“Wait!” I call before he can leave. “Do you have the time?”
He looks down at a silver wristwatch latched securely around his wrist. “It’s exactly three ‘til eight.”
Three ‘til eight?!
I snatch my bag off the floor and sprint in the direction of my bus, refusing to believe I’d be so stupid as to not set an alarm on my phone, and that after spending an entire day in this stupid bus station, I’m about to miss my ride.
I sprint the last few feet, turning a sharp corner and skidding through the exit door. “Am I too late?” I gasp, shouldering my bag. “Did I miss it?”
“Almost,” a woman answers, checking her watch. “Just about to leave.” She takes my ticket and tears the half she needs with a smile. “Have a pleasant trip.”
I step into the morning sun and thick cloud of engine exhaust lingering like campfire smoke in the sticky, humid air. “A straggler, eh?” the driver jokes as I reach the high steps of the bus. I climb up without a word, still furious at myself for almost oversleeping.
Only two seats remain open, one of which is filled by a plump woman with vivid pink fingernails and a tower of blonde curls. She has her laptop open and a mismanaged stack of papers splayed across the seat next to her. I look to the only other available seat.
“Frannie!”
Fuck.
Jesse’s hand waves from about halfway down the row. There’s got to be another seat open somewhere. Anywhere. I’ll drive the damn bus if I have to.
The driver’s seat, however, is already claimed, the man in it turning to me with a grin. “Time to pick a seat, little lady,” he informs me with a manufactured politeness that tells me he’s ready to get on the road.
I glower the entire way down the aisle. Jesse must have woken up with plenty of time to spare, as evidenced by his clean, white t-shirt and dark, fitted jeans. His hair is freshly washed and combed to one side in a pitiful attempt to keep it off his face.
I’m suddenly very aware that I’m wearing the same crumpled clothes I slept in and my hair, a headful of willful waves on a good day, is undoubtedly sticking up all over the place.
“You look pretty,” he says in confirmation, watching as I hastily stuff my bag under my seat.
He’s lucky I don’t slap that delicious grin right off his beautiful face. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly have as much time this morning as some people,” I hiss, brushing my hair with my fingers before tying it into a low, loose bun at the nape of my neck. “Speaking of which, you must have seen me sleeping this morning. I was lying in the middle of the goddamn station.”
“Yes,” he croons. “You looked quite cute all snuggled up.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he mocks, clearly not sorry at all. “I could have sworn that when you stormed off last night you said leave me alone. Not please wake me up in time for the bus tomorrow morning.”
Unbelievable.
“Well, I sure as hell mean it now!” I all but shout. A man one aisle over glowers at us like we’re a bunch of punks looking to start trouble on a school field trip.
I lower my voice to a sharp whisper. “You are not to talk to me for the remainder of this bus ride, got it? And when we get to Colorado Springs, we’ll go our separate ways and it will be like we never even met.”
He turns in his seat. “You think you can forget that kiss so easily?”
Fuck no.
I swallow down the overwhelming urge to kiss him again and keep my eyes trained ahead of me. “It’s already forgotten.”
He manages to suppress his grin for all of two seconds before the laughter erupts. “If you say so, Frannie,” he chuckles as the bus lurches into motion. “If you say so.”
It’s less than an hour before my stomach starts to growl, the noises coming from my own body so savage, that if the sounds had been coming from anyone else on this bus, I might be worried they were trying to smuggle a bear across state lines.
I cross my arms over my gut, trying to muffle the rumbling from below. It’s no use. It gives another fierce grumble for all to hear and I out of the corner of my eye, I see Jesse smile.
Without a word, he leans down and opens the pack between his feet, pulling out a granola bar sealed in bright yellow packaging, an on-the-go snack specifically designed for moments like this.
Hungry or not, I can’t take food from him, not after coming so close from taking his pants from him last night. No, best I keep my hands to myself and ignore the honey bunches of deliciousness next to me.
And the granola bar, too.
Before I can even throw a semi-hostile “No thank you” his way, Jesse tears open the wrapper, taking a huge bite for himself.
“Mmmm!” he moans, practically waving the bar under my nose. “You know, I don’t know who thought of putting chocolate and granola together, do you?”
My stomach roars in response.
“Well, I don’t know either, but they should get a medal or something,” he says, taking another large bite.
Unbelievable.
I cross my arms tighter. No luck. My stomach continues its not-so-silent protest.
He laughs to himself and tears the bar in half. “Here,” he says, offering it to me.
I swing my legs out into the aisle.
“Take it,” he says again. “I was only kidding before.”
I shake my head.
“You’re not proving anything with your little hunger strike, Gandhi.”
His thoughtfulness is borderline infuriating. I sigh and my stomach growls again, echoing my sentiments. “Thank you,” I mumble, taking the snack from his outstretched palm.
He cups a hand to his ear. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
“Thank you,” I say a little louder, nearly swallowing my half of the breakfast bar in a single gulp.
