My Bittersweet Summer by Starla Huchton Page B

winced.
    “A date. Can you believe him?” I rubbed my eyes as my headache beat another pulse of pain. “Just… Ugh. The nerve of him. Does he think I’m one of those townie skanks out to mark off rich boys from my to-do list? So gross.”
    “He asked you out to dinner?”
    I frowned at the phone. “Yeah, I think I covered that part already.”
    “Did he say where?”
    “The hell does it matter where? He could offer to rent out the Taj Mahal for a night, and I’d still say no.”
    She sucked on her teeth, thinking. “Where he wants to take you is a pretty good indicator of what he thinks of you. You missed most of the high school dating scene here, but I’ve seen enough to know. If he takes you to a classy place he might see his friends, you know he legit likes you. If he takes you somewhere you’re not likely to run into anyone in his social circles, he’s just out for action.”
    “That’s really sad it’s common enough for you to know that.”
    “I didn’t say I agreed with it. That’s how they roll. I let Chad talk me into a night out once— and don’t even start with me about that— and he took me to some backwater Chinese dump an hour away. Better believe I called my mom and had her come get me.”
    “Chad? As in—”
    “Yep. About six months before he died in that wreck. Probably a good thing I shut him down. There was a Galloway chick in the car with him that night. And it wasn’t his girlfriend.”
    “Was she…?”
    “Uh-huh,” Destiny said. “After that, the guys here went through a serious dry spell. No one else wanted to end up like her.”
    “Damn.” I shook my head sadly. “That’s horrible. Er, about the girl, not the dry spell. They probably deserve way worse.”
    “Anyway, back to you. So where did he want to take you?”
    I played with the car door locks, wondering when my parents would finally close up for the night. “Don’t know. I didn’t let him get that far.”
    “Well, that was kinda dumb.”
    “Thanks for the moral support, Des,” I said, my words dripping with sarcasm.
    “Look, he says he’s trying to change or whatever, right?”
    “So he says.”
    “So, if he was really changing himself, and he honestly wanted to spend time with you, not just get in your pants, then he wouldn’t care who saw you together. It’d be a way to figure out if he’s on the level or just blowing smoke. See what I’m saying?”
    “That’s if you’re assuming I care one way or the other. I don’t. I don’t want anything to do with Zach Robinson or any of his friends.”
    She coughed out a laugh. “Liar. You totally care.”
    I pulled the phone away and glared at it. “No, I don’t.”
    “If you didn’t care, I wouldn’t have to hear about him every damn day since you’ve been back. If you didn’t care, you’d forget about him the second he was out of sight. Don’t tell me you don’t care, Margie. Des ain’t got time to play pretend.”
    I giggled at her. “Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?”
    “Don’t change the subject. You know I’m right.”
    Before I could formulate an adequately snarky response of why she was wrong, my parents rounded the corner of the ramp outside Le Beau Tournée, heading for the car.
    “Hey, my parents are coming. I’ll call you later, okay?”
    “Fine. Just think about what I said.”
    “Yes, Mom.” I rolled my eyes.
    “I’m serious. Telling yourself you don’t care isn’t going to make it true, it’s only gonna make you feel dumb when you finally admit to yourself that I’m right.”
    “I gotta go, Des.”
    “Whatever. How about lunch tomorrow?”
    The doors unlocked and my parents got in.
    “Maybe. I’ll let you know. Later.”
    “Night, Mighty Mouse.”
    Grimacing at the name, I hung up on the call. On the ride home, my parents talked about how the night went, but they were pretty exhausted, so I didn’t flood them with a million questions. The dishes were well received, a little less than