Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  A sore loser, Boone glowers at him.

  “Okay, okay, no gloating,” Shari admonishes Ray. “Excellent job, Lucy. Now my turn!”

  She taps her fingers against her bottle of beer.

  “You’re going to pick the moon landing, so get on with it.” Boone sips his water. I don’t know if he’s not drinking because he drove or if he never drinks. And if he doesn’t drink, is it because he’s in recovery or for some other reason? Not that it’s any of my business.

  “I was, but now I’m picking dinosaurs.” Replying to his teasing, she sticks her tongue out. “T-Rex, specifically.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard this one. How it’s an invention in some sort of paleontological aspect of world domination and the bones are fake.” I slap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry. Go on.”

  Boone’s warm laughter breaks the silence first, then Ray follows.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumble to Shari, too embarrassed to even glance at Ray.

  “You’re really good at this,” Boone says, drawing my attention.

  Even in the low light from the fire, his green eyes spark with amusement. “If we’re ever playing on a team, I’m calling dibs on you.”

  “No fair,” Shari groans. “I knew her first. If anyone can call dibs, it should be me.”

  My eyes flash to Boone. Doesn’t she know he’s been eating breakfast with me for months? Although why would he tell his sister about the new waitress at the diner south of town? They must have better things to chat about than who’s serving his pancakes.

  He tips his head to the side as if he’s debating revealing our connection. “Uh, if that’s the basis for dibs, I win.”

  Shari’s head turns back and forth like she’s watching tennis. “How?”

  Catching the hint of betrayal in her voice, I jump in to explain. “I’m a waitress at the Rig out on the road to Lovington. Boone eats breakfast there most weekday mornings.”

  Shari’s forehead wrinkles and she asks her brother, “What are you doing way out there?”

  He gives her a quick glance. “Working.”

  Her face scrunches up and she opens her mouth to say something but must change her mind because she presses her lips together with a shake of her head.

  “I heard y’all have really good chicken fried steak,” Ray says, either ignoring or breaking the growing tension. “Kind of out of the way, but a man’s gotta eat.”

  “You should come down. I’m there during the week for breakfast and lunch. The coffee’s not the best, but food’s good.” I pretend Shari and Boone aren’t having a silent conversation mostly with their eyes and eyebrows.

  “Sure, if we ever find ourselves on our way to Lovington, we’ll swing by.” Shari smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  Confused, I open my mouth to ask about Boone working in the oil fields, but Ray speaks first.

  “Now I’m craving some huevos.”

  Shari laughs. “We just ate.”

  “I’m a growing boy.” Patting his flat stomach, he gives Shari a flirty smile. “Gotta keep up my strength to keep up with you.”

  “Sister,” Boone mutters into his glass.

  “Okay, on that note. Should we declare Lucy tonight’s winner and call it a night?” Shari brings the conversation back to safer waters. She’s really good at changing direction and managing people. I wonder why she’s wasting her talents slinging burgers.

  I guess the same could be said for me, but I bet she hasn’t spent her life chasing a ghost.

  After saying our good-byes, Boone and I step out the front door together. His dirty truck is parked behind my car on the street. The majority of the evening we were fine, but something changed once we finished dinner. His reaction to me dating and his sister’s strange response to Boone being in the oil fields every morning have put a weird spin on the end of the night.

  We walk to the sidewalk in silence. I count the steps to keep from blurting out a question. At number twenty-three, he cracks the awkward silence by clearing his throat.

  At the sound, I stop and face him, slapping a smile on my face while my insides churn. “That was fun.”

  It’s a partial lie, but for someone who doesn’t get out much—or never—I had fun tonight.

  “Really?” He laughs, clearly disbelieving me.

  “For the most part. It’s always a little awkward being the new kid in a group that knows each other well. I was honest about the good food and enjoying the evening.”

  Studying me, he purses his lips and lowers his eyebrows.

  I chuckle at his ridiculous face. Either he has no ego or his ego is so huge, he doesn’t care about looking weird. Proof: the mustache.

