CHAPTER ELEVEN
HURRICANE. EARLY-STAGE FLIRTATION. CHECKMATE. MAN-WHORE.
(MARY ANNE)

It's official.

I hate convertibles. Almost as much as I hate motorcycles.

And I really hate motorcycles.

Anything else there, Miss Negativity?

Okay, fine. "Hate" is probably a little too strong of a word...at least as far as convertibles are concerned. I mean, the sight of a sports car cruising innocently down the road with its top dropped doesn't exactly make me cringe in anguish the way I might at...oh, say, the sound of a bagpipe quartet, or the thought of performing on stage in front of a thousand people. I've just simply never understood what's so impressive about a vehicle without a roof.

And I, for one, have officially decided that I do not like riding in them.

It's wasn't so bad in town, I guess...considering we were only going, like, thirty miles per hour. I'll even venture to say that it'll probably be really awesome cruising along Sea City's main drag with the top down. But by the time we hit the I-95 exit, I felt as if I was in the middle of a hurricane. (Believe it or not, I actually have been in the middle of a hurricane. In Sea City. Go figure.)

Okay...we've got to be doing at least seventy now. She'll have to put the top up soon.

But as mile after endless mile rolled by, I became more and more convinced that it wasn't going to happen. I stole a quick glance at Kristy, curious to see if she looked as uncomfortable as I felt. Surely, she'd speak up if...

"Isn't this awesome?" she exclaimed, jarring me out of my thoughts. She grinned broadly at me, her ponytail whipping around wildly in the wind.

Well, that answers that question, anyway.

I managed a small smile. "Fantastic," I agreed.

Sighing inwardly, I slid further down in my seat, hoping to discover a position that didn't involve me being attacked by my own hair. No such luck. I resigned myself to my fate for the time being, and tried to think of something to talk to Kristy about. Something safe. Something that wouldn't eventually gravitate toward the subject of my current relationship.

Or possible lack thereof.

Up front, Claudia and Stacey chattered away easily. They tried to draw us into the conversation on occasion, but between the wind and the radio (or more specifically, the speakers -- one of which seemed to be positioned directly behind my head), it was next to impossible to hear them, let alone manage a coherent response without shouting. It was just as well -- for the time being, at least, it seemed as if their volatile friendship had finally started to stabilize. It was nice to see them getting along.

"Are we there yet?" groaned Kristy.

Claudia turned around and stared at her incredulously. "We're still in Connecticut."

"Oh." She paused for a moment, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "How about now?"

"Don't make me turn this car around, young lady," warned Stacey, eager to chime in.

"But...I have to go to the bath-roo-oom!" Kristy whined. (Kristy and her brothers were world-class whiners when they were little. I've never met anyone else who can manage to turn a two-syllable word into a three-syllable word so effectively.)

"You should have gone before we left the house," reasoned Stacey in her best no-nonsense voice.

"I didn't have to go then," Kristy muttered, flinging herself against the seat dramatically and crossing her arms in front of her chest. (Wow. She was good. Must have been all that first-hand experience.)

"Well, in that case, you'll just have to wait," retorted Stacey, not to be outdone. "We'll stop at the Howard Johnson's at the halfway point like we always do. Right, Mary Anne?" She shot me a quick wink in the rearview mirror.

"Uh...right," I echoed. I felt like a spoilsport for not playing along more, but I just couldn't seem to get into the spirit of things.

Good old Mary Anne. Always the life of the party. Maybe you should have stayed home with Joey after all.

Suddenly, I would have given anything to be out of that car. I fished my cell phone out of my pocket and pressed the backlight button on the side. The display screen informed me that it was 9:42 A.M.

No missed calls. No new text messages. Just...9:42 AM.

I hadn't heard from Joey in almost twelve hours.

Without thinking, I flipped the phone open and thumbed expertly through the menus. Messaging. Create New. Text Message.

I remember how awkward and inconvenient text messaging seemed when it first came out (how, exactly, is pressing two or three buttons per letter faster than just calling someone?) but, for some reason, everyone started using it anyway. Especially Dawn. She claimed it was the perfect way for us to stay in touch; that texting back and forth intermittently was a lot simpler than coordinating our phone calls around a three-hour time difference. At first, it seemed as if she had a valid point...until it occurred to me that I hadn't actually heard the sound of her voice in months, and I realized it was just another way for her to distance herself from her Stoneybrook life.

