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Twenty minutes later, I'm parking my sedan on a Brentwood street and Kaylee is clutching at my forearm.
She forces her words out. "Are we really doing this?"
I nod as I pull the door open. "Call it a trial run."
She steps onto the street. Nods to the No Parking 10 PM to 6 AM sign posted in front of my car. "You're going to get a ticket."
"At three a.m.?"
"Yeah." She digs her cell—the one with the Hunger Games phone case—from her purse and stares at the screen. "It's really three a.m."
I nod.
"Why did you get home so late?"
"Walker and Dean."
"They take that long to find women to bring home?"
"Yeah." Or they were dragging it out for my benefit. Their benefit really. They both enjoy mocking my pining over the one woman I can't have state.
"Hmmm." She hugs her purse to her shoulder as she steps forward. "You sure about the car?"
"My car."
"Damn. Such an outlaw. What will you risk next?"
I flip her off.
She smiles as she returns the gesture.
I take her hand. Lead her across the small, neighborhood street. All the way to the main drag.
No lights or cross walks in any direction.
No cars either.
I turn to Kaylee. "You ready?"
She nods. Squeezes my hand and takes the first step into the street.
We run across the major road. Through the tuft of Eucalyptus trees on the other side. Over the wet green lawn.
Kaylee clutches her stomach as she doubles over with laughter. "You run fast."
"It's called exercise."
"I exercise. Just not running. Running is the devil."
"No wonder I like it so much."
She laughs. "That was bad. But funny too. I must be tired." She pushes herself up. Wipes her wet hands on her jeans.
I take them. Wipe them on my t-shirt.
Her palm lingers against my chest. She drags it over my torso as she pulls it back to her side.
Her eyes meet mine.