  “I was about to apologize for my sister, but evidently no apology is needed if you had a nice time.”

  “What did she do? I thought she was a great host.”

  He hums in response but doesn’t speak. “Nothing, apparently.”

  “Well, I have an early morning. As you know.” I add the last part hoping he’ll bring up the weirdness about him eating breakfast at the Rig. Or the change in his mood. Or ask to come over. Something, anything to keep me from what I’m about to do.

  He doesn’t bite. Not buying what I’m trying to sell.

  If that’s the right metaphor. I’m not sure what I’m selling. We’re standing at the curb and the location feels ripe for a goodnight kiss. Yet it’s like we’re strangers.

  When he still doesn’t say anything, I fill the silence. “Guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

  His steady gaze makes my skin feel hot, so I dig around in my bag to give myself something to do other than stand here and be awkward.

  “Lucy, what’s going on?” His hand brushes my arm.

  “Nothing.” I try to swallow down the words rising in my throat.

  “Is it my reaction to you dating other guys?” He steps in front of me on the sidewalk, blocking my escape unless I jump the hedge.

  Yes. “No.”

  “I shouldn’t assume we’re exclusive, but I guess I have. We’ve only gone out a few times. When you were telling Shari about all the boring dates you’ve gone on, first I thought you meant me. Which I was going to call bullshit on, but then it hit me you meant other men. I’m not a big enough jerk to think I’m your first anything, but something came over me. Jealousy, I guess. Although I’ve never felt it before. There’s something different about you. And I like it. Because I like you. A lot.”

  At his heartfelt apology and declaration, alarms start going off in my head where I should feel joy or happiness. Because I’m a weirdo.

  “I’m not really the relationship kind of girl. So no worries.” My words sound like a lame line from bad advice column on playing hard to get. “Remember our conversation about not being the kind of people who fall in love?”

  Throwing his words back at him hit my target. I hate myself.

  He narrows his eyes at me, looking for the lie. “What have we been doing?”

  “Hanging out? Playing tourist?” I ask where I should be giving an answer, using his technique against him.

  “Right. Just hanging out, seeing the sights with me as your tour guide.” He grinds out the word between clenched teeth.

  No. No. No. I want to cling to him and make him swear he’ll never leave me because if I fall in love and he leaves me alone, I’ll break into dust and fade into nothing.

  Walking away now is the only option to protect myself and to save him from the truth of my reality.

  “Thanks for taking me to the caverns and sledding in White Sands. I loved it.” I try to swallow down the word bile burning up my throat, but there’s no stopping what’s going to come out. “But I’m not sure it’s smart if we go out anymore. Things are getting . . . complicated.”

  My words hit him like I shouted them. He jerks back. “What?”

  I have to get out of here before I tell him everything. He’ll laugh at me. How can I tell him the conspiracy theories they make fun of are the structure I’ve b
uilt my life around? Even if I doubt aliens exist or crashed north of here, I’ve spent years of my life looking for answers instead of living. Rather than expose my truth, I’m going to walk away.

  Lightning flashes in a giant thundercloud to the west. “Storm’s coming.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the weather. You’re insane if you think I’m going to let you walk away without giving me a chance.” He’s pissed and I don’t blame him.

  When I don’t say anything, he whispers, “Lucy.”

  Turning away, I stare at the wind moving through the leaves.

  He sighs loudly, the sound full of exasperation. “I forgot I have meetings out of town next week. I won’t make it to the Rig.”

  That’s a first. I can’t think of a single day over the past five months he didn’t show up for breakfast.

  It’s better to make a clean cut than to open up the big box of cray-cray inside of me. Attempting to put on a casual, everything’s fine façade, I swing my car keys off my finger. “Okay. Have a nice night, Boone.”

  “Lucy.”

  I pause at the sound of his low whisper, so quiet I’m not sure he meant for me to hear it. Only when I hear his footsteps walking back to the house do I run to my car, barely making it before the tears fall and a sob chokes me.