Anyway, somewhere down the line, texting became sort of a second nature to me. I could barely remember what we'd done before cell phones. Did we really all just sit around our houses waiting on one another to call?

I stared down at the blank screen.

White makes the first move.

"Do you remember what all of the pieces do?"

I nodded. "I...think so," I replied shakily. Joey had spent the better part of an hour explaining the finer points of chess to me. It was, to say the least, quite a bit to take in all at once.

"Okay," he prompted. "White makes the first move."

I stared down at the sixteen white chess pieces positioned meticulously across my end of the board, wondering how I'd gotten myself into this mess.

-- -- -- --

The Homecoming dance -- the one Joey had talked me into attending with him during the sexual harassment video -- had been a bust. Not even twenty minutes in, the DJ's high-tech speaker setup had overloaded the school's power supply, plunging the entire gymnasium into stunned silence in the middle of Howie Day's "Collide," the first slow song of the evening.

"Want to stick around?" he asked, as the crowd began to thin out. I'd heard from Bea Foster that there was supposed to be some huge keg party at Heather Epstein's house after the dance -- I had a feeling it would be getting off to an earlier start than Heather had anticipated.

I shook my head. "I...think it's pretty much over," I pointed out. To be honest, the fact that I was attending a school dance with anyone other than Logan (who had made his own subtle exeunt just moments earlier) was awkward enough -- being at a half-deserted dance with a boy I barely knew, on the other hand, was ranking somewhere between "agonizing" and "unbearable."

"Yeah...pretty much," he agreed glumly, staring down at the floor. He looked uncomfortable -- out of his element, you might say -- for the first time all night. Suddenly, I realized how selfish and ungrateful I must seem. Here was this boy who had gone out of his way to take me to a dance at a school he didn't even attend -- and I was acting as if I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I owed him more than that...a simple explanation, at the very least.

"You know, I've never had much luck with school dances," I confided. "The first one I ever went to, in middle school? I almost killed our vice-principal with my shoe."

He looked back up at me with a renewed interest. "That's awesome. How'd you manage to pull that one off?"

"It, uh, flew off, actually," I admitted. "While I was dancing."

"Were you slow dancing?" he asked incredulously.

"No!" I laughed. "More like...er, Rockette-kicking."

He studied me thoughtfully. "You know, I've got to be honest with you. Don't take this the wrong way, but..."

"Let me guess," I interrupted. "You can't picture me doing Rockette kicks?"

"Not exactly, no." He raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose I could get you to demonstrate." It was a statement, not a question.

I shook my head vehemently. "Not a chance. I learned my lesson the first time."

He glanced down at the funky black Doc Martens I was wearing. (They just so happen to be the most outrageous thing I own -- a hand-me-down from Claud, naturally.) "I...don't think you'd have to worry about those going anywhere."

I shrugged. "Knowing my luck, they'd find a way."

"Fair enough," he conceded. "So, that was your worst dance experience?"

I thought for a moment. "The Mischief Night Masquerade was pretty awful," I mused.

"Mischief Night...? Do tell."

"Well," I began slowly. (I have to admit, by this point, I was kind of starting to enjoy myself.) "To be honest, I think that dance was doomed from the start. Everything the decorations committee did beforehand was sabotaged. Like the posters my friend Claudia designed? We came to school the next morning and found them all vandalized -- either covered in spooky graffiti or shredded to confetti."

"Creepy."

I nodded. "So my friends and I -- we used to be really big into solving mysteries for some reason -- did some digging around, and found out that a bunch of awful things happened the last time SMS had held a Mischief Night Masquerade...like, twenty-eight years earlier. A teacher even died that night," I added dramatically. (I don't know what had come over me, but I was really on a roll.)

"Holy hell...what happened?"

"Well," I replied, "It all started with a bet."

I proceeded to tell him the story of the Mischief Night Masquerades -- the one from the past, and the one from my past. Of how Mr. Rothman (a science teacher at SMS) had gone to the first Mischief Night Masquerade when he was a student at SMS...and how he'd invited an unpopular girl named Liz Connor on a bet.

"So, this Liz Connor chick freaked out and went all Carrie on everyone when she found out?" asked Joey.

"Pretty much," I agreed. "She manged to shut all the power off and pull the fire alarm, anyway."

