And that was that.

People knew, of course. In this town, everybody knows everything about everyone. Almost.

I guess I could have said something. I could have done what the guy is supposed to do. I could have asked her out. Asked her to be my girlfriend. Even though that would have felt like handing her a can of Coke and asking her to pretend it was champagne.

I could have. Because I got the sense afterward, from the way she looked at me, and the way she kept coming to the shows, and the way she didn’t avoid me, that Frankie didn’t regret it. That she might actually be interested.

But she was interested for the same reason as everyone else.

Because I’m the guy with the guitar.

I wasn’t going to try to build something real on top of that.

So I’ve just been walking around with an unzipped chest since mid-December. I’m always kind of stunned that people can’t seem to see straight inside me. That they aren’t backing away, grossed-out and horrified. And I’ve tried to make sure that I’m never alone with Frankie, which, considering her giant circle of friends, is usually pretty easy to do.

But now, here I am. Here we are.

“Okay.” Frankie shifts into drive. “Where were you headed?”

“I was just killing time before my lesson at one.”

“All right.” She nods. “I like killing time.”

Riding with Frankie is worlds away from riding with Patrick. Her car is glossy and new and smells like cinnamon, laced with the softer scent of Frankie’s shampoo. A pop station plays on the stereo. It’s all too nice. I feel totally uncomfortable, like I’m sitting on someone’s expensive leather furniture in a pair of soaking wet shorts.

“Want to go to Roxy’s?” she asks.

Roxy’s is the town diner. It’s got narrow red booths, sturdy white cups and saucers, and chipped beef on toast.

“Not really,” I say. And not just because there’s only $3.75 in my pocket. “I don’t feel like just sitting.”

“We could go to the park,” she suggests. “There’s lots of room to not sit there.”

I had been headed there, but with Frankie, it seems wrong. Too quiet. Too alone. Too much temptation to lunge across the armrest, cup her perfect face in both hands, and—

“No. Not the park.”

“All right.” Frankie stays cool, even though now I sound like a brat. I don’t know if this is because she is so cool, so comfortable just being herself, or because she’s humoring me. “How about we just drive around for a while? I’ll even let you pick the music.” She nods at the glowing display on the dashboard, the hundreds of satellite stations to choose from.

I click the volume dial to Off.

Frankie laughs. “Nothing’s good enough for the prodigy behind Last Things.”

She’s teasing. I know it. She both right and wrong. I’m a total snob. But sometimes everything feels too good for me.

“That article was pretty amazing,” she says after a minute.