  BOONE’S LONG LASHES brush together when he glowers down at me from the stage at Pete’s. He’s pissed yet the anger intensifies his good looks. That fact adds another layer to my annoyance.

  His sneer curls his lips, and he flashes his canines like a feral dog about to lunge.

  Everything about him screams pissed off, and at first my body responds to some primal caveman possession reaction. I shut that down as swiftly as it hits me.

  No, he doesn’t get to call me out in public. Nope. No way.

  Ignoring Boone’s glaring, I turn to a petrified looking Brayden, who’s the color of a cherry and frozen in place like a human popsicle.

  “Are you dating him?” Boone shouts above the music, which goes quiet at the same time.

  The rest of the band stands silent, instruments still in their hands.

  “Are you fucking her?” Boone snarls out the question, this time low enough only me, Brayden, and about ten people closest to us can hear.

  This is the first time I’m seeing Boone since the night of the kraken incident, also known as the night I destroyed everything. He’s feral, his eyes more amber than I’ve ever seen them.

  My first instinct is to ignore him, turn, and leave Pete’s. Maybe get in my car, drive and never come back.

  I have no ties to this town.

  Or to Boone.

  Instead, my mouth opens and my brain bypasses the flight urge and speaks for me. “None of your damn business.”

  Way to defend my honor, Brayden. Not only does he believe aliens are demons and dark angels, he’s pretty terrible at being a gentleman. I gently touch his arm, trying to break whatever trance he’s in. Apparently having a band member yell at your “date” in the middle of a show can freak some guys out. “I’m leaving. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “Huh?” Brayden’s glassy stare meets mine. It’s like he’s been hit with a tractor beam that’s rendered him stupid.

  “I’m leaving,” I tell him.

  In the awkward silence of the room, the drummer begins to play a steady beat on his drums. The crowd is growing restless and some random guy behind us yells, “Play ‘Free Bird’.”

  A bunch of the audience laughs and begins shouting random song requests.

  Then a half-eaten chicken wing sails through the air and lands at Boone’s feet.

  He breaks his one-sided glaring contest with me to glance down at the chicken bone.

  “What the hell?” he mumbles right before a carrot stick hits his shoulder.

  “I’m out of here.” I tug Brayden’s sleeve, giving him one more chance before things escalate.

  More carrots and some celery sails by my head, reminding me of eighth grade. Back home, the Great Food War of Washington Middle School is the stuff of legend. Having witnessed it firsthand, I know things are about to get messy.

  Brayden doesn’t budge and I make the decision to leave him behind to save myself. When a hamburger bun smacks Boone’s leg and sticks, I know it’s now or never.

  Shoving my way through the crowd toward the emergency exit to the left of the stage, I hear one of the band members tell people to calm down.

  Too late.

  That ship has sailed.

  The guitarist, whose name I think is Melo or Mallow, begins playing random notes. Behind me, someone shouts my name. I’m a foot or two from the door and freedom, there’s no way I’m turning back now.

  Brayden is on his own and Boone can go fuck himself.

  “Lucy Halliday!” the voice shouts again from the open door behind me. Even with the blast of music and shouting from the inevitable food battle, I recognize Boone’s voice.

  I could stop, face him, and tell him where he can stuff his masculine possessive bullshit. Or I can start to jog, holding on to hope I can outrun him, and get to my car before he catches up. A third option hits me as I speed-walk down the side of the building: I can keep on walking. Because I didn’t drive. Brayden did.

  Wanda set me up with Brayden. He’s the son of a cousin or a cousin’s cousin or her dental hygienist. She said he had information about people who go missing after abductions. Not thinking it was going to be a real date with a dinner and a show, I agreed. And broke my rule about always driving myself.

  As much as I’m annoyed at Wanda, I blame Boone. I got used to him driving when we went on our real dates.

