“Could’ve fooled me.”
He clears his throat and adjusts in his seat. My eyes spot the return of the long, hard ridge in his jeans.
“Dude! Are you turned on because I said I’d explode you with sex and then a seal would eat you?”
“It’s not because of the seal,” Hollis grumbles.
“Did that actually awaken something in you?”
“You awaken all sorts of things in me.” He sounds extremely annoyed about it, which gives me a buzz of satisfaction.
Like is not love, I tell myself. Like is not love. Sex is not love. Sex is not like. Except sometimes it is. It is now. But like is not love.
This is getting too confusing.
“Yeah?” I say. “Things like your dormant passion for classic soft rock?” I reach over and give him a light squeeze that makes his breath catch.
“As much as it almost literally pains me to say this, I don’t think we have time right now.” Hollis lifts my hand away and drops it onto my own lap. He moves to get out of the car and sharply inhales at the movement. “Can you buy me a bottle of water while I pump the gas, please? I’d go in myself, but uh...”
I sigh dramatically. “Since you asked nicely, I suppose I can save you from having to wave your seal-fantasy hard-on all over the 7-Eleven.”
“I told you, it’s not because of the seal!” he calls out as I head for the entrance.
Inside, I head for the cases of beverages along the back wall and grab two of the biggest bottles of water they have. Then I walk up and down the aisles collecting various snacks until we have enough to hunker down for nuclear war. We’d split some fries from a food truck after the parade while we waited for Ryan to finish with his students and hand over the keys, but that was hours ago. Hopefully this assortment of cookies, chips, pretzels, trail mix, and candy will keep us from having to stop for dinner.
I pile everything on the counter. The clerk starts scanning, not glancing up until he reaches the waters. He has stringy green hair and an eyebrow piercing, which raises in recognition. “Hey, you look familiar,” he says. “Where do I know you from?”
The clock on the wall says it’s after four. I don’t exactly have time—or, honestly, the inclination—to go through the entirePenelope to the Pastfan interaction script right now inside thisconvenience store. Even my extroversion has its limit, and I think I hit it several hours ago, when I rambled on about how lovely of a town Gadsley is for what felt like forever as reporter after reporter found me after the parade.
“I do porn,” I say. “Penelope Alameda.” I know it’s not the standard first-pet-plus-street-you-grew-up-on formula, but something tells me King Velociraptor Alameda wouldn’t be as believable a stage name.
He nods as he runs my credit card. “Oh, right. Cool. You’re the one with the...” The clerk makes a gesture with his fingers that I’m either too tired or too sheltered to understand. “I’m a big fan of your stuff. Thanks for making it.”
“Thanks for enjoying it,” I say, taking the bag from the counter. It’s an automatic response that I’ve said to countlessPenelope to the Pastfans, though I guess it means something a bit different in this context. Still works, though.
Now I guess I’m going to need to do some major searching for my porn actress doppelganger. And then watch enough of her videos until I figure out what that gesture represents.
When I return to the car, Hollis is back in the passenger seat, scribbling away in his little spiral-bound notebook. He shuts it and tucks it between his thighs as I open my door. I put our bottles of water in the cupholders and hand him the bag of snacks.
His eyebrows shoot up as he peeks inside. “Wow. Did you buy one of everything?”
“Pretty much. Except Cheez-Its. I had a college roommate who ate them pretty much nonstop and now I can’t deal with the smell.” The memory makes me gag. I attempt to recover with a super casual, “So, how’s the writing coming along?”
Hollis shrugs as he combs through the bag. “Fine. Good. I mean, it’s not good quality-wise, but words are on the page, and that’s the goal of a first draft.”
“Cool. So what’s this book going to be about?”
“Hmm?”
“The book. What’s it about?”
“It’s not going to be about anything if you don’t stop distracting me.” His fingers tap against his leg as he seems to reconsider his brusqueness. “Sorry, it’s just that I don’t really like telling anyone except my agent what I’m working on until it’s finished. I’m... superstitious like that, I guess.”
I have to admit I’m strangely pleased by this further evidence of how different Hollis is from Josh. If you asked Josh what his book was about when he started writing it, he said stuff like,It’s a modern take on Dostoyevsky, exploring the nature of suffering and attraction in a post-industrial society.Which it turns out is pretentious literary bro for:It’s about an accountant whose melancholia is eclipsed only by his desire to bang the barista at the coffee shop near his office, and it takes place in 2009 for some reason.
“Interesting,” I say slowly, peeling off the wrapping of a Reese’s Cup and shoving it whole into my mouth. “And don’t pretend you don’t like it when I’m distracting.” The words come out as an unintelligible string of vowels—aa oo e e oo o ii ii ee i iaoi.
“Just drive, Millicent.”
