One Last Thing ✅

fifty-one things

By the time we've gotten Riley calmed down, it's nearly six o'clock.

"I've gotta get going," Abbott says. "Told my mom I'd be home for dinner." He glances at Riley and me. "Need rides?"

Riley and I glance at each other. "Sure," she says, and I nod.

I follow her to Abbott's truck and wait while she climbs into the back. Then I get into the passenger seat and throw a shy look Abbott's way. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and grins. As we back out of the driveway, I notice Jared watching us curiously.

Riley babbles on the drive to her house. "I don't even know what they were thinking. They're so old! When the kid graduates, they'll be sixty." I tune out, more conscious of Abbott's musky, woodsy scent than the words coming out of Riley's mouth. I look at his lips and remember how they felt on mine, the way his fingers got tangled in my hair.

Before I know it, we're pulling into Riley's driveway. I lean forward so she can get out. She waves, saying, "Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow!" And then she does something strange. She gives me a little wink before slamming the door.

Abbott clears his throat. "So... do you have to be home right away?"

I remember what I told Grams, that I wouldn't be late. "It depends," I say. "What do you have in mind?"

He rubs a finger over a smudge on the steering wheel. "I thought you might want to come over for dinner."

I swallow, caught off guard. Picture myself sitting across the table from Mr. O'Hara, chewing broccoli and trying not to act like I skipped the last half of the day and made out with his son in an old Girl Scout cabin.

Seeing my expression, Abbott starts the ignition. "Never mind. It was a dumb idea. I'll take you home."

"No," I say, a little too loud. "I mean, yes, let's go to your place. I can call Grams and let her know I'm eating at your place."

He turns those serious brown eyes on me. "You don't have to, you know. It's totally fine if you're not comfortable with it."

I think about lying and saying I'm fine with it or that I'm sure it will be great or some shit, but I feel like lying hasn't gotten me anywhere good lately. So I look him in the eye and say, "Hey, I wanna see where you live."

At least that much is true.

Abbott gives a decisive nod. "Well, then let's go."

Abbott's house turns out to be pretty normal. I figured he'd live in one of those huge McMansions with a three-stall garage and a pool in the backyard, his dad being principal and all, but Abbott's house is regular-sized with Hawkeye paraphernalia decorating the garden in front.

I can't deny the writhing nervousness in my stomach as my feet hit the pavement and I softly shut the truck door. Suddenly the reality of facing conversation with Abbott's parents, who both knew Mrs. Edwards, snatches my breath away. I want to crawl back inside the truck, beg Abbott to take me home, but it's too late now.

Counting backward from ten, I breathe in and out deeply.

Abbott circles the front of the truck. "You coming?"

"Yes," I say, forcing a smile.

He grabs my hand then, and the gesture is enough to make the squirming insects in my stomach settle down, just a bit, not enough. As we follow the sidewalk to the front door, I try to sort my thoughts, plan what to say. And then the front door opens up and we are swallowed into the light.

As I walk into Abbott's house, my senses are assaulted. First of all, it seems like every lamp is blazing. The smell of roast beef fills the air. There's also music coming from somewhere—I'm guessing the kitchen—and someone is singing in a beautiful soprano.