"Wait...so then, how did a teacher die?" he asked, clearly confused.

"Heart attack," I replied. "While everyone was stampeding towards the exit. At some point, during all of the confusion, Liz disappeared."

"And then she showed up like, thirty years later to terrorize your dance?"

I nodded.

"One more question. You said it was a masquerade -- so you guys would have been in costume, right?"

"Yup -- that was why Mr. Rothman didn't recognize Liz at first."

"What did you go as?"

"Me?" I squeaked. He seemed to have a habit of shifting gears abruptly; catching me off-guard. "Uh...Dorothy. From The Wizard of Oz," I admitted.

Another eyebrow raise. "That...sounds incredibly hot. So, let's see," he said, ticking each occurrence off on his fingers as he spoke. "Attempted assassinations on the vice principal, emotionally jaded psycho-chicks, speaker systems blowing up for no reason...I need to start coming to your guys' dances more often."

We could...probably arrange that, I thought to myself.

And if you were any other girl, you'd say it. But since you're Mary Anne Spier, you just nod like a loser.

I nodded. "Never a dull moment at SHS...or SMS, for that matter."

Case closed.

Suddenly, Joey turned to face me. A warm, electric feeling shot through my body as he took both of my hands in his. (Speaking of being caught off-guard -- I certainly hadn't been expecting that!) "I barely got to dance with you," he murmured, pulling me gently towards him. He guided my hands to his shoulders and placed his own -- tentatively -- on my waist. His eyes met mine, seeking approval. I wondered if the scent of his cologne would linger on my clothes after we'd said goodnight.

I pulled him closer.

"I'd still like to take you out," he said softly, as we swayed slowly back and forth. This time, there was no music -- just the two of us in the darkened corner of a half-empty gymnasium. "It doesn't have to be tonight," he added, "but I'd be lying if I said I could wait until next weekend to see you again."

"Okay," I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.

Well, it was still a dumb response, but you've branched out from the incessant nodding, at any rate. There may be hope for you yet.

"I...don't have to be home until midnight," I volunteered shyly.

Joey glanced up at the clock on the wall. "It's only eight-thirty."

Insert awkward silence here. Why, why can't you keep a conversation going?

"I wish I'd had a chance to plan this out," he apologized. "I want to take you somewhere really special...Chez Maurice, maybe, or Pietro's...hell, we could even go to Manhattan if we had more time."

"I'd...um, be willing to take a raincheck for that one," I replied hoarsely. I wondered if he could feel my heart pounding through my blouse -- he'd certainly managed to find his way to it.

He smiled. "I thought you might. But as far as tonight," he continued, "I think Chez Maurice and Pietro's are out -- It's Friday night; I doubt we'd get in and out before midnight without reservations."

I started to nod, then thought better of it. "We could always just go to Pizza Express or something," I suggested. "I'm not picky."

He bristled -- ever so slightly -- at my comment. It was an almost imperceptible shift -- I don't know that I would have noticed it, had we not been in such close proximity to one another, but I had a very distinct feeling that something I'd said had unwittingly struck a nerve.

And just like that, it was gone.

"You know," he mused, "you might be on to something there." His speech had become slower and more deliberate, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "But," he continued, "I have a feeling that there are going to be about five hundred bored SHS students with the same idea."

The ones who don't go to the kegger, anyway.

"How about if we go with your pizza idea, but have it delivered to my place instead." He paused for a moment. "My parents will be there, and my little brother...they're, uh, pretty cool, though," he added quickly. "I know it's kind of a far cry from Manhattan," he admitted, "but it might be okay for tonight. We've got a pool table in the rec room, and about a million DVDs -- my mom's kind of a movie fanatic."

"Really? My stepmother is, too," I put in.

"So...what do you think?" he asked, looking hopeful.

I smiled. "I think it sounds like fun."

-- -- -- --

"Do you play?" I'd asked, noticing the expensive-looking set displayed prominently on the coffee table in the rec room.

Joey nodded. "It's...kind of my thing. Chess and old muscle cars." He sat down on the well-worn leather couch, picked up one of the marble chessmen from the board and rolled it absently between his thumb and forefinger. "Is that weird?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "I've never played, myself, but I've watched my dad and Sharon a few times. It looks complicated."

He shrugged. "My dad taught me when I was like, five. It's not as hard as it looks." He studied me for a moment. "Do you want to learn?"

