left. He takes a long drink of his soda while I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate.
“What?” he asks, when he finally looks at me again.
“What same weird shit?” I ask.
I’m jittery all of a sudden.
“You know, he stares at you to make sure you’re not having too much fun over here while he’s over there, pretending he’s not really looking at you, or if he is then it’s because you irritate him or whatever.” He sours his mouth and rolls his eyes. “I don’t get you guys.”