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“You’re not helping,” I tell her, then give Bishop my attention again. “We should go before people start to recognize you.”
“I’m not high profile enough to get recognized around here,” Bishop argues.
And, of course, because the universe is on my side and clearly agrees with me, two clients come up to him and ask for autographs and photos. I offer to take the pictures, and I make him pose for at least twenty shots before I finally pass their phones back. I put on a sweatshirt and pull the hood up to hide behind before we leave. I also put on my gigantic aviator-style glasses.
“What’re you doing?” Bishop asks.
“Covering myself up in case people recognize you again and want to take more pictures.”
He flicks a loose lock of pale-blue hair. “You stand out way more than me.”
“Whatever. Let’s just go.”
Bishop is still on crutches and seems to enjoy shambling along at a snail’s pace. “Can you move faster?” I mutter from behind the safety of my hood.
“I thought you didn’t want me to reinjure myself.”
“You have a groin pull. You’re not suddenly a ninety-five-year-old with brittle bones and a double hip replacement.”
He tugs on the back of my hood. “If anyone is drawing attention, it’s you with this freaking sweatshirt on when it’s over seventy degrees and half the girls wandering around here are dressed like they’re ready to go to the beach.”
“That’s because they’re college students and it’s a prerequisite to dress for weather ten degrees warmer than it actually is. I’m being reasonable with my hoodie.”
“Not even a little.”
We manage to make it to his car—thank God he doesn’t drive something ostentatious and expensive like my brother does—without anyone accosting him. Since I have the keys, I rush around to the driver’s side and close myself inside while he fumbles around with his crutches and lowers himself into the passenger seat.
“Thanks for the help.”
“You managed to get yourself here just fine.”
I haven’t driven to what was supposed to be my apartment ever, so I have to program it into Bishop’s GPS. I’m anxious about going to Joey’s and Bishop being with me. I’m also freaked out about last night, and I’m waiting for him to bring it up, but he doesn’t. He sits in the passenger seat, tapping his fingers on the armrest.
“You know what I find interesting?” he finally says.
“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”
He stretches his arm across the back of my seat and fingers a lock of my hair. I know he’s touching it because I can feel his hand resting on my shoulder. Also, he gives it a tug. “That you’ll change the color of your hair to something that stands out but hide behind a hood because of the possibility that some random person you don’t know is going to recognize me. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. You know that, right?”
“The two are unrelated.”
“Your hair screams ‘Look at me.’”
“But no one wants to take pictures of me and get my autograph because of it. All they know is that I have fun hair. They don’t know I’m related to Rook, or that I’m . . . working on rehab with you, but if they see me with you or my brother, all of a sudden I stop being the girl with the fun hair and I start being Rook Bowman’s sister or that chick who was with Bishop Winslow.”
He doesn’t say anything in response. Instead he keeps twisting my hair around his finger. I can feel him looking at me still, and it’s distracting. Thankfully, we arrive at what was supposed to be my apartment building. I parallel park down the street and try to force myself to get out of the car, but all I can do is sit there, gripping the steering wheel and staring at the building.
“You okay?” Bishop asks after God knows how long. He pulls my hood down and slips his fingers under my hair. His calloused palm curves around the nape of my neck, just like last night. His thumb sweeps back and forth, slow and soothing.
I’m so screwed. I like this guy, and I shouldn’t for a lot of reasons, most of which I cited last night in my head. The other reasons, the ones I haven’t voiced, are the ones that plague me the most. As much as I believe Bishop’s reasons for wanting me to rehab him. What if I’m wrong? It would be a pretty elaborate plan on his part, and it would also put him on par with a sociopath, but I also didn’t realize that I was pretty much dating one of those for an entire year until I walked in on him with someone else. And he’s not sorry because he hurt me. He’s sorry because he got caught.