Oh, come on. If Sharon can remember what all of those little pieces do...

"Uh...sure," I gulped, the words tumbling out before I'd had a chance to consider them more carefully.

"Outstanding," he drawled. I'd noticed that he had a tendency to play with certain words; drawing the vowel sounds out just slightly longer than necessary. It reminded me, in an oddly comforting way, of Logan's gentle Southern accent...although, with Joey, it seemed to be more of an occasional quirk than a mannerism. He returned the chessman to its square and motioned toward a space next to him on the couch. "Have a seat."

I sat -- closer, perhaps, than the traditional chess lesson would demand, but not close enough (at least, I hoped) to appear outwardly suggestive.

Check.

He nudged his knee -- ever so subtly -- against mine, wordlessly acknowledging my advance. It had been awhile since I'd engaged in the complex science that is early-stage flirtation. I was surprised to find that I rather enjoyed it.

"Okay. The most important thing to remember is that your early game is all about control," he advised, jolting me abruptly from my inner dialogue. It took me a moment to realize that he was talking about chess. "The more of the board you control at any given time, the more limited your opponent's range of mobility will be."

And that, my dear, is exactly how you got yourself into this mess.

-- -- -- --

The delivery service at Pizza Express -- contrary to what its name seems to imply -- often leaves something to be desired. We'd been waiting on our order for just under an hour -- six more minutes and it would be free.

"Okay," he prompted. "White makes the first move."

Right...this is about where we left off.

Tentatively, I picked up one of the white marble pawns from my front line. "So...I can move one of these guys forward," I deliberated, "or I can move one of the horses...right?"

"Knight," said Joey flatly.

"What?"

"They're knights. Not...horses." He said the last word the way some people might say "roadkill."

I cringed. "I knew that." There was that vibe again -- only this time, there was little room for misinterpretation. "I guess I'm not ready to go pro quite yet," I admitted, returning the pawn to its square.

"You're all right," he said gently. "You're just learning." He fell silent for a moment, a troubled expression crossing his face. Suddenly, he stood up. A shiver of anticipation shot down my spine as he walked around the coffee table and returned to his original spot on the couch -- right next to me.

Or maybe there's more room for misinterpretation than you thought. Face it...your heart's pounding like a U4Me remix; of course your perceptions are going to be off.

"I...really didn't mean to sound shitty a second ago," he apologized. "I get kind of weird about this game sometimes." His words hung in the air for a second before he continued. "I should have known better than to force you into chess bootcamp on our first date."

"I really would like to learn, though," I assured him.

He paused, apparently considering my offer. "Alright," he agreed finally, his dark, brooding eyes meeting my own. "Since the first move is yours, you've got a couple of options." He picked up one of my pawns and slid it forward two squares to demonstrate. "White to e4 is good one," he divulged. "But," -- he turned to face me, his voice growing serious -- "it's predictable. The one I want to to teach you," he whispered, "is a little more daring."

And with that, he leaned forward and softly kissed me.

Checkmate.

"Hey! Earth to Mary Anne!"

I jumped. I couldn't help it. The sound of Kristy's voice (coupled with the sharp elbow-jab she'd delivered to my forearm) startled me out of my thoughts. Slowly, the memory began to fade, like fragments of a dream upon waking.

"Oh, my Lord, she's alive!" Claudia exclaimed, grinning at me from the front seat.

Suddenly, I realized two things -- the first one being that we were pulling into the parking lot of a Howard Johnson's. The second was that my cell phone, which was still sitting open in front of me, had gone into screensaver mode. The text messaging window I'd opened was still blank. It was 10:18 AM -- I'd been lost in thought for nearly half an hour. Not that it had done any good -- I still wasn't any closer to finding the right words. Sighing to myself, I snapped the phone shut and stuffed it back into my pocket.

Maybe...just maybe...the right words don't even exist.

-- -- -- --

"Mary Anne? Is everything okay?" asked Stacey gently. The four of us were crowded into a tiny booth in the corner of Howard Johnson's -- just outside of New York City. "You've barely said two words since we left Stoneybrook."

Reluctantly, I glanced up from my coffee to find three concerned faces staring at me. "I'm fine," I lied. "Just...not quite awake yet."

"I call B.S.," harrumphed Kristy through a mouthful of Cherries Jubilee.

