by Sara Biren
“My dating history is that I don’t have much of a dating history.” That’s all he needs to know.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s surprising.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing.
I mean, it’s not an insult, Dutch. Geez. It’s that .
. . I . . .”
He trails off and I turn to look at him. I can’t be certain in the darkness of the cab, but I think he’s blushing.
I turn away quickly and look out the window instead. I don’t need an answer. Nope. Nope. Nopity nope. Don’t need to know.
We pass a sign that reads CASS COUNTY.
Wait a minute.
“Where are we going?” We’re way north of town. Great. I knew there was no way he was capable of being nice to me. This was all a ploy to transport me to some run-down shack in the snowy backwoods of Cass County and murder me. No one will look for me here, but eventually a hiker will find my cold, lifeless body in a shallow grave long after the season’s over. I’m going to miss the HockeyFest game.
I’d like my gravestone to read, She had a perfect backhand. Well, except that I plan to be cremated and have my devastated brothers scatter my ashes in the lake behind our house just before it freezes over. While wearing Hanson brothers jerseys.
“You’ll see,” he says.
Oh, that’s not ominous at all.
A few minutes later, we turn at a sign that says A-FRAME RESORT & RECORD SHOP in swirling script, and bump our way down a rough, icy driveway.
I’ve lived in Halcyon Lake my entire life. I’ve played at the smallest, dumpiest arenas you can find all over central and northern Minnesota. I’ve eaten at small-town diners, slept at run-down twenty-unit motels with pink toilets. But I have never heard of the A-Frame Resort and I sure as hell haven’t heard of the A-Frame Resort & Record Shop or I would be basically living here, even if it is an hour from home.
The resort consists of a large cabin (A-frame, of course) at the edge of the driveway and a few smaller cabins close to the lakeshore. Those cabins seem deserted, but the big cabin is lit up and cozy, which makes me suspicious.
“Where are we?” I ask. I don’t even know which lake this is.
He looks at me, mouth open in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You don’t know about the A-Frame?”
I shake my head.
“But—but you love music.”
“Yep.”
“But you’ve never been to the A-Frame.” It’s not a question. It’s a sad statement.
“Correct.”
He grins, and there’s that dimple again. “C’mon, Dutch. You are in for a treat.”
Chapter Thirteen
Wes gets out of the truck. I open my own door and get out before he makes it around to my side, but that doesn’t stop him from placing his hand firmly on my back as we move across the icy, uneven driveway. I can feel the jolt even through my heavy coat.
“My dad and I found this place a few years ago,” he says as he guides me around a slick patch. The freezing wind coming off of whichever lake this is bites into my legs and poor feet. “It’s legendary in the used vinyl world—well, at least in the vinyl Midwest. The summer I got my permit, my dad and I went on a big record store road trip all over Minnesota and Wisconsin. This was our first stop.”
“Sounds awesome,” I say, “but is it even open? On a Friday night in the dead of winter?”
“Nance knows we’re coming.”
“Who’s Nance?”
As if she heard her name, a woman who must be Nance opens the door and waves. “Get your butts in here, kids,” she says.
“We brought pie,” Wes says, and she pulls him into a hug.
She’s wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt. Her straggly brownish-gray braid falls past the waistband of her black jeans, and she’s got heavy metal tattoos across both arms. First impressions are everything. I love this woman.
And I also insta-love her record shop, which takes up the entire front room of the house—bin after bin of albums with dividers labeled in slanted black marker. Behind the cash register are a simple wooden staircase and an open door to a kitchen.
I scan the first row, see that I’m in the rock section, and dive in.
“You must be Dutch,” Nance says with a laugh.
I look up. “How do you know that? It’s Holland, actually.”
“Wes told me he was bringing his friend Dutch for a visit.” That’s acceptable, I guess. She reaches out her hand and I shake it. “I wasn’t expecting a gorgeous girl, but that’s Wesley for you. Full of surprises. I’m Nancy.”
