Every Time I Think of You Read Online Free PDF

I discretely palmed, “For food or whatever.” I was also given a stern warning about not drinking, at least while driving. They knew I’d indulged a few times, but remained only mildly concerned, since I’d failed to return home from those few teenage parties completely drunk, and never while driving.
    My journey began with picking Everett up at his home. I had hoped to ring the doorbell and be welcomed in like a reputable suitor, in a meager imitation of his previous dinner performance at our house three nights earlier.
    Before I had even put the car into park, Everett came dashing out of the front door and down the driveway, wearing a parka with a small duffel bag over his shoulder. He tossed it onto the back seat as he hopped in, slammed the door, and impatiently drummed the dashboard, hooting, “Let’s roll, my man!”
    We instantly agreed to shift the meager car stereo away from my mother’s preset stations of public radio and classical music to a few nearby rock stations. Everett’s futile attempts to hone in on a distant university station that he said played jazz (it seemed he actually liked it) resulted in more static than saxophones.
    My hints at physical affection, my hand on Everett’s thigh, and my repeated longing glances toward him as I drove, were at first met with a calm acceptance. The purpose of the trip was being together, so why was he so aloof?
    I knew quite well which directions to take to get to the highway and which probable exit to take once we approached the city; I-76 to I-376 west, or just I-376 west. My dad said it was more scenic, but my mom said he took the route to avoid the toll roads.

    Busying himself with a map from the glove compartment, Everett insisted on playing the role of navigator.

    I twice asked Everett to give me his sister’s address.

    “She’s in Squirrel Hill. Don’t worry. Just drive,” he said with a steely calm. I was silenced in the matter.

    After a few minutes of that silence, Everett must have realized I was upset. “Buh furs, wheeze gun don ton.”

    “What?”

    “We’s goin’ downtown? Piss-barr-geeze!” he grinned.

    I then understood. Many of the locals in Greensburg, but in particular people in parts of the entire state, had a certain twangy accent that we fortunately lacked. Even in his attempt to cheer me, Everett did it at someone else’s expense. I shook my head, grinning nonetheless.
    Was this what having a relationship would be like, backing down to keep the peace, enduring bad jokes? I had no such example from my parents. As long as I could remember, they had never argued. They did tell quite a few bad jokes, though.

    The mood in the car eased as we began sharing stories of self-discovery, early crushes on other boys.

    Then Everett stated with a kind of blunt pride, “So, I’m your first guy, right?”

    I offered a bashful grin. “Yes.”

    “Have you dated girls?”

    “Sort of.” I’d asked a handful of girls out when formal dances required such ruses on a seasonal basis, but none of them more than twice.
    “What about the guys on your team?”
    “What? Oh, hell, no. They’re … they’re too much like me; loners, kind of. There is one guy, really popular, a pole vaulter. He lives near you, I think.”

    “Oh, really?”

    “Yeah. Kevin Muir. Drove a bunch of us to a few rock concerts. You know him?”

    He hesitated. “Oh, yeah. His dad owns the car dealership.”

    “Right.”

    “Yeah, I knew him when we were little. Bit of a jerk.”

    “Really? You think so?”

    “All of us rich brats are jerks in one way or another.” Seemingly determined to change topics, he said, “So, nobody on your team ever…?”
    “Oh, no.”
    My cross country teammates were vaguely divided into two categories, stoners and nerds, with one lone devout Christian who thankfully limited his preaching to outside practices or tournaments. They never expressed doubts about my sexuality. I never got a hint of flirtation from any of them,