Page 38 of The Surprise Play

“Here you go.” Wily places his hands on my hips, giving me a little boost.

My breath catches, heat coursing through me as he lifts me like it’s no big deal.

He’s acting like opening doors and helping short girls into his truck is the most natural thing in the world.

Scrambling into a sitting position and straightening out my skirt, I stare at the dashboard and dare not look at his face while he closes the door.

He must have been raised by a gentleman or had a mother who insisted that he behave like one.

My dad’s the nicest guy in the world, but he’s not a “hold the door” man. Mom likes to open her own doors.

Me… I’ve never had the chance to think about it.

I have no idea what kind of woman I am.

As Wily wanders around the front of his truck, glancing toward me with a friendly grin, I hug my bag to my chest and wonder if maybe I do know.

But he’s just your tutoring student. He’s not opening the door because he’s trying to win you over or anything. He’s just a gentleman.

I bob my head, reminding myself of that fact when he starts the engine and music blasts through the speakers. I flinch, then laugh when he starts apologizing.

“That’s okay. I love The Barenaked Ladies.”

“Me too!” He blinks. “Shit, I can’t believe you know them.”

“Oh yeah. They’re amazing.” I tap my finger to the beat, then turn to frown at him. “Why wouldn’t I know them?”

“I don’t know, you just seem—” He pauses, shaking his head.

My insides pinch, but I find myself asking anyway. “I just seem what?”

He smiles. “I haven’t been able to figure out what kind of music you’re into.”

He’s not saying something, and now I’m wondering what I did to give him the impression that I wouldn’t enjoy a funny, interesting, alternative pop band with intelligent lyrics and entertaining beats.

What kind of music does he think I’m into?

Ugh—maybe I don’t want to know the answer to that question.

I hug my laptop a little tighter and murmur, “I’ll listen to pretty much anything. I love all music and appreciate all the different genres.”

“That’s cool.” He smiles, and I have to look away because this is awkward.

I don’t think he believes me.

And I guess, why would he?

I don’t look like the kind of girl who can rap Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” word for word, then quickly punch out a show tune followed by the legendary rock anthem “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” He’ll never know how much I love Nickelback or Beyoncé or Etta James or the Jackson Five. He’ll never see my Beach Boys playlist or my Disney Channel Favorites. And he’ll never know that my favorite song to belt out in the shower is “Dream a Little Dream of Me” or that I love driving and singing along to country pop like Thomas Rhett and Chase Rice or punk rock by Good Charlotte, Green Day, Marianas Trench, and Busted.

I’m eclectic, okay?

Although my favorite genre, if I really had to pick one, would be music from the ’50s and ’60s. My parents own a retro diner, and I grew up around that music. They even have an old-school jukebox that they’ve lovingly maintained, and I know every track on that thing.

But that doesn’t mean I’m stuck back in time.

Glancing down at my pleated tartan skirt and thick black stockings, I wonder if people think I am, though.

Shoot. I should have worn something different tonight.