How My Summer Went Up in Flames by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

asks.
    “I’m good. Call you later.”
    “Sorry. I thought you’d want to know.”
    “I did. I do. Thanks.”
    I disconnect and hand my phone back to Matty without looking at him. I’m helpless. As my life in New Jersey falls apart, I’m hundreds of miles away and relying on Lilliana to tell me what’s happening. I’m so confused. Is that all Joey wanted all along? To get in my pants? I thought it was enough for him to be with me, not be with me.
    None of this makes sense. Joey had always been completely respectful. Never tried to push me into anything I didn’t want to do. He let me initiate things, and mostly, it was just kissing. He seemed fine with that. On Valentine’s Day, after we’d been together for about five months, he worked it so we’d have his house to ourselves for a few uninterrupted hours. He ordered out from my favorite Italian restaurant and bought me gold heart earrings. We messed around on the couch for a while. Joey is the best kisser. He has this way of doing things with his mouth that makes a girl want to do more. So, yeah, it was me who said we should go upstairs. I thought I was ready, but once we were actually in his bed together, on the verge of crossing that line, I pulled the plug on the operation. You don’t spend two-and-a-half years in an all-girls Catholic school without developing some sense of guilt.
    Joey was wonderful about it. He just wrapped his arms around me, turned my chin so he was looking straight into my eyes, and said: “I love you. I’ll wait.” Then he added, “Your first time should be special. Even if it’s not with me. Remember that, Rosie. You are worth it.”
    At that moment, he felt like a best friend and a boyfriend. I loved having the excitement of “someday” to holdon to and couldn’t imagine my first time being with anybody but him. He would wait for me. I didn’t realize he meant until someone willing came along. Maybe if I hadn’t put the brakes on, we’d still be together. My head hurts. I close my eyes and lean back against the seat.
    I don’t know how much time passes before I open my eyes again, but when I do, I meet Logan’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
    “You aren’t getting carsick, are you, Catalano?” Logan asks in his usual, caustic tone. His eyes tell a different story. It’s weird, but I can tell he’s concerned. Weirder still? The thought of him worrying about me is oddly appealing, making it hard to think of a snarky comeback.
    “I’m fine,” I say. And leave it at that.
    As we’re leaving Virginia, we pass a pristine white post fence that seems to go on forever. I try to peer beyond it, looking for an enormous farmhouse or mansion in the distance, and that’s when I see them, four gorgeous horses on a ridge near the side of the road. One is black with white around its hooves. Two are a coppery brown, and one is a whitish, silvery color—she looks almost iridescent. And I say “she” because, despite her rippling muscles, she has a girly look about her. The horses make me think of Pony, and home. Iwonder if my parents are following me on some website, like the airlines do, charting my progress with the GPS.
    We pull into a motel in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, around seven. Dollywood closes in an hour, so we agree to go first thing in the morning when the gates open. It’s obvious this unplanned stop is making Logan uptight, but he thinks we can still be on the road to Nashville by sometime tomorrow afternoon and then push on to Memphis the next morning. He’s trying to make up time for the Dollywood stop so we can still spend two nights in Dallas. Either he wants to win as much as I do or he really, really likes this girl. Or worse, maybe underneath all the nice talk, he’s just like Joey and only after one thing. I hope that’s not the case, but if it is, that’s more incentive to sabotage Logan’s Texas side trip.
    The motel room has two double beds. It seems like a waste of money for me to get my own room,