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"I thought we weren't allowed to talk about Cash?" he frowns. "Wasn't that one of your friendship rules?"
"Yeah," I inhale sharply, shocked he remembered.
"No more talking about him tonight," Wilder asserts.
"You're right," I exhale. "We should get going so we're not late."
Wilder leads the way and opens my car door for me. Touched by his thoughtfulness, I smile. "Thanks."
"I just wanted to look at your boobs again."
"You're disgusting."
"I know," he grins.
Despite myself, I laugh.
Wilder fidgets with the radio as I drive through town, the sun still high in the summer sky.
"How did you get us a reservation?" I glance over at Wilder, curious.
"I know someone."
"You know someone?" I blow out a tired breath. "You must mean a girl because you don't have guy friends."
"My only guy friend is currently in Europe."
"Have you talked to Judas?" I pry.
Wilder rolls his eyes. "We're not supposed to talk about him."
"I know that," I chew on the inside of my cheek as we stop at a red light. "I lost a boyfriend, but you lost your best friend. And I'm sure that must bother—"
"I'm fine," Wilder cuts me off. "And I didn't lose Cash. Cash chose to spend the summer alone. Can't fault the guy for wanting some worldly experience before he's stuck in school for the next eight years straight."
"Okay," I huff. He's impossible. I'm just trying to validate his feelings, but Wilder never has been—and probably never will be—one to express his emotions. He calls it weakness; I call it trauma.
"People leave, Blondie," Wilder continues. "They leave, and sometimes they don't come back. It's a part of life. You just gotta deal with it."
"I wasn't worried about me, Wilder. I was worried about you," I clarify.
"I'm fine," he reiterates.
He says he's fine, but I know better. He wasn't fine when his dad left. He wasn't fine when he found out his dad had another family. He wasn't fine when his mom started falling for the wrong guys. Wilder's default setting is avoidance. And my default setting has always been to avoid Wilder's pain because he takes it out on me.
"Well," I sigh, "if you ever want to talk—"
"I won't."
"I'm here."
"Will your boobs also be there if I need to talk?"
"Why do you always do that?" I grip the steering wheel tighter.
"Do what?"
"Avoid talking about anything serious," I say as I look over at him. "You make a joke instead of just being... real."
