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“Sure, it’s fine.” More than fine if I listened to the increase in my heart rate. “I hate the walk home alone. Having someone to talk to is nice.”
I wish I could shut up. He wants to be friends, and so do I.
“You’re walking home? From the bar…at two a.m.?” His voice is distressed, and I hear the rustling of fabric and grunting.
“Uh, yeah. It’s only two miles to campus. I do it all the time.”
I hear a door slam.
“Did you say the bar is on Seventh? Are you still on the same street?”
His breath is a little heavier, and I realize he’s running.
I laugh. “Are you going to run here? I’m fine, really. I’m used to walking. No one’s even out this late.” My heart is not thumping harder at his concern.
A car door slams over the phone, and a loud engine roars to life.
“Adam, seriously, I’m okay.”
“Please tell me where you are, Harley. It’s the middle of the night. I can’t believe you’ve been walking home all this time.” He sounds calm, but I sense a little bit of desperation in his tone.
“I’m on the corner of Seventh, and you should really go back to the dorms, Farm Boy.” I cannot let him rescue me. I don’t need help.
“Did you know that the crime rate skyrockets after midnight?” he asks, his voice desperate.
“No, but I do now,” I reply, looking around the mostly deserted street. My steps quicken.
A diesel engine is getting louder, and I realize it’s physically approaching. The streetlights reveal a faded blue-and-white classic Chevrolet pickup pulling up beside me on the sidewalk.
“Please let me drive you home.” He’s still talking to me through the phone, but now, I can see his face, square jaw clenched. Amber eyes are piercing into me. His muscled arm is resting on top of the vintage-style steering wheel, the other gripping his old flip phone.
For a moment, I feel transported back to a time when men were more attentive and romantic gestures were the norm. Before the age of Tinder, Snapchat, and hook-up culture.
Is this really happening?
“I’m okay. I can walk.” My voice lacks conviction. I’m still talking into the phone, standing still and facing his window.
His eyes plead with me, widening to puppy-dog-begging size. “Harley, I really can’t let you walk home alone at this hour. It would be my pleasure to drive you.” He puts the single cab into park, opens the door, and steps onto the street.
A car drives by, honking at him. His eyes stay on me, phone pressed to his cheek.
“Why would you come out here to get me?” I ask him.
“You need to…I need to make sure you’re safe.” I hear his voice echoing into the receiver.
We put the phones down together as he reaches me.
“Why do you care?” I’m whispering now, my voice scratchy.
He takes another step, swallowing as he gets closer to me, not quite touching.
“Why don’t you want me to care?” His voice is low to match mine.
“I—I thought we were going to be just friends?”
He takes a deep breath and reaches out a large hand to brush a stray hair out of my eyes. He trails it down my cheek, gazing at my lips. I can feel what he wants to do, but somehow, I know he won’t.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers, like his voice being lower gives him boldness to say such things.
