"Carter?"
"What?"
"Why are you flexing?"
Even though I had been watching him tense and un-tense his shoulder muscles for the entirety of our shift, he looked surprised, as if he didn't know he was doing it. "I wasn't," he said, then corrected himself to, "I'm not." Right on cue, I could see his right shoulder move under his Franny's polo.
"Alright."
"I'm not."
"Sure thing."
"I'm not," he said earnestly.
"Okay, I believe you."
His bicep inadvertently flexed, and, as if he finally noticed it, he grabbed a cone off the rack and started to aggressively scoop himself a hefty amount of the new Flavor of the Day. Earlier, Carter had helped me brainstorm the name – mint medley – and had elected himself official taste tester. His verdict had been that, while the Andes candies and mint m & m's were enjoyable, it was "like eating toothpaste straight out of the tube." That hadn't stopped him from eating almost half the container.
"It's just like some fucking muscle spasm or something."
"Sorry," I said, "if I knew you'd get this upset I wouldn't have asked. I'm sorry."
Finally, Carter deflated, his tensed shoulders slumping over. "It's an annoying nervous thing I do," he admitted gruffly.
"Huh." I waited for him to offer up more information, but he just continued to scoop, a little less angrily. "So, why are you nervous?"
"It's not a big deal."
"Then why won't you tell me?"
"Because it's not a big deal," he grunted.
"Carter?"
"Yeah?"
"Why won't you tell me?"
"God," he groaned, "you're relentless." Carter grimaced, then started to lick the ice cream that was already starting to drip.
I handed a napkin. "I prefer to think of myself as 'curious.'"
"Curious my –"
The door to the freezer flew open, hitting the wall with a thunk. Abby walked out seconds later, carrying a huge tub of ice cream and her typical permanent scowl. "Here's the coffee ice cream you wanted."
"Thanks, you can just put in on the floor for now," I said.
She did as she was told, and we all stood there for a while, in silence, with Abby trying not to make eye contact and Carter slurping his slowly melting cone. Finally, Abby rolled her eyes and said, "Wow, you guys are boring."
"Yup."
Carter, too, made an affirmative noise through his mouthful of mint chip.
"God," she scoffed, "can I please scrub the toilets or something? Do dishes? Anything is better than feeling your weird, nerd, standing-in-silence germs rubbing off on me."
I smiled, but when Abby shot me a glare, I stopped. "You could put away all the dishes Logan cleaned yesterday," I suggested.
"Fine. Great. Good. Whatever."
Abby was the only person I knew who wore combat boots in the middle of summer, and they clunked across the tile as she stomped into the back room. A minute later, I heard the sound of cabinets slamming shut, and a bout of incoherent, passive aggressive mumbling.
"Tell me."
"No."
"Please?"
Carter exhaled loudly, then wiped his mouth with the napkin I had handed him. "I'm going to ask Rosa out on a date. Or, I did ask her out on a date."
"And you weren't going to tell me this?" I asked him, "Carter, why weren't you going to tell me this?"
"Dude," he said flatly, "Rosa is your best friend. And I don't think she knows it's a date."
"I think that's kind of a requirement."
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping a few buttons with sticky fingers. He handed it to me.
Carter Bingham (7:19): want to go for pizza tonight?
Rosa Jimenez (8:40): carter WHY don't you ever sleep
Rosa Jimenez (8:40): if u were jogging then I would personally like to SMACK SOME SENSE INTO YOU
Rosa Jimenez (8:41): yes I do want pizza tonight
Carter Bingham (10:41): see you later then. antonia's at 7. gtg to work
I scanned it once, then twice, before handing it back. "Carter, you guys go to the pizza place at least once a week."
"So what? A man's gotta have his dough."
"So," I said, "how is Rosa supposed to know that this is a date?"
"Uh, she isn't?"
I threw my hands up in exasperation just as the door swung open. I thought I recognized the woman who walked in, but when she stepped up to the counter and wanted to know if the "annoying, wannabe seductive one" was there, I knew for sure.
"Frank's not working today," I assured her, "you're Sylvia, right? Do you want a cup of rum raisin?"
She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. "It's creepy, I know," Carter said from next to me, "she knows everyone's order."
"Not everyone's."
"If you come in more than once, she memorizes it. If she wasn't a midget, it would probably scare people."
"Hey!"
Sylvia raised the right side of her lips into a half-smile. "I didn't think I was that memorable."
"You called out Frank, which was a first," I said, "and you're the only person I've ever met who ordered rum raisin more than once."
She snorted. "My legacy."
I grabbed a clean scooper from the drawer behind me, holding it at the ready for when she officially ordered. Carter stuffed the rest of his sugar cone into his mouth, brushing off his hands on his jeans and crossing to the register. "Would you like rum raisin, or would you like to prove January wrong?" he asked her.
"Rum raisin, one scoop. In a waffle cone."
Carter punched a few buttons. "Three eighty-nine."
