by Joy Preble
The weather had finally turned. Just as the wind had hinted while we stood on the Texicon roof. Cool and dry and full of promise. I breathed it in, deep as I could. Sometimes—all the times—you need to hang on to the good stuff.
For now I let Ryan Sloboda—wearing a suit and tie and looking ridiculously handsome—hold my hand as we walked into the school cafeteria, all decorated up like a Hollywood star party. We posed for pictures on the fake red carpet and then walked out to the dance floor, which was the cafeteria covered in fake Hollywood sidewalk stars. The yearbook geeks were snapping pictures like paparazzi.
Someone tapped my bare shoulder. I turned. Lanie Phelps stood there, looking very pretty, the tiniest of bruises purpling her cheek—I guess from where she fell and “no one” caught her.
I looked at her. She looked at me. Ryan squeezed my hand and cleared his throat. I thought: Casey Samuels loved you with all his heart and now he’s not here and you don’t even remember.
Lanie blinked. “Is Casey coming?” she asked, and my heart tightened hard and sharp in my chest.
“Nope,” I said, easing the word around my stony heart. Ryan squeezed my hand again. He really was something, Ryan Sloboda.
“Oh,” Lanie said. They had voted her Homecoming Queen last night. Donny Sneed—who would never be good enough for her—was King.
We’d have gone on like this for awhile, me and Lanie, but up front, the DJ got started.
“Got one I know y’all love,” he said into the mic.
And what do you know, “Copperhead Road” blared from the sound system.
I might have cried then, for Casey and all of it, but I was glittered up and there was Ryan. He leaned in and we kissed. Soft and sweet. A good, solid kiss that almost knocked me out of my high heels.
Then I kicked them off anyway, and Ryan and Maggie and Billy Compton and I joined the crowd, dancing and stomping to “Copperhead Road.” I thought about Amber and Casey and even Bo Shivers. About all the things lost and gained and still unknown. Tears welled at the corners of my eyes, but I told them to go to hell.
We kicked and stomped and turned and Ryan—who knew my secrets and was still willing to be my boyfriend—grabbed me up and even though it wasn’t part of the line dance, he swung me around and kissed me again, lips pressing against mine, light at first and then deeper. A slow, wet kiss that lasted a very long time.
Sparklers set off in my brain and other places.
“Things always going to be this crazy with you?” he whispered, his mouth warm and delicious against my ear.
“That a problem?” My heart stomped half a beat off.
Ryan smiled, big and dazzling and perfect. “Nope. Just checking.”
He pulled me back against him. He wasn’t wearing Axe tonight, just plain old Ryan smell, which was fine with me.
“You smell good,” I told him, hoping he’d register the message.
We danced some more. Kissed some more, too. Ryan was an excellent kisser.
The world was a crazy place, the A-word world even crazier. But love—if that’s what this was with Ryan—was worth fighting for, worth laying your heart on the line. Even if things turned out upside down and wrong and backward.
Was I destined for more than what I could see around me? Was that what all of this had been about? The thought fluffed my brain, leaving trails of sparkly possibility. But right now, this—the dance, Ryan’s body pressed against me—was enough. I was not my father, chasing a shinier life. I was not Amber … not my brother. I was just me.
Here is what I decided: the bad stuff would just have to wait. From what Bo told me, it sounded like it would. At the very least, the Battle to Come was a long way off. The show could go on with or without me.
Least until Amber Velasco finally took me for that learner’s permit on Monday.
Then all bets were off.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the collaborative awesomeness and effortless hipsterness (the non-ironic kind) of the team at Soho Press. Endless thanks to my editor, Daniel Ehrenhaft, who is never afraid to send an editorial letter that begins, “Now don’t be nervous, but …” And then follow up with a Spinal Tap video to soften the blow. My craft is owed so very much to his thoughtful and always patient guidance. Also to Bronwen Hruska—publisher, author, curator of writers, mom in search of easy ways to create an Arctic wolf out of clay on short notice—and her merry band of nimble, brilliant folks including Meredith Barnes, publicist for the ages, and Juliet and Rachel and Rudy and Janine and the rest: I love making books with all of you.
On the other coast, I send sunny LA smiles to the best agent in the world, Jennifer Rofe, without whom I would be quite lost. Thank you, cowgirl!
Many, many thanks to Kim O’Brien, Bob Lamb, Dede Ducharme, and Suz Bazemore for Wednesday night critiques and cupcakes and other library contraband. And my beta partners: Varsha Bajaj, Christina Mandelski, and Crystal Allen for their wisdom and endless quest for the perfect breakfast.
Thanks to my own guardian A-words in the Texas book community: authors, readers, librarians, booksellers—including but by no means limited to bloggers Maria Cari Soto and Katie Bartow and the wonderful and career supportive folks at Houston’s Blue Willow Bookshop and Murder by the Book and Round Rock’s Book Spot. Y’all deserve a lifetime supply of kolaches and breakfast tacos.
Thanks mostly to my readers, including Hannah in England: I tell these stories for you! Thank you for embracing the quirky Houston world of Jenna, Casey, Amber, and of course, Bo.
To borrow a well-worn phrase, “Texas Forever!”
