Read All of It for Free Online Page B

to my “half-brother,” a beautiful 1955 Porsche 550 Spyder. When my dad bought it many, many years ago, it was a wreck. He spent five years lovingly transforming it into one of the prettiest cars I’ve ever seen. I admire his talent very much. He’s a car-building artist.
    I jump in my car and start it before I even have the door shut. “Get a grip, Ronnie,” I tell myself, “Slow down. Good god, before I know it I’ll be squealing and giggling like my mom.”
    I back carefully down our long driveway and out onto the street. Within two minutes I’m pulling in the small, but long student parking lot. There aren’t a lot of cars in the lot yet because I’m so early. I always park in the farthest parking spot from school. It’s a habit I’ve picked up from my dad. The farther away you park from your destination the less likely you are to get door dings. That’s the theory anyway. I’ve deduced that the lack of door dings is in direct correlation to the fact that no one else is dumb enough to park so far away and make the hike. I shut the car off but let the stereo continue to play. It’s one of my favorite songs and I have time to kill so I turn it up and listen to it play out. I pull my calculus book out of my bag to make sure I put my homework back in it this morning.
    There’s a knock on the driver’s side window and it brings me up out of my seat. I feel stupid for being so jumpy and I can hear laughter coming from outside. Whoever it is meant to scare the bejesus out of me and thinks my reaction is hilarious. I can only see the midsection of the culprit. I open my door slightly and he steps back so I can get out.
    “I’m so sorry, Ronnie, but I couldn’t resist,” Dimitri says fighting through the laughter.
    “What did you just call me?” My embarrassment quickly turns to shock.
    The laughter dies, but he’s smiling at me. “What?” It comes out quite innocent.
    My eyebrows are pinched together. “Did you just call me Ronnie?”
    “Yeah, I guess I did.” He’s still smiling, but tentatively now. He’s waiting for my reaction. “Is that okay?”
    “I guess so. I don’t know …” I’m having trouble finding my words. “What I mean is that my parents are the only ones that have ever called me that.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” There’s genuine concern in his eyes. He’s struggling with this as if he’s done something wrong—really wrong.
    Okay Ronnie, this is the part where you make the poor guy feel better. A little comfort please—you just irrationally jumped all over the guy because of a stupid nickname.
    I allow myself a second of reflective consolation. He just caught me off guard. None of my friends have ever called me Ronnie. I imagine that even if they did it would sound strange and unnatural.
    “Veronica?” His eyes are pleading.
    But when he said it, the name rolled off his tongue so innocently and effortlessly. It just sounded right.
    “Veronica?” Still pleading.
    He’s waiting. This is the part where you comfort and offer apology. It’s okay. I’m looking down at the ground talking more to myself than I am to him, “You know what? It’s okay.” I look up and take in his anxious face. He’s truly pained. I smile reassuringly and nod. “I’m sorry, it’s really okay. I don’t mind if you call me Ronnie.” And it is okay … more than okay.
    Relief pours in as a smile emerges. It’s a smile I haven’t seen yet. His lips are parted, a departure from his usual closed mouthed grin. His teeth are straight and porcelain white. He grabs my messenger bag from the driver’s seat and throws it over his shoulder and then locks and shuts the door for me. He offers his hand. “Shall we, Miss Smith?”
    I take it slowly and feel the warmth in his hand spread up my arm and throughout my entire body as we walk across the lot toward the main building. He’s touching me! And his touch is heavenly. He’s gently swinging our arms back and