Gorgeous, huh? Yeah, Nance and I are going to be good friends.
“Nice to meet you. Thanks for opening up for us.”
“Well, who can say no to Wes?” Nance laughs again. She’s got a nice, friendly laugh.
“Dutch can,” Wes says. “She says it plenty. You could learn a lot from her.”
Rude. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. “How long have you had this store?” I ask. “And what lake are you on?”
“I’ve had the resort for ten years, and I opened up the shop about seven years ago.”
“Seven years? Seven years and I’m just finding out about you?”
“Best-kept secret, I guess. That’s Settlers’ Lake, west shore.”
“Settlers’ Lake? We’re that far north? Like, Settlers’ Corner?”
Nance nods. “I’m about five minutes from Settlers’ Corner. I grew up out here but followed my rock-and-roll dreams to LA. When my husband died, I decided to come home. So, I bought the resort.”
“I thought for sure that Wes was driving me out to the middle of nowhere to either kill me or have me killed.” I raise my eyebrows at Nance and she howls with laughter.
“Have a look around. I’ll be in the kitchen sharpening my knives.” She pats Wes on the shoulder as she walks past. “I like her.”
“Oh my God, how did I not know about this place?” I ask again. I start flipping through the bin—AC/DC, Aerosmith, Aldo Nova, Alice in Chains . . . “Ooh, look, a 2010 import reissue of Alice in Chains on MTV Unplugged.” I slide the record out of the sleeve and inspect it under the bright lights, then look up at Wes, smiling. I can’t help myself. This place makes me happy.
“Dutch,” Wes says, and he swallows hard. “Do you . . . you like Alice in Chains?”
He looks like he wants to say something else. His eyes shift from me to the record in my hands.
“Yes,” I answer quietly.
Yes, and I think I might actually like you.
I like his passion for hockey and the filing cabinet of stats and NHL history in his brain. I like that we have similar taste in music.
I like this Wes, the one who drives forty-five minutes to bring a slice of pie to a woman who lives in a record store on a lake.
I return the album to the bin. Flipping through the rest, I can think only of the boy standing so close—my captain—and how that makes this a bad idea.
“Find anything you like, Dutch?” Nance asks.
We’ve joined her in the kitchen, where she’s set out the pie on three plates.
“Plenty.” I looked at the Rock section and skimmed through Soundtracks. “I’ll have to come back. I might even need to book a cabin and make it a weekend.”
Nance chuckles. “Have a seat and eat this delicious pie. You spoil me, Wesley.”
I like that she calls him Wesley.
I move around the table to the spot where my toffee cream pie sits. As I do, Wes steps to the side and pulls out the chair. I give him a look.
“Your throne, m’lady,” he says, and winks.
Smart-ass.
He sits down next to me and digs in. A little chunk of apple drops from the fork to his bottom lip and he stretches out his tongue to flick the apple into his mouth. A rush of feeling drenches me. I am lusting after Hot Sauce Millard and his tongue.
Oh, shit, my thoughts are starting to read like porniterature.
“Shoot,
I almost forgot,” Nance says, standing up. “I found that book I was telling you about. The Led Zeppelin one. Let me grab it for ya.”
She gets up and goes back out to the front room, where, I notice only now, low bookshelves are tucked along one side of the slanted wall. She rummages around and swears. “Where the hell is it now?”
I smile, pick up my fork, and shove a bite of pie into my mouth. The slightly lopsided slice has mostly survived the trip intact, partly thanks to the subzero temperatures. I slip my feet out of my shoes and sigh with relief.
“How’s your pie?” I turn toward Wes and stop chewing.
He’s not eating. He’s staring at me, and he’s smiling. A small smile, but it’s there.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “You surprise me.”
Heat creeps up into my cheeks, all the way to the tops of my ears. I turn back to my pie. “Is that a good thing?”
