“Maybe it’s to see what bizarre outfit you’re wearing.”
“What? You don’t like my clothes?” she challenges with a confident, sassy smirk.
I start the engine and let it idle for a few seconds. “Actually, I dig your clothes.”
When we get out of town, I offer her one of the cookies before I start chowing down on them.
Her nose crinkles. “No, thanks.”
“Have you ever tried one?”
“Cookies are on my no list.”
“Good. More for me.” I flash her a grin and bite into one. “Have you seen the doctor yet?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m figuring it out.”
I’m not ready to have this conversation until we’re parked someplace quiet, so I divert back to food.
“Are you hungry? I’ll take you to get something to eat.”
“Jude.” She turns to glare at me, pushing her long hair behind her ear. “Please don’t try to feed me. I’m not a pigeon in the park.”
“I know, I just—”
“Just don’t. I don’t want to be analyzed or pitied by you. Just be my friend, okay?”
I swallow my cookie. “Friend’s don’t let friends starve.”
“I’m not starving.”
“You fainted on the sidewalk.”
“I was tired, and it was hot as hell. That had nothing to do with my other problems. I’ve fainted at least once a year since I was little.”
She says it like it’s totally normal, which is disturbing, but I let it go. My plan today was to help her, not annoy her so much that she wants to jump out of the car to get away from me.
She tells me funny stories about weird customers as we drive. I didn’t have a plan on where to go, but we end up back at the playground where we jumped off the swings.
“Don’t tell me you want to try to beat me at the swing jump,” she says as she pushes her rusty car door open. “You’ll lose again.”
“Nope, I just want to talk to you.”
She side-eyes me on the walk over to a picnic table farthest away from the other five adults and their kids running around.
“Why do I feel nervous that you keep saying talk like it’s something serious?”
“’Cuz it is serious.”
We sit on the bench next to each other and watch a little girl dump a pail of sand over her head and then giggle wildly. Skylar turns to me, her forehead creased. Her tongue darts across her lips nervously.
“So, what’s up, Lucky? You’re not dying, are you?”
“Fuck no.”
My palms are clammy. I’m losing my cool fast, realizing this idea of mine is in fact, a supremely fucked-up idea. She might freak out, call me dirty names, and run for her car. She might think I have some twisted ulterior motive for trying to help her.
“Jude?” she urges.
“I’ve been thinking about your situation,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “And I think I can help you.”
A frown curves her mouth. “Which situation? My house? My illness?”
“All of it.”
She leans her elbow on the table, chin resting on her hand, her blue eyes squinting slightly with intrigue and apprehension.
I still can’t believe the words that come out of my mouth next. Words I never thought I’d say, especially like this. “I was thinking we could get married.”
I’m sure she’s not breathing. She’s gone totally stone still and silent, staring at me for what feels like forever. Finally, she blinks and snaps out of it. “We could do what?” She almost shrieks the word what. Two of the women by the sandbox glance over at us.
I clear my throat and avoid eye contact with the onlookers. “Get married. Just on paper,” I add quickly, as if it could lessen the shock. “I can put you on my insurance so you could go to the doctor and get your meds. You could live in my house if you want. I have an extra, empty room. You’d have your own bathroom. No strings. Strictly roommates until you get on your feet.”
“You want to marry me?” she says, utterly stupefied.
“No,” I say. “I mean yeah, but only to help you. It won’t be a real marriage. Once you graduate and can work full time and get your own insurance, we’ll get a divorce. No big deal. But it’ll fix this shitty mess you’re in until then. You’ll have a safe, clean place to live, and you can get the medical help you need.”
She looks like she’s gone into shock. Her complexion has visibly paled even more. She stares past me at the kids playing behind us. She’s gotta be petrified sitting here next to a guy who, in her eyes, must be coming across as a creeper. And I’ve gotta be a straight-up lunatic for suggesting marriage to an eighteen-year-old girl.
Who’s still in high school.
Way to go, Lucky. You’ve officially lost your mind.
Suddenly, I wish I could spontaneously combust into a cloud of smoke and disappear.