  Brayden picked the place. When we arrived at Pete’s, I should’ve suggested somewhere else. I didn’t. Instead, I sat through dinner trying to steer the conversation to abductions while Brayden talked about aliens in the Bible. I saw live music as my escape from the alien Jesus believer, and dragged him up to the stage before realizing who was playing.

  My evening has been a Jenga tower of bad decisions.

  It hits me Brayden hasn’t followed me. I wonder if he’s still standing in the same spot by the stage. Or if Boone knocked him out.

  If he did, he can get his pecan pancakes and huevos someplace else. I’ll amend our “no shirt, no shoes” sign to read “no shirt, no shoes, no assholes.”

  “Lucy, stop.”

  Hell no. I’m not a dog he can command.

  I speed up.

  “Lucy.” The tone of his voice switches from demanding to pleading.

  I’m not moving that quickly. He could definitely catch up to me if he wanted.

  From the sound of his footsteps, he’s a few yards behind me, not closing the distance by running, or even jogging.

  On the other hand, I’m feeling a little winded. We’ve passed the parking lot of Pete’s and are now a two person parade down the sidewalk, heading back toward Main Street.

  “Lu-cy, please stop and talk to me.”

  I keep stomping in the direction of downtown.

  “Lucy, you can’t walk home. It’s too far.”

  Pfft. What does he know? It might take me over an hour, but I’d do it just to spite him.

  “Loo-cy,” he whines. “Stop running away from me.”

  If I thought him saying please was a game changer, arrogant, cocky Boone whining is a whole other level.

  Honestly, I’m not sure I like it.

  I stop and wait for him.

  Not because he whined and said please. My feet are killing me in these boots and there’s a sharp stab of a cramp in my side.

  Waiting the few seconds it’ll take for him to catch up, I glance around and am surprised to see we’ve gone farther than I thought. Main Street is the next intersection. The marquee of the UFO museum peeks around the corner.

  I didn’t realize I was so close. For a flash, I think about dashing across the intersection to the alley that’ll take me to the secret entrance.

  Glancing behind me, I realize Boone’s st
opped walking, too. Rather than approach me, he’s standing still, eyeing me like I’d watch a prowling coyote—little bit afraid, but also fascinated from a safe distance.

  We stare at each other, both of our chests rising and falling in sync.

  “Lucy,” he says again, a small smile tugging at his lips.

  “No.” I hold up my hand when he takes a step forward. “Stay there.”

  He freezes, obeying my order.

  I’m half-tempted to tell him “good boy” for listening. Just to piss him off.

  “You don’t get to speak to me the way you did back there. Ever. In fact, you shouldn’t speak to any woman like that. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t answer that. It was rhetorical!” I shout at him.

  He dares to smirk at me.

  “If you want to keep that smirk, you better lose it. I am not in the mood for your beautiful mouth tonight. Not when you act like a giant manhole, jerk face, caveman, sexist prick.” I pause to think of more insults.

  “Are you finished yelling at me?” He crosses his arms and waits.

  “No.” I mirror his posture.

  “Then by all means, continue.” Rolling one of his hands in a circle, he calmly encourages me.

  “Ugh, you are so infuriating. I don’t need your permission to speak my mind, Boone.” My voice drips with sarcasm when I add his name at the end. Petulant and pissed, that’s me. “Jealousy is ugly, even on you.”

  He presses his lips together and then drags his bottom teeth over his top lip as he listens. No mustache to hide his full lips or the way the pressure of his teeth turns the skin from pink to white to deep rose.

  Ugh, ugh, ugh. I hate his beautiful mouth.

  That’s a lie I wish were true.

  Sounds of traffic from the main drag behind me fills the growing gap between my words and his silence.

  I’m about to turn around and keep walking when he finally speaks. “Can I say something?”

  “You’ve never needed my permission before.” I’m in full snarky, teenage girl mode and I can’t seem to care enough to stop myself.

  “Touché.”

  A white pickup speeds by us and a guy yells out the passenger window, “Get a room!”