“Maybe I had motivation to get where I’m going,” I say playfully. And what the hell? Is thismeflirting?
“Same.” His voice drops.
“Well, then, let’s roll.” The drive is short and the house is as beautiful as I remember, but this time, there are no other vehicles in the driveway. We step out of the car, grabbing our respective bags. His, of course, is a sleek dark brown leather messenger bag, perfectly weathered, but not worn. Mine? Ha. Well, I’m carrying three bags today. One held my breakfast and snacks, one has supplies for today’s art project, and the third--in rainbow tie-dye, no less--contains my school stuff. I vacillate for a second, wondering if I should leave my books in the car, but ultimately decide it’s safer to bring them along. I mean, what if I’m having a fever dream, you know? And I imagined the whole kissing-outside-the-coffee-shop, growly-voiced invitation to hang back at his place? Maybe this is just an extension of our regular tutoring. I really hope not.
Ty punches in a code by the door to unlock it, because he’s apparently a very wealthy Jetson. We walk inside, he slips off his shoes, and I do the same. Nodding at my bag, he says, “You going to read to me, Phee?” The nickname rolls off his tongue and I love the sound of it coming from his lips.
“I, um, I wasn’t sure if I should bring my stuff, or--”
“First off, Jane Austen is always welcome in my house.”
“Good to know. But no, I’m not reading you some 19th century bedtime story. Though Lord knows, it might help me sleep,” I joke.
He fakes the motion of a knife stabbing his heart. “You wound me.”
I shake my head. “Nah, I wound Darcy. I just don’t get the hype. I mean, I know he’s, like, the quintessential romantic hero, but...for me? He’s pretty meh.”
“You’re killing me. Darcy’s more of a hero than you want to admit. Everything he did was for Lizzy, for her family. Give the guy a little credit.”
I shrug. “I guess there’s something to be said for a broody, quiet hero,” I concede.
“And if you like broody, quiet heroes, which,” he clears his throat and smirks, “you seem to, then just you wait. And please don’t tell the god of English majors, lest my card get revoked, butPride and Prejudiceisn’t my favorite.”
I fake a horrified gasp. “What? It’s the universal favorite. ‘A truth universally acknowledged’ and all that.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s a solid second on my list. Unlike some people,” he arches an eyebrow in my direction, “I enjoy it. I think Lizzy’s pretty badass for her day and Darcy’s everybody’s beloved reticent hero. But it’s not my favorite Jane.”
“What is?Sense and Sensibility?” I ask, mostly because it’s one of the two other Jane Austen novels I’ve read.
“Nope.” He walks past me and into the kitchen. “You hungry?”
I shake my head, no. I’m not hungry. I don’t want a sandwich. What I want is to get back to where we were at the coffee shop.
“Can I get you something to drink?” He opens the fridge and grabs a pitcher of iced tea.
“Iced tea sounds great.” We stand at the center island as he pours two glasses.
“Booker’s mom spoils us,” he says, pointing toward the pitcher and the bowl of lemons on the counter. “I should be ashamed that I’m nearly twenty-one and my friend’s mom fills my fridge. But I’m not. Ooh,” he says, peering back into said fridge, “she made wraps. Want one?”
I shake my head again. “I’m good, but thanks.” He busies himself with filling a plate while I look around, taking in the decor. This place looks like a showroom. My mom’s house is nice enough, but nothing close to this. I grew up in a tiny Cape Cod with one bathroom. It was not built for a family of three, one of whom was a growing boy. This place could easily house a dozen people, with plenty of room for sprawling out.
We sit at the island while Ty eats lunch. I sip my tea and steal chips from his plate.
“You good?” he asks, and I realize I’ve zoned out.
“Yea, sorry. I just spaced for a minute.” We’ve lost the intimacy we had begun to explore outside of Drip and I’m unsure what to do, where I belong. I just feel overwhelmingly awkward all of the sudden, until Ty says, “That’s it?”
“What’s it?” Oh Lordy. What did I miss?
“Two guesses and you give up? Apparently, you don’t have a burning desire to know the title of my favorite Jane Austen novel,” he says, feigning disappointment.
I laugh. “First off, I think it’s a little odd you have a favorite. But fine. Lemme think…” I tap my finger against my chin for effect. “Emma?”
“Again, a solid read. And a comedic triumph. But no.”
“Well, I’m all out of guesses.” I throw my hands up in mock exasperation.
“What do you mean you’re out of guesses? You have three more, not counting the unfinished works.”
