Uh-oh.
“I don’t know,” I say. “We talked about a lot of things, and I was a little drunk. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I remember everything I said.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not everything. But I’m sure I meant whatever I said. I’m very honest when I’m drunk.”
She takes a sip of whisky. “Do you remember asking me to the prom?”
“Oh, that. Sure, I remember that. Are you kidding? I wouldn’t forget that.”
There’s a pause and then she’s like, “So, do you still want to go? I mean, I know we were drinking and everything, so if you don’t, I’ll understand.”
She can’t look at me. Her lifesaver’s drifted away, and she’s lost at sea on her own.
“No,” I say. “What are you talking about? Of course, I still want to. I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t want to.”
“Really?” When she looks up with that little smile, I have no regrets.
“Of course. Come here.” I cup my hand around the back of her neck and lean in for a kiss. I figure on just a short one—a peck to show her I mean business on this prom deal—but she’s ready for more.
I don’t know. It’s strange the way she feels in my arms. So trusting. Like she’s completely sure I have something important in me that she needs.
I take her glasses off and set them on the dashboard and the next thing I know my hands are under her sweater, gliding up her back. She sighs as I kiss her neck, and when I lick inside her ear, her whole body quivers.
She pulls back, and I fully expect her to tell me we’re moving too fast, but that isn’t it.
“Sutter…” She can’t look any higher than my chin.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just, I’m wondering, does this mean we’re, like, boyfriend and girlfriend?”
That one catches me off guard. “What do you think?” I ask to buy time. After all, this is exactly the kind of thing I’d pledged to avoid.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”
“Well, you do now.” The words march right off my tongue, as if I’d been planning to say them for a month, but what else can I do? The girl needs to hear that, and to tell the truth, it feels pretty good to say it.
“Really? You want me to be, like, your real girlfriend?”
I could make a joke about fake girlfriends, blow-up dolls with plastic hair and suck-me mouths, but this isn’t the time. “You got it. My one hundred percent authentic real girlfriend. If you want to.”
“Yes,” she says. “I do.” And her mouth locks back onto mine.
There’s no doubt that I could unsnap her jeans and go all the way with her right here and now, but that wouldn’t be right, not with Aimee.
Besides, when I go to change positions, I accidentally honk the horn, and about five seconds later a light flashes on in the house. Ten seconds after that, her mother’s standing on the front porch with her hands on her hips.
Aimee brushes back a loose strand of hair. She looks like a girl who just woke up from a beautiful dream. “Lunch tomorrow?” she says.
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter 41
You know what? I am there the next day. Right on time. And I’m right on time for our date Friday night too. And then for a movie Sunday afternoon. Of course, Ricky’s dumbstruck over this development. He’s like, “Dude, what are you doing? I told you this girl was going to fall for you. Don’t you have a spine? Couldn’t you just stand up to her and tell her you’re only her friend or benefactor or whatever it is you are?”
“Hey, did it ever cross your mind that I might actually be attracted to her?”
“No.”
“Well, you haven’t really looked at her. You have to talk to her for a while before you can really see her. She exudes purity of heart, dude. Besides, all I’m doing is providing her with some boyfriend experience. I mean, look, I give it a month tops before she gets tired of me and figures she’ll be a lot better off with some dude who plays first trombone in the stage band or something.”
“And what if she doesn’t get tired of you?”
“Hey, it’s me. Have you ever known a girl yet that didn’t get tired of dating me?”
He nods. “I have to admit you have a point there. And who knows, maybe she’ll be a good influence on you.”
“Yeah, right.”
I don’t know what Ricky’s complaining about anyway. It’s not like we’ve done much hanging out since he met Bethany. Except for the lame motel bash, he hasn’t partied with me a single time since then. Of course, I have my other buddies, and over the next couple of weeks I alternate—Fridays with Aimee and Saturdays getting festive with the likes of Cody Dennis and Brody Moore. I even go for another binge with Jeremy Holtz’s semi-thug crowd, but I have to exit stage left when they get the idea to burglarize an Episcopal church.
After that, I start to wonder why I didn’t just hang out with Aimee instead. I could even see myself hanging out with her both weekend nights on occasion. It’s very fun watching her learn how to be spontaneous. The fact is she has a lot more to her than science-fiction novels, NASA, and horse ranches. We actually have some things in common.
For one, we both like old music better than the crap they pass off on the radio today. I’m a huge Dean Martin fan, and Aimee loves the hippie music from the 1960s. She’s got the whole soundtrack to the movie Woodstock and everything. She sings me this sixties song called “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” and I mean, sure, her voice is a little thin, but still, the girl closes her eyes and siphons it straight up from the left ventricle. You have to appreciate that. For about two and a half minutes, I actually feel like a complete hippie.