Seventeen

When they got back to Trent’s car, it was by some mutual and unspoken agreement that they headed back to the restaurant where Emily had left her car. He had to keep wiping condensation from the insides of the windows as their damp clothes and hair dried, but they held hands like sweethearts until they pulled into the deserted parking lot. He drove up to her car and killed the motor, turning to look at her. He took both her hands in his and she noticed for the first time the rough calluses on his fingertips from the years of guitar playing.

“I had a great time,” he said, sincerely.

“So did I,” she replied.

“Can we do this again?” he asked.

Oh my God yes, her mind screamed. “I’d like that.”

“How about right now?” he asked and she measured him up carefully to see if he was joking. He was, more so than not, and she decided it was safest to laugh it off.

“Not tonight, honey, I’ve got a headache,” she joked lightly. “Raincheck?” It was almost more than she could do to stop herself from dragging him into the back seat.

His face registered disappointment, but he nodded regretfully.

“You’re right,” he said, acknowledging her unspoken plea for restraint. She smiled gratefully, knowing all too well that any opposition on his part would have melted her resistance instantly. “When?”

They compared schedules, and, chuckling about irony, discovered that the next available evening both had was almost two months away.

“We work crappy hours, don’t we?” she smiled.

“We do,” he agreed.

Needing, almost literally, to drag herself out of Trent’s car and into her own, they kissed again and Emily climbed behind the wheel. She rolled down the window to wave as she lead the way out of the lot, driving barefoot, her damp shoes on the passenger seat. She pulled onto the freeway and headed for home, completely wired and tingling everywhere he had touched her, thinking she might never sleep again.