I blink up at him, dazed and starry-eyed, hesitant to pull away. Could be a minor concussion. “No, don’t worry. My dad is off work today, so he’s going to pick me up when I text him.”
Friends and fellow performers send me concerned smiles and curious side-eyes as I move down the walkway, massaging my achy tailbone.
“Where’s your car?” Lex asks.
I grab my backpack off one of the seats and glance at him as we continue toward the main doors. “Oh…it’s gone.” I swallow, looking away. “It was deemed totaled.”
He frowns. “Like…totaled from when I hit you?”
I nod.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal.” He reaches for my hand to halt my escape. “Stevie.”
Pausing just outside the doors, I fold in my lips and peer up at him as his hand slowly falls away from mine. Then I shrug like it’s only a minor inconvenience. “The insurance payout was next to nothing. We can’t afford to get a new one right now.”
“Shit.” His jaw tightens, his eyes losing their light. “I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is. We’ll figure something out.” I try to lessen the doom and gloom with a soft chuckle. “Come what may, right?”
The joke falls flat. He looks broken.
“I feel like a dick. It was my fault.”
“It was just an accident.”
Stabbing a hand through his hair, Lex darts his eyes around the hallway before returning his attention to me. “Listen, my birthday was last week. I got some money from my grandparents. Can I make it up to you?”
My breath hitches. “I missed your birthday?”
“It was just another day. I didn’t do anything.”
“What day was it?”
He shrugs. “Thursday or something.”
Thursday.
I think back to last Thursday and remember that he spent the afternoon with me. We practiced some lines out by the walnut tree, bundled up in fuzzy coats and knitted caps, and then he fell asleep on my checkered blanket while I sang my part of the harmonized chorus of “Come What May.” He awoke an hour later and apologized, telling me he had to go before the sun set.
I had no idea it was his birthday. If I’d known, I would have insisted he stay for dinner, or Joplin and I could have made him a cake…orsomething.He turned eighteen, and that feels like a big deal—a bigger deal than voluntary theater homework and a catnap underneath our ancient tree.
I wonder why he didn’t tell me.
“Happy birthday,” I murmur softly.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He clears his throat, looking fidgety. “So what do you say? Can I make it up to you?”
Flush breaks out across my collarbones. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Dinner or something.”
“Dinner?” My eyes widen as the flush travels up my neck and stains my ears. “A date?”
“No. Just dinner.”