"Kristy!" scolded Stacey. "Give her a break." She turned to Claudia -- by way of diversion, if I'd had to guess. "So...how's the diet Coke?"

"Bitchin'," she declared, grinning slyly. Something had passed between the two of them in that moment -- an inside joke, or at the very least, some sort of private understanding. It wasn't like Claud to pass up a gooey, drippy ice-cream sundae in favor of diet soda. I briefly entertained the thought of calling her out on it -- to be honest, I was surprised that Kristy hadn't beaten me to it.

As if on cue, a suspicious-looking expression crossed Kristy's face. "Hey...what are you doing drinking diet Coke, anyway?" she demanded.

"Oh, mind your own business, Kristy," retorted Claudia cheerfully. Kristy stuck her tongue out in response.

"I love this, you guys," Stacey confessed. "I feel like we're thirteen years old again."

The four of us sat in silence for a moment, lost in our respective thoughts as Stacey's sentiment sank in. And suddenly, I realized why I'd wanted to come in the first place. But whether or not I'd made the right decision -- that was another story.

"Guys?" I began tentatively. "Can I ask you something?"

-- -- -- --

"You mean he was actually pissed off that you wanted to come with us?" Kristy asked incredulously. "What an asshole."

I cringed. That wasn't quite the response I'd been hoping for. "Don't you think he kind of has a right to be, though?"

"A right to be what?" Kristy shot back. "An asshole?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "To be...you know," I lowered my voice slightly, "pissed off."

"It's not like you guys are married, M.A. You should be able to go out and do whatever you want," argued Kristy.

"I know," I sighed. "But...he wanted to spend the weekend with me...and I pretty much just blew him off." I couldn't help it -- as soon as I'd admitted it out loud, the tears started welling up.

Claudia raised her eyebrow. "Don't you two spend every weekend together, though?"

I nodded -- afraid that if I said any more, the floodgates would open up completely. The last thing I wanted was to turn into a sniffling, snotty mess in the middle of Howard Johnson's.

"So, what's so special about this weekend?" she prompted.

"His...parents are out of town," I confided, blushing furiously. "We've kind of been looking forward to it...and not like that, you guys!" I added in protest, after noticing the identical expressions of amusement on Claudia and Stacey's faces.

"Our little girl is growing up, Stace," concluded Claudia solemnly, shaking her head in mock disbelief.

By this point, Kristy looked thoroughly annoyed. "I still say he's an asshole," she muttered. I'd long since given up trying to figure out what she had against Joey -- despite his quick temper, he'd never been any less than a perfect gentleman toward her...or any of my friends, for that matter. And it wasn't as if I went around broadcasting every little disagreement we'd ever gotten into.

"Well, I think he's sweet," volunteered Stacey. "What about the time he had those flowers sent to the school?" she reminded us.

I smiled at the memory. One day, during our junior year, Joey had arranged for a bouquet of white roses to be delivered to me in class -- right before a Home Ec. final I was particularly worried about. (Okay..."worried" is a huge understatement -- to be honest, I'd been in a complete panic from the moment I found out I needed to take at least one more elective in order to graduate with honors. And even though I'd barely made it out of my eighth grade Home Ec. class alive, it still seemed like a safer alternative than machine shop, and a lot less horrifying than band or choir.) Anyway, I still have the little card that had been attached to the bouquet -- as a matter of fact, I keep it in my billfold, right behind my driver's license. There are only two words on it -- "Love, Joey," -- but it was the first time he'd ever used them.

"If he's so great, why won't he let you do anything with your friends?" countered Kristy. She was certainly in top form -- relentless as ever. Leave it to Kristy to corner me into justifying the complex inner workings of my boyfriend's psyche. It's not a subject that I'm particularly comfortable discussing -- I always feel as if I'm betraying his confidence, somehow. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that it's next to impossible to stick up for Joey without having to do just that, at least to a certain extent.

"It's...not really that," I started, fully aware of the fact that all three of my friends had turned their undivided attention toward me. "He's...worried about other boys."

"What boys?" wondered Stacey aloud.

"Well...any of them, I guess," I admitted.

"So he doesn't trust you," Kristy declared.

"It's...not exactly that, either," I explained. "At least, I don't think it is."

"Maybe he just doesn't trust other guys," Claudia pointed out sensibly.

