HAVE you seen Mercedes? I can’t find her anywhere.” Last night, King drove me home, where he hopped into the backseat, his hand encircling the feather bangle and pulling me back with him. The bench seat in the back made it much easier than the bucket seats up front to test the theory of making out in a car and whether it really fogs up the windows. It did. After leaving a dragged handprint on the back window as an ode to Jack and Rose, King walked me to the door of my apartment, my nerves growing. I questioned if I had remembered to shave that morning, what sheets were on my bed, how I would introduce King if Kenzie was home; if Kenzie wasn’t home, the first two questions became far more important. I appreciated that he walked me to my front door. It reminded me a little bit of home because there, if you didn’t escort your date safely inside, you weren’t looked at as being hip and cool but as a lazy jackhole. Small-town life does have a few perks. King didn’t give me the option of inviting him inside; instead, he pulled me against his chest, his back against the doorjamb, and kissed me until I forgot what I had been worrying about.
