Chapter 9

Ten minutes later, I was stomping along the lonely country road that I'd taken to reach the campground, back when I'd had a working car and a heart brimming with good intentions.

Now, the car was abandoned, and my intentions were mostly homicidal.

Screw you, Painter Guy.

Already, I'd done the unthinkable and called Derek, who hadn't even bothered to answer his phone. So, in retaliation, I hadn't bothered to leave a message, because let's face it, if he wasn't available to give me a ride, there was no reason to let him know exactly how right he'd been all along.

After giving up on Derek, I'd called Cassie, who also wasn't answering. Maybe that was a good thing, because I’m pretty sure if she had answered, I'd have flat-out begged her to find someone – anyone – to come out and get me.

Surely, someone inside T.J.'s was still sober, right?

I heard myself sigh. Doubtful. The way it sounded, even Dorothy was drunk off her ass.

On the bright side, I was officially twenty-one now. So, even if I missed my own party, there was nothing to stop me from hitting the town's only liquor store and getting raging drunk, even if I had to do it alone.

Of course, I'd have to walk there, which would make me feel even more like a giant loser.

I glanced to my right, where a wide ditch, filled with darkened ditch-water, ran along the roadside. I rolled my eyes. If only I had a canoe, I could get paddling.

Happy freaking birthday.

I was so lost in my miserable thoughts that I didn't notice the pickup truck roaring up from behind me until it had already passed. Startled, I watched it squeal to a sudden stop a few car lengths ahead.

It didn't take a genius to figure out who it was. So, he'd decided to give me a ride after all, huh?

I lifted my chin. Well, maybe I didn't want one. Not from him, anyway.

I stopped walking and crossed my arms. If he expected me to scurry forward and leap into the truck bed, he had another thing coming.

A moment later, the vehicle shifted into reverse, accelerated, and then squealed to a stop right next to me.

The passenger's side door was so close, I could almost reach out and touch it. But I didn't. Instead, I stood with arms crossed and watched as the passenger's side window slid down to reveal a face that was all too familiar – except, it didn't belong to the painter.

It belonged to Chester Dunn, a guy I'd known back in high school. The guy was big and blond, with a ruddy face that I knew all too well.

Probably, I should've been glad to see him, but ever since that thing at homecoming, he'd been near the top of my people-to-avoid list.

He leaned out of the window and said, "Mel?" He laughed. "Oh man." He turned to whoever in the driver's seat. "It is her." He turned back to me and said, "I thought it was you."

I wanted to groan. The guy hadn't changed. And, he'd just called me Mel. I hated being called Mel.

Still, I tried to smile. "Hey Chester."

He looked around. "So, uh, what are you doing out here?"

It was a simple question. And yet, I didn't know how to answer. I recognized this for what it was – one of those godawful moments where time stands still as you're forced to choose between two equally unappealing options.

Let's see…Do I want to be eaten alive by Army Ants? Or flattened by a steamroller?

I looked at Chester, who was still hanging out of the passenger's side window. Back in high school, he'd been an all-state wrestler. The way it looked, he was still in prime condition, with thick muscular arms and a chest the size of Texas.

Good for him. And I meant it, too. It's not that I didn't like him. It's that, well, in spite of his size, he definitely fell into that Army Ant category.

I considered asking him for a ride. He'd definitely give me one, no matter who was behind the wheel. There was only one problem. It wouldn't end there. If it turned out anything like homecoming, that little ride would lead to months of grief.

And not only for me. For him, too.

Still, a little voice in my head reminded me that I had at least five more miles to walk and a booth full of people waiting.

Stalling for time, I said, "So, are you home for the weekend or something?" Quickly, I added, "I mean, I heard about your wrestling scholarship. Congratulations, by the way."

His face split into a huge, happy grin. "You knew about that?"

"Yeah." I tried to smile back. "You, uh, sent me the news clipping. Remember?"

He was nodding now. "Yeah. But, I wasn't sure you got it." His smile faltered. "I mean, you never called or anything. You saw the number, right?"

His phone number? Oh, I'd seen it, alright. It would've been hard to miss, considering that he'd scrawled it across the article in big red letters, along with a personal note that may – or may not – have been a joke.

If you want to wrestle, give me a call.

Even years later, I didn't quite know what to say. Going with the less-is-more approach, I managed to mumble, "Well, I was seeing someone, so…" I let the sentence trail off, hoping he wouldn't ask for details.

"Oh yeah?" he said. "Who?"

I gave a nervous laugh. "That was, wow, how many years ago? Three? Who can remember that far back, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Right." His eyes brightened. "So, how about now?" He leaned further out the window. "Are you still seeing someone?"

Oh, crap. I wasn't, actually, but I hated the thought of saying so. I made a vague gesture with my hand and said, "Oh, you know how that goes."

But from the look on his face, he didn't. His eyebrows furrowed, and he squinted through the darkness, as if searching for something in particular. But what?

My car? My boyfriend? My sanity?

He could squint all he wanted, but if he saw any of those things, he'd be hallucinating, bigtime.

Suddenly, his gaze popped back to me, and he said, "Hey Mel."

"What?"

His voice boomed across the short distance. "Happy Birthday!"

Startled, I stumbled backward. "Uh, thanks. How'd you know?"

"Like I could forget." He grinned. "It was our first date, remember?"

Technically, it hadn't been a date. It had been one dance, literally, meaning one song.

There hadn't been a second dance, much less a second date. It's not that I didn't like him, even then. It's just that when, after one dance, someone shows up on your doorstep, uninvited, wearing a T-shirt with your picture on it, things tend to get a little weird.

Chester laughed. "Man, that was a crazy night, huh? You know, I still have that shirt?"

"Uh, really?"

"Yeah. Check it out." And then, to my infinite horror, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a blob of white cotton. He shook out the fabric, and there it was, an image of my own smiling face, taken from my junior yearbook photo.

Well, that wasn't creepy or anything.

I took another step backward, even as I managed to choke out, "Oh. You, uh, kept that, huh?"

"What? You think I'd throw it out." He was still grinning. "It still fits, too." Abruptly, he retreated back into the truck and called out, "Don't move. I'll put it on."

Oh, no. That Army-Ant feeling was back with a vengeance, prickling my skin and making me feel just a little bit twitchy.

Seeking some space, I glanced around. If I backed up any further, I'd be dipping my heels in ditch water. Suddenly, that wasn't sounding so bad. The water wasn't that deep. Was it?

I was still pondering that when a second vehicle roared out of the darkness and squealed to a stop directly in front of the pickup. Thanks to the pickup's headlights, I could see the new vehicle as clear as day.

It was an old Camaro with a banged-up door and mismatched paint. I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. It had no license plate. Now, that was odd. 

I was still staring when the passenger's side door flew open, and I heard a familiar male voice call out, "Get in."