I could tell him more — how Moochie used to Super Glue troll dolls to its hood and roof, for example — but I decide to stop while I’m ahead and keep things simple. So I grab his hand without thinking and say, “I like your truck.”

“It’s my work truck.”

“You should see my ‘work car,’” I say, which is ridiculous both because I only have one car and because it’s cluttered, but in great shape. “Come on.” And this time, I lead him. It’s a few steps before I realize I’ve been too familiar and let go of his hand, keeping close, smiling without making it too apparent how much I’m enjoying his company.

But Brandon, looking over, is quiet. It’s not vehicle shame now, though. It’s something deeper. Something animal. The smile leaves my lips, but now I want to walk even closer.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Enough time has passed that the first glass of wine, at least, should be leaving my system. But I still feel intoxicated. I want to touch Brandon, even knowing what a bad idea it is for us both. We could never be together. We’re not a good fit, and we’re from backgrounds different enough to be opposite. He’s too old for me. He works with (for!) my father. And if I embarrass myself in front of a man who might one day be my boss, I’ll only confirm all that Dad’s thinking. What everyone, I imagine, is thinking.

But by the time we climb into the truck, a tense quiet has settled between us. I’m afraid to look at Brandon. He seems afraid to look at me. I must appear angry, but the soul of Gavin’s sad song has rooted in my heart, and I’m anything but. I feel myself drawn toward Brandon. And unless I’m mistaken, I can see him fighting the same thing from his end.

I sit. I strap in. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I fold them in my lap. I don’t know where to look, so I turn my eyes to the dashboard, the floor, the CDs in the door pocket.

“I told you it was dirty before we got in,” he says, a bit too harshly, because he must think my survey means I’m judging.

“I know.”

“I didn’t expect I’d be driving anyone.”

“Except Bridget,” I say.

He throws me a look. Again: almost angry. Not angry at all.

“How do I get to your place?”

I tell him.

“That’s way up in Cherry Hill.”

“Yes,” I say, because it should be obvious and already established. He knows I live with my father for now. I just got home from college. And everyone knows my father lives in Cherry Hill, or at least they should assume it, based on his income and status.

“It’s going to take us a half hour to get there.”

“About,” I say.

“And a half hour to get back.”

“Maybe you should get me a cab after all,” I say, near to snapping. It’s hard for me to move with this full, inflated feeling throughout my body, but I swivel over and unclasp the seatbelt anyway. Every movement feels dangerous, as if I’m a bomb about to go off.

Brandon pushes the truck into reverse then backs up while I’m still unbuckled. I snap it back in, the issue apparently decided, and stare out the window.

Within a few minutes, the lights of Old Town surrender to fields. Street lights vanish. I keep looking out the side window, but there’s nothing to see, not even a moon. I could look forward, but there’s nothing there, either. And I’m pretty sure Brandon is mad at me, so I don’t want to catch his eye.

It’s okay. I think I might be mad at him, too.

I look over. He’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He flicks his stare forward again, and we sit in the dark cab, lit only by the instrument panel.

I reach out to at least turn on the radio. But nothing happens when I start pushing knobs and buttons.

“It’s broken,” he says.

“You don’t have a radio?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it’d matter.”

“I offered to take a cab,” I say.

“I can drive you.”

“I see that. And it’s obviously pissing you off.”

“It’s not pissing me off.”

I scoff. “It so is. Don’t worry. You’ve already impressed my father. You don’t have to impress me more by doing me favors.”

“I’m not trying to impress your father.”

“Sure you are.” I pause. “And that’s fine.”

“I’m driving you home because it’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s an hour out of your way. I’m a big girl.” I keep tapping the radio. I can’t believe it doesn’t work. I hate this silence. There’s a fucking cloud in the cab. I can practically see it boiling out of us. We need noise. Anything to break the tension that for some reason came from nowhere. We were doing so well. Getting along so nicely. What the hell happened?

“I said it’s broken.”

I take my hand off the radio. “I thought maybe just the CD player was broken.”

“It’s all broken, Jesus.”

I stop and look out the window. Then I think, No, no, that’s bullshit. I don’t back down. So I glare at his profile and say, “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem. No problem at all.”

“This is your choice, you know. I said I’d take a cab. I’m even saying it’s smarter for me to take a cab. But no … you wanted to take me home.”

“Which I’m willing to do. Happy to do.”

“You don’t get to make a choice and bitch about it. One or the other. Maybe you should take some fucking responsibility.”

He shakes his head. “You know what? It’s actually not that cute when you swear.”

“Very mature.”

“Oh, now I’m immature?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look. I said I’d take you home. It’s fine. Seriously. I’m not complaining.”

“You don’t have to complain. It’s obvious from the way you’re acting.”

“And you know how I feel? You know I’m annoyed, even though I say I’m not.”

“Of course I do.”

He huffs. “Maybe you should have taken a cab.”

“I said I would! I want to!”

Brandon wrenches the wheel sideways, hard. The tires screech, and a second later I feel the ride change as we go off-road. There’s a second of panic, and I’m sure we’re going into a culvert, but Brandon must have better night eyes than me because he’s jockeyed us into the small dirt parking area around a large roadside produce stand. There are still no lights. It’s distant town glow, dash lights, stars, and nothing else.

“Fine. Let’s call a cab!”

I cross my arms. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You want to call a cab? Let’s call a cab.” He pulls out his phone. “Right now. They can come get you.”

“Here,” I say.

“Of course here.” 

“Fine.” It’s stupid, but I won’t lose this.

“There’s no service.” He looks at the phone then taps. I pull out my phone, but there’s no service for me in corn country either.

“Then take me back to town,” I snap. “I’ll can get a car and leave from there.”

“Fine!” He throws the truck into gear again, but this time the thing just shudders forward and stalls. He moves back to park and turns the key. Then: “Shit!”

“What?”

“It’s stalled out. The battery cable keeps coming loose.”

“So go fix it,” I say.

“It comes off while I’m driving! It’s not charged.” He glares at me like it’s my fault. “Trust me. This has happened before.”

I can’t imagine that’s how it works. Not only would his truck have to be a huge piece of shit, but so would the battery itself. As would Brandon, for failing to man up and fix it once he noticed the problem.

“I don’t guess you have a spare battery,” I say, my arms again crossed.

“Who carries a spare battery?”

“People who know their main battery might go dead.”

“Batteries are expensive!” But after saying it, he looks like he knows he shouldn’t have.

“That’s so dumb. You buy it if you need it.”

He shakes his head. “Jesus. You’re impossible. Have you ever had to fix anything? Have you ever had to buy anything with your own money?”

“Yes!”

“You have no idea what it’s like. No idea at all. People like you … ”