“That’s a very good thing.”
Nance comes back in and sets the book in front of Wes. “Here we go,” she says.
I peer at the title: Hammer of the Gods: The Led Zeppelin Saga. “Oh, I’ve read that,” I say. “It’s good.”
As we finish our pie, Nance starts telling us about the last time she and her husband saw Robert Plant in concert.
“No way,” Wes says. “My dad was at that show.”
He runs a hand through his spiky, messy hair and drops it to his lap. Then he reaches across the space between us and places his hand on my leg just above my knee. I can’t breathe. He moves his index finger in a small circle, slowly, slowly, electrifying me.
“I wonder if I still have that album,” Nance says. I’ve lost my place in the conversation. I have no idea which album she’s talking about. “I’ll go upstairs and check.”
Wes pulls his hand away as Nance walks around the table and out to the staircase but grabs mine as soon as we hear footsteps on the stairs. He stands and pulls me up.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s wait out front.”
“What album is she looking for?” I ask. I’m surprised at how breathless I sound.
“Mmmm?” Wes replies. He’s staring at me again. The smile has faded somewhat. He leads me into the front room.
I want to kiss him. I want to lean him up against Rock A, where he first learned how much I love Alice in Chains, and kiss him.
He tugs my hand and we move to a more secluded corner of the room, home to the Soundtracks bins. Earlier I found a rare, must-have copy of the soundtrack to This Is Spinal Tap, still in cellophane, that will be more than worth the drive back up here when I have some money. He stands, facing me, then drops my hand, puts both of his on my hips, warm and steady and electrifying. Terrifying.
I close my eyes.
Everything has slowed down.
“Dutch . . .”
I want to capture this moment and the way he says my name and bottle it, wear it around my neck, against my skin, close to my heart.
He smells so good, like the icy air outside and campfire and pine and something else, shampoo, maybe. I slowly, deeply inhale his scent as he moves closer, closer, and I open my eyes for one beat, and his eyes are wide open, gazing at me, as he leans in, slowly . . .
I hear footsteps on the stairs and startle. Wes steps back, drops his hands. But he’s still looking at me, his deep, dark eyes locked with mine. When Nance steps into the room, I look away first.
What was I thinking?
“Well,” Nance says, “it’s not upstairs, so it must be down here somewhere.”
“That’s OK,” Wes says, and his voice sounds a little strangled. “We need to go, but I’ll come back soon, and we can look for it, OK?”
Nance nods. “It’s been a pleasure, Dutch. Come back with Wes sometime, why don’t you?”
I nod, too, unable to speak.
“OK, then,” Wes says, pulling me gently to the door, “see you soon.”
Chapter Fourteen
Wes doesn’t say a word as he opens the passenger door and helps me in. He starts the truck and only lets it warm up for about thirty seconds before turning around and heading down the long driveway. He’s not as careful or slow, and we jostle roughly along the gravel road. He doesn’t turn the music on, and it’s so quiet, so cold, so dark.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I say quietly. “That place is . . .”
Amazing. That place is amazing. There are a few used bookstores in Brainerd with minimal vinyl selections, but you have to drive to St. Cloud if you want a shop with any substance. But this! This is practically in my backyard!
He takes his eyes off the road for a split second to look at me, that longing back in his dark, flashing eyes.
Is he thinking of our near-kiss against the bins? Because I can’t stop thinking about it. What his lips would feel like against mine. Warm and soft. How I want him to pull over and put the truck in park and lean over and kiss me.
I could tell him to do it. Pull over, I could say, nothing else, and then I’d lean in and kiss him. My heart pounds, thinking that, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. Stop, stop, stop. I inhale a sharp breath.
He smells so good. Like winter. The scent of him has settled all around me, like something physical, like a dusting of snow.
No, I shouldn’t think about how good he smells, either.
“That place is amazing.” I finally finish my sentence, my voice shaking. I’m shaken. “I love it. And Nance. She’s great.”
