Sugar

“Thank you.”

“We’re driving?”

“Yup.”

He drove a beautiful, black BMW 328i hardtop convertible. He held my door, and I was pleased to find the seats already warmed. “This is a nice car.”

“Thanks. Buckle up. We’ve got a thirty-minute drive.”

“We’re leaving the city?”

“Heading to the suburbs. I want you all to myself tonight, so I figured I’d take you somewhere we wouldn’t run into anyone from the city.”

He focused on the congested roads as he navigated his way to the interstate, but once we were cruising down 95 North, he appeared totally at ease. “Are you warm? We can turn down the heat.”

“I’m always cold. How did you hear about the place we’re going?”

“It’s near where I grew up.”

“And where’s that?”

“Bucks County. How about you?”

Not a good topic. I adjusted the dial for the heat. “It is a little warm. How long have you had this car?”

“Wow.” He laughed. “You’re really going to completely ignore my question?”

“What did you ask?”

He turned and gave me a look that said he was positive I knew. “Where did you grow up?”

“A little nowhere town out west.”

“What’s it called?”

“Um, Blackwater.”

“How far is it from Philly?”

“What, are you writing a book?”

He laughed again. “No, just trying to get to know my date. The fact that you’re getting defensive only intrigues me more. Why don’t you like talking about where you’re from?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I fidgeted, getting cold again. Adjusting the dial, I turned up the heat. “My life three years ago was nothing like it is now. Trust me, there’s nothing intriguing about where I’m from.”

“I highly doubt that. Do you have a big family?”

“Four brothers and one sister.”

He frowned. “Did you visit them for Thanksgiving?”

“No. We don’t do holidays. They all have … other obligations.”

He glanced at me and back to the road. “You guys don’t get along?”

Growing up as we had, it was survival of the fittest. Aside from Drew, I didn’t get along with any of them. And Drew was still active military, so the most I saw from him was his handwriting on a postcard since Gavin died.

“We’re not really close. We’re only half-siblings.”

“Oh. Did you grow up in the same house?”

House… Trailer… “Yes, but I’m the baby, so they were mostly gone by the time I graduated high school. We don’t really keep in touch.”

Kenny should have graduated the same year as me, but he’d run away that spring and last I’d heard he was in jail. I needed to turn the conversation back to him.

Before I had the chance to think of a distraction, the interrogation continued, and he asked, “What about your parents?”

“My mom’s still there. I talk to her every couple of weeks.”

“And your dad?”

I sighed. “Can we not do this?”

His eyes strayed from the road, but only briefly. “Sure. Sorry.”

I was terrible at this. No wonder I preferred dating people who didn’t give a shit about the real details of my life. I had no experience with sharing.

“Sorry, I just don’t like talking about my family.”

“No problem.”

A drawn-out silence consumed the car until even our quiet breathing sounded awkward. “Um, what about you? Are you close to your family?”

“Yeah. I only have one sister, and my parents are awesome. They’re living in Florida for the winter—snowbirds—so I haven’t seen them since Thanksgiving.”

“Oh.”

“No one’s at the house tonight. I could show you where I grew up.”

Equally intrigued and frightened to see his childhood home, I agreed, “Okay.”

We reached a small town in less than thirty minutes. Charming stores dotted the old street, and I suddenly felt like I’d stepped onto the set of Gilmore Girls.

“You grew up here?”

“Right down that road.”

“It’s so pretty.”

“It’s a nice area. They filmed the movie Signs in the next town over.”

It looked like a movie set. He parked in a half-full lot filled with expensive cars. As I waited for him to get my door, it occurred to me he hadn’t taken me anywhere over the top, but somewhere that would teach me a little bit about him. It was personal and intimate, in a way my other dates weren’t.

The taproom was a restored historic building with exposed stone masonry and glass walls and vaulted ceilings. The menu was New York inspired but simple—gourmet pizzas and samples of exotically seasoned lamb skewers and bacon wrapped scallops.

Between the delicious food and laid-back atmosphere, my anxiety slowly dissipated. The beer also helped.

The waiter supplied narrow trays of tiny beer glasses, each one a different shade of amber and some tastier than the rest. “I don’t usually drink beer, but this is fun. I like learning the different flavors.”

The more I sampled, the more at ease I became. Conversation soon flowed effortlessly between us, and I stopped worrying if he was out to unravel all my secrets.

“What’s your major?”

“Education.”

“Really?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No, I think there’s a nurturer hidden in you somewhere, the sort who makes her neighbor chicken soup when he’s sick.”