I nodded. "I think that has a lot to do with it. I mean...he freaks out if another guy even so much looks at me when we're out in public."

"So he's insecure." (Kristy again, of course.)

I sighed, knowing that I'd be a lot better off if I just got it over with. "Okay...before I met Joey, he'd only ever dated one other girl -- her hame was Lindsey."

"That chick from Pizza Express?" Kristy broke in.

I nodded. (I'd told Kristy that much before -- and only to shed some much-needed light on Joey's adamant aversion to Pizza Express dine-in.) "Anyway," I explained, "they were together off and on for almost three years -- from the beginning of eighth grade to the summer after tenth."

"Just like you and Logan," commented Stacey.

"Um...right," I replied vaguely. She had a point, though...there were quite a few similarities between Joey's relationship with Lindsey and the relationship I'd had with Logan -- more than I cared to admit to, actually. I mean, I've had a couple of very short-lived summer romances -- one at the end of seventh grade with a boy named Alex (who I met in Sea City, of all places -- does the irony ever end?) and one at the end of eighth with a boy named Cary Retlin (Cary and I became close during one of my "off" times with Logan, but his family ended up moving away before things really had a chance to progress.) But overall, Logan was my "one and only" for nearly three years, as well.

Until he and Austin Bentley went out and bought their stupid crotch rockets, anyway, and came to the miraculous overnight conclusion that owning a motorcycle was the equivalent of being God's gift to women.

I pushed the thought out of my mind for the time being -- it's not really one of my favorite subjects. "Anyway," I continued, "he bought her a promise ring and everything -- I guess she really meant a lot to him," I admitted. (To be honest, Lindsey isn't exactly one of my favorite subjects, either.) "And about a week after he gave it to her, he found out that she'd been..." I lowered my voice again, "well, unfaithful. Quite a few times. With uh, quite a few different guys."

"Ouch," murmured Stacey sympathetically.

I nodded. "He didn't really say much else about it...just that he would have never expected it from her. I guess she was always the one pushing for commitment."

"You know," Stacey started tentatively, "I was really weirded out when Robert cheated on me, too -- at first. But...I try not to let it affect any of my other relationships." She paused for a moment, and I knew she was choosing her words carefully. "I mean...just because one person screws you over doesn't mean everyone is going to."

"I know," I nodded. "And I think, deep down, he knows that, too. But...everybody handles their emotions differently," I rationalized. "I just keep thinking how I'd feel about this whole mess if I were in his shoes. I mean, he's been hurt in the past -- really hurt, by someone he trusted completely -- and I guess I just feel like I should be more respectful of that."

"But he's not respectful of you!" Kristy interjected. "It's not like he's the only person in the world who's ever had someone screw around on them. I mean, you don't hold Joey accountable for things that Logan did."

"Logan," I said witheringly, "did not screw around on me. He, at least, had the decency to call things off before he decided to become a..." I trailed off.

"To become a what?" pressed Claudia, feigning innocence. "I didn't quite hear that."

"A man-whore," I muttered, my face turning beet red. It was something that I'd called him once, years ago, in a moment of pure exasperation...and my friends had never let me live it down.

"MAN-WHORE!" Claudia shrieked, doubling over with laughter. "I'm so sorry, Mary Anne...I just never get tired of hearing you say that."

"You guys," Kristy interrupted, glancing pointedly at her watch. (Kristy is the only person I know who still wears a watch. Everyone else just uses their cell phones to keep track of the time.) "We've gotta burn tires. It's past eleven!"

Thank you, Miss Punctuality. This just in: Kristy Thomas actually manages to get Mary Anne Spier out of an awkward conversation.

-- -- -- --

Messaging. Create New. Text Message.

Here we go again.

Joey -- A few minutes ago, I did something that I should have done last night. I put myself in your position. I made a weak move -- but you know the rules as well as I do -- it has to be played out. No takebacks. It's your turn -- if you're willing to play long-distance until I get home tomorrow, I promise I'll keep my guard up and my defenses strong. I love you.

I hit the "Send" button and snapped the phone shut -- confident, this time, with my move.

After that, the rest of the trip flew by. Before I knew it, the ground had become sandier, the air had become noticeably cooler, and we were cruising past a sign that read "SEA CITY - EXIT TEN MILES." I glanced down at my phone, curious as to how we were doing on time.

That was when I saw it.

One new text message. From: Joey.