The warped steel plate that served as a mirror distorted my reflection, so I looked down instead and ran the faucet till the basin was full. Then I shut off the tap, emptied my lungs, and thrust my head under surface.
It was dark and cold and blessedly still.
When I got back to the RV, Dad was seated at the table, reading something in his ancient leather-bound journal. He’d had it as long as I could remember, but he never let me see inside.
Dad closed the journal and looked up at me. “While you were out, that young man from the party called.”
I noticed my phone sitting in front of him on the table, and my stomach gave a wild lurch.
“When?”
Dad glanced down at the dead watch on his wrist. “I’m not sure. A few minutes ago.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked for you, and I told him you’d return his call at your earliest convenience.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
Dad smiled. “Liam Miller, brother of the bride. Quite sure.”
Holy shit. He’d actually called. My face felt freshly sunburned as I walked down the aisle to grab my phone. But before I could, Dad covered it with his hand.
“I think it’s wonderful you’re making friends.”
“He’s not a friend, Dad. He’s just . . . I know him from Eastside.”
“Well, I still think it’s wonderful. Are you going to—”
“Thank you,” I said, peeling his hand back and snatching the phone. I thought I saw him smile as I moved past him and shut the accordion door.
I lay down on the bed and stared at Liam’s number on the screen. He had called, even after the way I’d called him out on his bullshit. Even after I had sort of burned him in front of those girls when he asked for my cell. It didn’t make sense. Was he playing some kind of head game on me? Why?
And even if he was genuinely interested, I didn’t have time to go on a date. I had props to acquire and gigs to book. I had to take care of my dad. Plus I was hopelessly awkward around people my own age—especially boys. Hadn’t I proven that last night?
And yet the thought of escaping the RV and getting away from Dad, even if only for a few hours, was like the last ray of sunlight before an approaching storm. Liam had been earnest, even charming. And he had kept up with my “caustic wit,” as Ripley put it. But more than that, he seemed genuinely interested in me. He didn’t treat me like an alien. And if I was being totally honest, I was attracted to him. Stupidly attracted.
Plus, if everything went as planned—if Dad and I drove to LA and did the Truck Drop on national TV—I might never come back to Indiana. I might never see him again. So what did I have to lose?
I tapped his number and held my breath. The phone rang.
“Hello?” Liam answered. His voice was like warm syrup.
“Hi.”
“Ellie. You called back.”
“You didn’t think I would?”
“No.”
For a moment, each of us waited for the other to speak.
Then he said, “Panic! at the Disco is playing in Chicago tonight. Come with me.”
My stomach lurched again. Liam Miller wanted to take me to a concert? In Chicago?
“That’s three hours away,” I said.
“I’ll have you home by two a.m. Three at the latest.”
I glanced toward the accordion door. “You realize I have a father, right?”
“I’m great with parents.” He paused. “Do you not like Panic! at the Disco? Oh God, you’re not a country fan, are you?”
“Not unless you count Mellencamp.”
“Mellencamp, country? That’s blasphemy.”
I laughed. He laughed.
“So wait,” he said. “Are you turning me down?”
I bit my lip. “No. I just . . . Could we do something . . . simpler?”
“What, like Culver’s and a movie?”
I smiled. “Actually, that sounds great.”
He laughed again. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve found myself a keeper! When can I pick you up? And where?”
CHAPTER 6
I OWNED ONE DRESS, a little black one, and a single pair of heels that had belonged to my mother and that increased my height to a respectable five five. Since Liam was at least six feet tall, I would probably only come up to his shoulder, but at least I wouldn’t look like a hobbit.
I wanted to wait for him on a bench at the entrance to the KOA, but Dad insisted that Liam knock on the RV door and pick me up “like a proper gentleman.” I was annoyed—but it was also weirdly nice to have him act like a regular father for once. In any case, it meant I had to spend the afternoon cleaning the RV top to bottom with all the windows open to air out it out. Then I took another shower and spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready.
My hair was a tangled mess, so I took the bottle of baby oil from my bedside table, poured some into my hand, and began to work it in; I’d run out of conditioner weeks ago. The beauty blogs recommended avocado or olive oil as substitutes, but I couldn’t afford them, either. A fresh crop of obsessive thoughts took root: Would I smell like a baby? Would he notice? I grabbed a brush and began to work out the tangles. I was rough with myself; each tug on my scalp brought a pang of satisfaction and comfort. Each was proof that I was still here, and that I could still feel. Self-harm for squeamish girls.
I had inherited my violent hair-brushing technique from my mother. She used to make me sit crisscross applesauce on the carpet while she perched on the sofa behind me, smoking and spasmodically yanking on my hair with a boar-bristle brush. We’d lived in an apartment on Paradise Road that smelled like smoke and Glade spray, with patchy brown carpet that made my legs itch.
“No crying,” she’d said, ashing her cigarette into a ceramic turtle. “Beauty hurts. Might as well get used to it.” She’d laughed and kissed my head. “The burdens of being a princess.”
I realized my hand had stopped midstroke, the teeth of the brush still biting into the back of my scalp. I took in a shuddering breath.
I didn’t want to think about her.
I started to make a braid, and then I remembered that Liam had noticed my long hair, so I let it hang free.
When the knock came, I felt far from ready—but I sprang to my feet, threw aside the partition, and rushed to beat Dad to the door. I was slightly breathless when I opened it to find Liam standing at the foot of the steps. He wore a blue-checked shirt and dark jeans, and when he looked up at me, his eyes widened slightly.
“You look . . . Wow.”
I was helpless to contain my stupid grin. “Thanks.”
He looked down at himself. “I’m underdressed.”
He was, but it suited him. “It’s not an unattractive look.”
He smiled. I wondered how many girls he’d wrecked with that dimple.
“Now comes the part where you meet my father.”
“I can’t wait. Is he cleaning his gun?”
Dad was embarrassingly formal as usual, but five minutes later we were in Liam’s vintage Mustang, the tires kicking up gravel as we drove out of the RV park.
“Where are we going?” I yelled over the roar of the oversized engine.
“You’ll see.”