His head dips forward, gaze landing on fingers tied into knots across his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says without warning, keeping his eyes fixed on his hands. “For last night. I’m not saying that kiss wasn’t amazing, because it definitely was, and nothing will convince me otherwise. But I shouldn’t have done it. I got carried away and I’m sorry.”
I stare at him. He genuinely looks ashamed, like a little boy being punished for breaking his mother’s favorite vase. A crease of frustration, or maybe resignation, wrinkles his brow, a few reckless strands of hair spilling across the smooth, tan planes of his face. I know I should be ashamed it didn’t take more to break my resolve, that my anger proved useless against a shared breakfast and a slip of carefully coiffed hair. But I’m not. And against my better judgment, I feel my anger seems to dissolve along with my hunger.
Besides, he’s right. That kiss was amazing. But I’d rather ride the rest of the trip in the cramped toilet at the end of the aisle than tell him that.
Having Jesse around might not be the worst thing. Protection, company, conversation; he seems like the ideal travel companion.
Then again, maybe too ideal.
Still, there’s no need to waste a golden opportunity.
“You think I’ll just forgive you?” I snap “You think because you gave me half a stale granola bar and a weak-ass apology, I’ll forgive what you did?”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “I was hoping, yeah.”
I smile. “Okay then.”
His jaw swings open on its hinges. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I wish I could say it was all your fault, but I think we both know that’s not true. It just caught me off guard, you know? I mean, one minute we’re talking about our families and our travel plans, and the next we’re making out on a bus depot floor. And quite frankly I’m not in a good place for… that… right now. Not even close. I can’t handle it. And I’m almost positive I can’t handle you.”
“Who says I’m asking to be handled?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I will eventually,” he says with a roll of the eyes. “So,
friends, then?” he asks, extending a hand.
I take hold and shake it. “Yeah,” I agree. My hand feels tiny held inside his. “Friends.”
Or something.
Jesse lets go of my hand and gazes out the window at the passing landscape. The plains zip by the glass in a blur of browns and greens, the morning sun still shining, moving its way across the perfect blue sky as the day stretches out before us.
“So, do you think you’ll be in a good place for any of that tonight?” he asks, the reflection of a smirk visible against the glass.
This time I hit him.
“Clue.”
“Really? You seem like a Scrabble girl to me.”
The bus stays faithfully on the never-ending highway heading west, leaving Missouri in its dust. The ride proves generally quiet, an occasional snore or whisper rising above the hushed murmur. Most of these whispers belong to us as we pass the time asking and answering in a silly game of twenty questions.
“Are you kidding?” I exclaim. “Puh-lease. I rule at Clue. No one can beat me.”
A smile stretches up his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
“If you say so. But I wouldn’t try offing anyone with a candlestick on my watch if I were you.”
“Noted.”
“Okay,” I say. “My turn. What is your favorite book?”
His head falls back against the seat with a muted thump. “That’s an impossible question. I could sooner tell you which of my arms I prefer.”
“I’m partial to your left.”
“It’s impossible to answer that question,” he says again, “because I don’t have a favorite book. I love them all. I get something different out of each one. It’s impossible to compare and impossible to choose.”
“That sounds like a cop-out to me,” I snort. “And here I thought I was the evasive one.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Frannie,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat. “I’ve yet to meet a woman who’s as veritable a fountain of emotional giving as you are.”
“Well, maybe if someone didn’t ask questions designed for third-grade show and tell, I’d have more to talk about.”
He thinks for a moment. “Favorite color?”
I snicker. “Thank you for proving my point so quickly.”
“Favorite. Color. Go,” he demands.
“Anything not pastel. I fucking hate pastels.”
“Why?”
“They remind me of babies, and I’m not great with kids. Ice-cream or frozen yogurt?”
“Gelato. Favorite color?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You already asked me that.”
“And you failed to answer. Sorry, but I hate babies is not an appropriate response to what’s your favorite color.”
“Fine.” I sigh. “Green. No! Blue. What’s the best job you’ve ever had?”
“Bartender. What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?”
“I worked valet at our local country club,” I tell him. “It didn’t end well.”
“Why?”
“I may have locked someone’s keys in their car.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“With the engine running.”
“Ah. If you were part of an elaborate heist, what part would you play?”
“You already had your turn!” I laugh, realizing how much fun I’m having despite my better judgment.
He grins down at me. “You’re really killing the momentum here. Elaborate heist. Go.”
“Fine,” I grumble around a sly smirk. “Getaway driver. Favorite time of day?”
“Dusk. Favorite season?”
“Winter. I love the snow. What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”
He quirks his head to one side. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
“Did your date deflate halfway through your big night?”
“No, smartass. It’s just a gross story.”
“Gross usually means interesting.”
“You’re a child.”
I shrug and Jesse sighs. “You asked for it. Long story short, the woman I was with got sick halfway through dinner and threw up on some of the pizza. She felt so bad. She cried the rest of the night and kept on insisting it was edible.”
