Love and Other Theories (17 page)

W
e’re quiet on the ride home. Shelby’s asleep in the backseat. Nathan looks like he should be sleeping too. I offer to drive, but I’m just as tired and Nathan knows it.

Nathan’s unusually quiet. He does look incredibly beat—his hair is a mess, his eyes tight, his breath slow. I try not to read into it. We’re an hour from home and I can’t help myself.

“Is everything all right?” I’m about to justify my question with an explanation—
you look so tired
—but Nathan’s already distressed face gets worse, so I stay quiet and watch the trees rush by us out the window.

“You tell me,” he says.

I turn my head so suddenly to look at him that my hair flies in my face and sticks to my lip gloss.

He doesn’t appear mad. Just worried, sad, tired. He nods at the review mirror, at the reflection of Shelby leaning against the window using her jacket as a pillow.

“Is she okay?” Nathan asks in a whisper so quiet I can barely hear him above the hum of the tires reeling over the road.

I’m about to tell him that she’s just worn out like everyone else, but he seems so genuinely concerned that I think he’s referring to something else entirely. I’m afraid of what that could be. “Why?”

He glances at me, quickly, like he’s checking for something. He chews on his bottom lip for a second, then shrugs. “She’s just really quiet.”

“This week was exhausting . . . ,” I mutter. I might be completely off base in thinking that Nathan knows something I don’t—a reason that Shelby might not be
okay
. But I don’t think so. I want to say something about the pictures, ask Nathan if he saw them, or if the whole party saw them, or if our entire school will be receiving a dirty email later. Maybe it’s a stretch to believe that because Conrad stopped texting after he got the photos, he did something bad to her; to believe that he would take what she gave him—FCEO—and share it. But Shelby didn’t even want us, her best friends, to know how she felt about Conrad’s lack of response and what that could
mean, so I keep my mouth shut.

“She didn’t say anything . . . to you . . . ?” He trails off, like maybe he’s realizing something about Shelby and me and Danica and Melissa, and how we are with guys, how we deal with the way they treat us. When evolved girls do risky things, they own them, they aren’t injured by them.

“If you were really as much of a gentleman as everyone says you are, you would just ask me about it.” Shelby startles us. She sounds tired, but her voice is strong. “You should be asking
me
if I’m all right. Not Aubrey.”

Nathan’s mouth hangs open slightly. He looks guilty.

“Well, Diggs?” Shelby says, sitting upright, leaning forward. “You could at least tell me what you said to stop him from posting the pictures.”

There’s a secret between Nathan and Shelby, and even though it’s not that hard a code to crack, I still feel anxious. We’ve been driving for over an hour, and Nathan’s known something about Shelby and Shelby’s known something about Nathan, and I didn’t know anything.

Nathan’s face gets serious and he doesn’t look sorry anymore. “I told him my father was a judge and he would get in trouble. . . . I told him he would be arrested for distributing child pornography because you were only seventeen.”

Shelby’s quiet for a second. Eventually, she laughs. “That’s it? I can’t believe that worked.”

“I told him it was a felony and he would go to jail for five years before they’d even consider letting him off for good behavior.”

“Is that even true?” She laughs again, quieter this time.

“I—I don’t know.” Nathan keeps glancing at Shelby in the rearview mirror. His brow is furrowed, and for a second I stop fretting and picture Nathan threatening an arrest in the middle of a party. It’s adorable that he lied for Shelby; even the lie he told is adorable—it’s
so Nathan
to threaten someone with
the law
, made up or not.

She laughs again in disbelief. I smile because Shelby’s happy and it’s contagious. Nathan looks between us—a quick sideways glance at me and a peek in the rearview mirror at Shelby.

“You should be furious.” He gives another lingering stare into the mirror. “
I’m
furious.” He looks to me, then. Like I should be furious too. But I am whatever Shelby is. Shelby’s leaning back against the window and frowning a little. She’s no longer amused; she’s bored with this now and also a little irritated. I’m relieved she’s been so flippant with Nathan.