“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “Dutch? You—well, I think that you’re amazing, too. Can we—would you—tonight’s been—shit.”
“What? Tonight’s been shit?”
He mumbles, “I’m terrible at this.”
Wes reaches across the small space between us, puts his hand lightly over mine, tentatively, a question. Currents travel from his skin to mine, a low buzz. I bite my lower lip and allow his hand to rest on mine for the briefest of moments, commit the feeling to memory, before I slip my hand from underneath his.
He sucks in a breath, reaches that hand to turn on the radio, and exhales another swear. We are now at the mercy of the Power Loon. I only hope they don’t play “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” I don’t know if I will be able to resist if Wes starts singing.
Oh, shit, I’m terrible at this, too. I don’t know how to like a boy when I shouldn’t like him, or how to stop liking him, or how to let him down. I don’t know how to act after we’ve escaped our lives for a little while, away from our friends, away from expectations, and now it’s time to return to reality.
“Wes.” It’s not lost on me that this is the first time I have ever called him by his real name to his face. “I—” I stop myself before I apologize, although I am sorry that I will miss out on those feelings that course through me when he’s close, when he touches me. “We can’t.”
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s not embarrassed by my rejection. Maybe I’ve misread everything that’s happened tonight.
But I know that I haven’t. I felt it. And I know he felt it, too.
Neither of us speaks, not for a very long time, not over the car dealership ads and chatter from the deejay, not over the Rolling Stones or Bon Jovi or Jimi Hendrix.
“Why not?” he finally says, and it’s been long enough, at least half an hour of classic rock and no talk, that at first, I’m not sure what he means.
Oh, yeah. That.
“Dutch?”
The sound of his voice, the nickname he’s given me, tugs at something deep inside me. “Wes,” I begin, but my voice cracks. I clear my throat and start again. “Tonight’s been fun. I mean, we haven’t argued at all, not once. I didn’t think that was possible. But, uh, this—” I wave my hand around between us. “Well, uh, this can’t happen.”
“This.” It’s not a question.
“Right. This.”
Please, please, please don’t ask me to explain.
“Do you mean holding my hand? Spending time with me? Going out on a
date with me? Because I’d like to take you out on a date. A real one. Not just making a grand escape from a school dance.” He seems to have regained his ability to string coherent words together.
All of the above.
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “Because we don’t get along. You don’t like me.”
“No, that’s not it,” I say before I can stop myself. Super. I basically admitted that I like him. Wes Millard. I like Wes Millard. My cheeks burn and I’m so glad he can’t see them in the dark. “It’s that—I sort of have this rule about dating teammates.”
“That’s a real thing? That’s the real reason you turned down Lumberjack?”
I snort. “No. I turned down Lumberjack because he’s an arrogant, self-absorbed . . .”
Before tonight, I would have said the same thing about Wes.
I am more terrible at this than I thought.
“I—I appreciate the offer. But—”
Wes cuts me off. “Save it.”
Uh, he’s so irritating.
“I don’t date teammates, OK? I wouldn’t want anyone to accuse me again of being a distraction for the poor boys. Especially the captain and leading scorer.”
“What? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“OK, then how about this? Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me? ‘Don’t ever think anyone is going to give you a free pass because you’re a girl. You have to earn it.’”
He looks at me for a flash of a second, his jaw tight. “Dutch—”
“No, you know what? It’s fine, I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like for me. You’ve had everything handed to you from the moment you scored your first goal. I can’t say the same.”
“Dutch—” he tries again, but I hold up my hand to stop him. I’ve said enough. Too much.
I turn to look out the window, watch the lights and the houses until we finally, finally round the corner to T.J.’s street, lined with vehicles, cars crammed into his driveway.
“You can park in Morgan’s driveway.” I say it with more confidence than I feel. “Fourth house on the left, the one with the giant wreath. They won’t mind.”