I cover my mouth with my hands, afraid for a moment that I might very well throw up. “Oh my God! Please tell me you didn’t!”
“Of course not,” he laughs. “I mean, she was beautiful, but I’m not crazy. She tried to eat some of it though, and I swear I have never wanted to kiss a girl less than I did at her front door.”
“That must have been really tough for you. We both know how fond you are of kissing people.” I turn so my back is resting against the chair in front of me, my legs folded like a pretzel in my own seat.
“That can’t be comfortable,” Jesse says, eyeing me and shifting to lean against the window.
I nudge him with my foot. “Well, if someone wouldn’t bogart the window seat, I might be a tad more comfortable.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “How about I just tell you what I see outside? It will be just like you were there.”
“That might be the dumbest thing you’ve said so far.”
But that doesn’t stop him. “To your right, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, gesturing to our window with a broad sweep of his arm, “you will notice yet another cornfield. This specific cornfield is home to the American Blue, as opposed to the Golden Yellow corn sold by many grocery stores and markets. Have your cameras ready, folks!” he calls to the bus. A few heads turn to look at him before rolling their eyes and resuming whatever activities were keeping them occupied.
I grab onto his arm. “Shhh!”
“Come on everybody! There are only twenty-seven more cornfields on our route. You won’t want to miss one!”
“Hilarious,” I say.
“And to your left, is the very rare and mysterious runaway.” Jesse turns to me, putting the thumbs and forefingers of each hand together, forming a rectangle. He brings his hands to his eyes, peering through his fingers like a camera. “Who is she? Where does she come from? And why is she so damn adorable when she’s angry?” He zooms his fingers in on my face. “But most importantly, folks, what drives her to run?”
I shove his hands away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I would if you told me.”
I grimace. “I already told you, I’m not running from anything. And even if I was, I can’t be classified as a runaway. There’s an age limit… probably.”
“I think we both know that’s not true.”
“Whatever,” I say, readjusting once again. “But I am not a runaway.”
He smirks and turns back to his window. “Whatever you say, Frannie.”
“Lord, don’t you look beautiful!”
“Let’s not bring the Lord into this, Darlene.”
I didn’t feel beautiful. I felt annoyed, hungry, and more like the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow Man than I ever wanted to.
My entourage — Darlene, my mother and sister, and Andrew’s ninety-two year old great aunt who I’d been instructed to call Nana Hannah — tittered with glee, covering their faces with their hands and dabbing at their eyes as I spun with the grace of a rotisserie chicken in front of an enormous, beveled mirror.
“I don’t know,” I said, tugging at the constricting swath of lace covering my chest and neck. I felt like I was choking. “This isn’t really my style, you know?”
I didn’t say it, but I would be perfectly comfortable getting married in yoga pants and a sports bra.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Frances,” my mother said as she pulled yet another cigarette from inside her purse. “You look—”
“Like a Tastykake,” Katie finished for her. She leaned against the nearest wall, looking severely bored.
I hid my smile behind my hand. Katie might not be terribly comforting in my time of need, but at least she was good for a laugh.
“Are there any more choices?” I asked, trying my hardest to be civil.
I had tried on nine dresses already, including the igloo currently strangling me. Each one looked as if they’d been designed by the same middle-aged Texan Haus-frau with too much time on her hands, one who was fond of some combination of lace, sequins, and absurdly puffy sleeves.
Andrew’s mother walked up behind me, another dress stretched across her arms. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t like that one, here’s one Nana Hannah picked out.” The woman was impossible to upset.
I peeked over at Nana Hannah, asleep in her wheelchair, a small trail of drool trailing from her open mouth. She could have died half an hour ago and no one would have noticed.
Darlene beamed as I hooked the hanger over my finger and waddled back to the dressing room, dragging the garment behind me. I locked the door and began to unzip my gown, letting it fall to the floor in a cloud of polyester blend. As I stepped into Nana Hannah’s choice, I found it slipped easily over my hips, no complicated hooks, or fastenings like the others. I turned to face the mirror.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t nearly as hideous as any of the previous tries. The sleeves were capped, the neckline falling below my collarbone in a simple, classic style. There were no sequins to be found, although a few too many layers to make it comfortable. With a small number of alterations, however, it might just be wearable.
I stepped out of the dressing room.
“Well?” I spun in my customary circle.
“Oh, sweetie! You look amazing!” Darlene put her hands up to her flushed, cherub-like cheeks. “As pretty as those girls in the bridal magazines.”
I looked to Katie for confirmation. “Not bad,” she answered with a shrug.
“You don’t have the chest to fill it out,” my mother added, digging through her purse in search of a lighter. “You’re too thin.
“Thanks, Mom.” I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore her.
Darlene sidled up next to me. “That’s no problem,” she said, pinching the excess fabric between her fingers. “We can take in the sides to make it a bit snugger. Although, you should enjoy this body while it lasts. Once you and Andrew decide to start your family, you’ll be begging to shed some of the baby weight.”
One More For The Road Page 7
