Elizabeth Nicole

“I open the back door of my car for Ginger to buckle the baby in.She smiles and goes to it. I spin around and I'm face-to-facewith Logan Kilgore.“Hey, good lookin',” he says, leaning against my door to blockmy path.“What do you want?” I ask, cracking a slight smile as I wait.He's wearing a dirty, Auburn Football t-shirt, worn out jeansand the same bedraggled baseball cap he always wears. His hairis sticking out just around the edges of the cap in messy twigsand the occasional curl. His curious eyes are dancing aroundlike maybe he's in a very good mood. Despite the obvious, he'skind of beautiful, a little.“Not a thing,” he tells me before turning to walk away. “...wasjust passing through, wanted to say hello. See you.”I watch him amble away. Ginger shuts Chucky in and opens thedoor across from mine. She stops before getting in to look up atLogan too.“He's kind of charming,” she tells me, giggling a little.“No offense, but you thought Doug was charming,” I tell her,skeptically.“Good point,” she agrees, before getting into the car.”

“He laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. I roll myeyes and pretend not to notice how very bad he is at dancing orhow adorable he looks when he throws his head back andchuckles. Luke Bryan comes on the radio. Boy am I in trouble.”

“Men don't know when to stop, she's told me over and over. Youhave to cut them off or they'll eat 'til their bellies ache—just like ababy or Mr. Davis's dog.I figure all this sweet, cutesy stuff works about the same asdessert—except if you don't cut them off from the cutesy stuffyou end up with a whole different kind of tummy ache. At any rate,I'm pretty sure Logan Kilgore doesn't know when to quit. Casein point, Barney Fife and the speeding ticket debacle.”

“It's not that I don't like Logan. I do, a lot—which is precisely whyI have to keep him under the distinct impression that I can'tstand him.”

“Twenty minutes 'til 9, we're getting in the truck. I'm sweaty,stinky and covered in red mud. I'm not sure what Logan smellslike and I don't plan on getting close enough to find out.“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” he asks, as weride along the quiet, foggy, gravel road in the dark.“Alive,” I say, thoughtlessly.“I like that. Aim low,” he retorts.”

“It's not as bad as Taylor Swift,” he says.“What did Taylor Swift ever do to you?” I ask, defensively.“Nothing,” he smirks, slowing down as we pull into the yard.“Just wondered what you'd say. Come on.”

“Two minutes into the dance, I'm sitting in a metal chair in thedark, listening to a really annoying Justin Bieber song blaringover the crackling speakers. The song changes. Everyone startsto pair off. I look over at him. He's looking around. Please, Jesusdon't let him ask me to dance.“Hey,” he says. “You wanna...”“No,” I interrupt.I catch him chuckling out of the corner of my eyes. This danceis really stupid. I'm over it. Before I can finish my thought, he'sstanding up. I look him over.“Come on,” he says, tugging at my hand. “Lets get out of here.”

“Feeling suddenly slightly liberated and relaxed, I looked over athim. His eyes fixed on the seat in front of him. His hands werein his lap, fingers dancing around in the air as if he was anxious.“I know I love you because even when you just punched me inmy stomach…and by the way, that hurt” he stopped and smiledat me. “I wanted to kiss you.”As soon as the words left his lips, my mouth popped open. Mycheeks were hot. The kid in front of us was grinning. He lockedhis eyes on me and waited for my response. Nosy little kid.”

“I never had a bunch of friends. I guess I just didn't fit in with anyone enough. Mostly it was always just me and Lyric. That was okay with me though.”

“He’s a gloomy sort. I noticed that right away. When he smiles though, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. When he smiles at me, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.”

“I feel like I've woken up in some sort of crazy carefree person's universe. I don't belong here. This is not my life—or my world.”

“Look back at history,” he said, after a minute or two. “Mostgreat and remarkable men weren't tame or politically correct.They were raving loonies. They acted out. Heroes are badasses,not alter-boys.”“You don't think Jesus was a hero?” I asked.“Jesus was the bad-ass,” he said, chuckling a little. “...talkabout somebody knowing how to make some noise.”Nick confused me. Half the time what he said soundedcompletely hypocritical. The other half of the time, what he saidsounded completely insane. He always had an opinion though,no matter how nonsensical it was to me. I admired that abouthim.“You think Jesus would throw a book at someone?” I asked,before I could stop myself.His eyes popped open. I dropped my pen again. He sat upstraight and focused his eyes on me.“I'm not Jesus,” he said simply.No kidding.”

“His body was perfect. His parents wereloaded. His grades were terrible. He was a high school girl’sdream come true.”