As I started to cram the ice cream into her cone, she handed over a five and Carter handed her the change. They stood there for a moment before Carter asked, "you're the chick Frank's been freaking out over?"
"Sounds like it." Carter nodded, and I leaned over the glass case to hand Sylvia her ice cream. She continued, "But he's a little too juvenile to be my type. And the wrong gender. You can tell him I said that, maybe he'll stop pining."
"I doubt it," Carter told her.
"He better, I swear to god," Sylvia sighed, "thanks for the rum raisin, I'll order it again sometime. Continue my legacy."
She gave us a little one-fingered wave, took her cone and a stack of napkins, and left. I wiped the scooper off with a dish towel, and left it on the counter.
"Carter?"
"What?"
"You're flexing again."
***
I had managed to hide the fact that I was learning to drive from my father, since Wyatt and I only really had our lessons before or after the shifts we shared. I knew the idea of me behind the wheel terrified him, so I was planning on just not telling him until absolutely necessary. It wasn't me being malicious; just protective. But one night, just before nine, Wyatt texted me asking if I was available for another lesson, and I said yes. And my dad asked me where I was going.
"Just out," I said vaguely, waving my hand in a non-committal gesture.
"I hope you aren't walking anyway in the dark," he said. He had his hand on the remote, flicking through the three hundred channels as he talked to me. "Want me to drop you anywhere, hon?"
"Oh, my friend is picking me up. Wyatt. We work together."
"Wyatt, huh? That sounds like guy name."
"Probably because he's a guy."
"Don't sass me, young lady," he said, "you were friends with a little girl name Spencer in kindergarten, and ever since, I've been skeptical."
"I'm pretty sure Spencer has turned into one of those unisex names, Dad."
He pushed his glasses father up his nose, inspecting whatever was playing on channel 311. "What's this Wyatt character like?"
I thought about this. "He's fine, he's nice. A little quiet, but not in a bad way."
"And where will you be going with this Wyatt?"
"Somewhere."
"And what will you be doing?"
"Something."
My dad finally settled on a rerun of Friends, and now turned his full attention towards me. "To be quite frank with you, hon, I'm not appreciating the air of mystery."
I bit my lip, and, out of the corner of my eye, saw a pair of headlight pull into our driveway. My dad must have seen them too, shining through our front window. "It doesn't involve drugs, or alcohol. I promise," I assured him, inching my way out of the living room doorway and closer to the front door.
"Then what does it involve?"
I bit my lip. "Driving lessons."
He was quiet for a moment, and I just watched his eyes change from a fatherly sternness to a kind of soft that I just couldn't place. "I think it's good that you're learning how to drive," he said, "It's a useful skill. And if you're ready, then you're ready."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Go get 'em, tiger."
I smiled, walking back into our living room just so I could plant a kiss on his cheek. "See you later, Dad."
"Not too much later?"
"Yup. Promise."
He smiled, squeezed my wrist, and then turned back to the TV. I took that as my cue to leave, stopping to flick on our porch light before walking outside. I half-walked, half-jogged to the passenger side, yanking open the door and already starting my apologies.
"I saw you pull up, I'm sorry, I just had to talk to my dad about something, I'm sorry that I made you wait –"
I stopped abruptly when I realized what song was playing, and, as if he knew, he silently reached over and shut off the stereo.
We just looked at each other for a long time.
"Wyatt?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are you listening to Etta James?"
He didn't answer, at least not right away. In lieu of this, he pressed the button on his stereo again, causing the final chords of "At Last" to play, which slowly drifted into the opening of "I'd Rather Go Blind." I couldn't tell if he was blushing in the darkness, but I knew I was. Even though it wasn't that embarrassing – doesn't everyone have a soft spot for old music? – I still felt like I had uncovered a side of Wyatt that he wanted to stay hidden.
"I like it," he said softly, after a while.
I smiled, even though he couldn't see it. "Me too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He pulled open the center console, rummaged around for a second, finally emerging with something in his hand. He turned on the overhead light, then extended it to me. It was a CD – on the well-worn cover, it read "Greatest Hits of Etta James."
"I bought it at a yard sale for ninety-nine cents," he explained.
"Wow."
"I know." I handed the CD back, and he shoved it back where he had found it. "Uh, sorry."
"For what?"
"Spontaneous night driving lessons." He shut off the light, plunging the car back into almost darkness. The faint glow of the headlights was only enough to illuminate his silhouette. "But teaching people how to drive at night is, um ..."
"One of those things you have to do at night?" I suggested.
"Yeah. That."
The digital clock on his dashboard read 9:11. And we still hadn't even left my driveway. "Wyatt?"
"Yeah?" He turned to face me, and his hands finally landed on the wheel. "What?"
"Is there an actual lesson involved in this lesson?"
"Oh. Yeah," he said, suddenly flustered. He looked away quickly, lowering his hand to the gear shift, sending us into reverse. "So, um, night driving."
"It's driving. But at night."
"Your humor is not appreciated."