I wonder for a moment if he saw the pictures, and my stomach rocks.

“Oh, Diggs,” Shelby says. She leans forward and puts her hand on his shoulders. She gives him a pat, then a squeeze. “You really are a good guy.”

I watch the tension drain from Nathan’s face. He gets the look, like he’s grateful and completely at our mercy. At Shelby’s mercy. It’s because of the way Shelby said “good guy.” She said it like it was a compliment, not an insult; it was missing its usual sting. Typically,
good guy
for Shelby is synonymous with
wet blanket
or
ugly
.

I lean against the cool window, waiting for the tension to drain out of me, too. Waiting to feel as carefree as Shelby, as relieved as Nathan. My phone vibrates in the cup holder—the place in Nathan’s car that’s mine, where I keep my phone or my drink or my spare change. It’s Trip. He wants to know if I’ll edit his Comparative Religions essay, which is due tomorrow at four o’clock. I tell him I will even though I’m beat. He messages back a smiley face and tells me to come by in a few hours; he’s going to drive home from school.

Trip could really just email the essay. I don’t tell him this, though. I just tell him I’ll see him tonight.

IT’S NEARLY DUSK by the time I get to Trip’s. I’m exhausted, but I’m here anyway.

“This is a stupid idea, Aubrey,” my mother told me before I left. But I can manage.

No one’s at Trip’s when I arrive, but the front door is unlocked, as usual. I lie down on the couch and turn on the TV. I don’t even register what show I’m watching before I fall asleep.

IT’S NOT CLEAR how much time has passed when I finally wake up to find Trip sitting on the edge of the couch looking down on me. It was growing late when I arrived, and it’s definitely dark now.

“I guess you partied pretty hard, eh, Housing?” He gives me a weak smile.

“Atta girl!” I hear Zane shout from the dining room.

When I try to sit up, it’s difficult. It feels like my head weighs a ton and my eyelids weigh even more. Trip notices that I’m struggling and slides one of the throw pillows that are strewn about the living room behind me so I have support. I manage a small smile of thanks. Nothing about the Chapmans’ living room makes me want to wake up. The fire is crackling in the corner, providing the only light in the room other than the glow of the television, and I’m covered in a crocheted blanket that Trip’s grandmother made him when he was seven.

“You had a good time,” he concludes. “Even though you’re back so soon?”

“I’m glad to be back.” The confession leaks out of me like molasses.

An even bigger smile spreads across his face. “I have some stuff for you.”

“Your homework?”

He shakes his head as he leans forward. “No, Aubrey. Something you’ll actually like.” He reaches into a paper
grocery bag resting on the floor in front of him. I sit up slightly, getting curious. He pulls out a bottle of ginger ale and a package of salt-and-vinegar chips. This is the food Trip eats after a night of drinking.

“I don’t have a hangover.” I lie back down. I don’t know why I feel so irritated by this mistake.

He shrugs. “I saw you asleep and thought I’d better get something for you just in case you were too sick to eat the steaks we’re grilling for dinner.”

I immediately recognize the deep scent of charcoal, barbecue sauce, and pepper wafting in the air and intermingling with the smell of burning wood from the fire.

“Think you can handle a steak?” Trip grins at me.

I feel oddly flattered as Trip helps me up and guides me over to my very own spot at the Chapman dinner table. It’s a weird privilege to be included for dinner at the Chapmans’. They take dinner very seriously, clearing off the bills and dishes and empty beer cans that usually cover the dining room table. They even use silverware and make a salad.

“Veggies,” Earl says, pointing proudly at the bowl of greens as he sets it on the table.

Zane pumps his fist against his chest like he’s Popeye about to devour a can of spinach. “And vitamin C.” He sets a carton of orange juice on the table and pumps his fist one more time.

“We’re trying to be healthier,” Trip explains. They’ve
got the right idea. Even though it’s super weird that they’re drinking orange juice with steak.

We laugh during dinner when Earl tells us a story about a naked couple he found today at the plant who’d been using the storage yard as a cheap motel. It feels so good to laugh. My whole body feels lighter. We laugh even harder as Zane, Trip, and I demand a full description of the couple and try to guess who they were. This town is small, so we’ve got a few good guesses.

“So how about that damn test?” Earl asks Trip when our plates are nearly empty.

“I thought it was an essay?” There’s the strangest sense of panic that surges through me when I think I’ve been misled about another one of our study sessions. I keep thinking Trip will give me a reason to never come over here again.

Trip looks at me and smiles. “I’ve got both. But I made flash cards for the test already.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Earl says. “Aubrey came all the way over here with a hangover.” I glare at Trip for starting this rumor. “Go get them!” Earl’s beaming, at me and at Trip.

We pass around the flashcards for Trip’s quiz in French 101. It’s the most entertaining study session I’ve ever been a part of by far. Especially hearing us try to pronounce the words. Trip has to correct us almost every time. “It’s good for him!” Earl claims. Zane takes away
Trip’s orange juice each time he reads him a flash card and only gives it back if Trip answers correctly. Halfway through the quizzing, Zane gets an idea to liven things up: Trip must follow up every one of his answers with “in bed.”

“
Tourner à droite
?”

“To turn right—in bed.”

“
Pratiquer
?”

“To practice—in bed.”

“
Être pressé
?”

“To be in a hurry—in bed.”

“
Sale
?”

“Soiled, dirty—in bed.”

“
Pour réussir
?”

“To succeed—in bed.”

I laugh harder than I have in days.

After the study session is over and all the dishes have been shoved into the dishwasher, Zane and Earl watch TV while I help Trip edit his essay at the table. It doesn’t take long; the essay is only one page, after all, and Trip can revise on the spot with me looking over his shoulder. It probably won’t count for much of his grade, but Trip needs all the points he can get. I wonder if he also missed Zane and Earl and their crazy dinners, and that’s why he really came back tonight.

I curl up in the dark green recliner when we’re finished. There’s plenty of room on the couch, but Trip leans
against the arm of the recliner, half sitting, half leaning. He rocks it slightly and when I glance in his direction, I notice he’s staring at me.

I’m onto him. He’s giving me the signal he used to give me last year when we were hanging out with a group of people in the living room and he wanted me to follow him into his bedroom. Now that he’s got my attention, he leans forward in an exaggerated motion that signals he’s about to get up and I’m supposed to follow him. That used to be all it took, just Trip leaning forward and staring at me, to get me to follow him into his bedroom.

And that’s all it takes to make me follow him tonight. The second the chair rocks back as Trip’s weight leaves it, I rock forward and stand up. I don’t know why, really. I don’t have any desire to be with Trip. I don’t even want to kiss him.

The second we’re in Trip’s room, I know the real reason I wanted to be in here. I kick off my shoes and climb into his bed, burying myself in the flannel sheets and big plaid comforter that smells like cedar and pizza sauce—like Trip. It’s so familiar, and I always used to be so happy here. I’m transported back to a time when I was deliriously infatuated, and to the moment when all my fantasies about Trip turned into an even better reality. It really is the best feeling in the world when everything that used to make you dizzy with desire becomes so wedged in your life that it changes from something you
craved to something you belong in.

“You don’t waste any time, do you, Housing?” Trip smiles and lies down next to me, over the sheets, keeping his shoes on. He’s going to leave as soon as he finds out I’m not here to fool around with him, I think.

“Trip?” I ask, aching to keep my eyes open.

“Yeah?” I see his eyes slide closed for a moment too.

“Why did you stop calling me?” My eyes are closed and it’s better like this. To ask him the hard question, the question I’m not allowed to ask, without having to look at him.