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“I didn’t mean what I said either. I’m sorry…I’ll do better.” We stare at each other for some time and I can tell she doesn’t want to be mad at me anymore. It’s not in her nature. Her nature is to volunteer at an animal shelter, and help out a bonehead like me by taking notes and making margin annotations. Highlight all the paragraphs I need to focus on for the final, which I aced thanks to her. “Are you gonna accept my apology?”
She faces forward, chews on her bottom lip. “You have t-to earn it.”
I wasn’t expecting that. She’s not the pushover she pretends to be. It puts a smile on my face.
“You c-can ride with me to the shelter on one c-condition.” She turns to stare me down again, her amber eyes glowing with emotion. “How did the accident happen? Why w-were you arrested?”
It feels like a blindside punch. On me heels, it takes me a minute to answer, to search for an excuse. “Nothing much to tell,” comes out a thoughtless murmur. “I was on my way to Vegas and the road was empty…my foot got heavy. I hit one thirty, lost control of the car, and before I could regain it I was skidding off the highway.”
It was a miracle the car didn’t flip. The accident adjuster couldn’t explain why either.
She blinks those big warm eyes at me. “And…”
I shrug. “And nothing. I was charged with reckless driving. It was Thanksgiving so they let me chill in jail for a night.”
She studies me closely, picking me apart. I can feel it. “No.”
“No?”
“No. There’s m-more to it. Why were you being s-so reckless?” Her voice softens. So does the sharp look in her eyes. “You could’ve killed yourself. W-Why weren’t you with your family?”
Fuck. I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to even think about it. “I had a fight with my mother.”
She nods, expression thoughtful. “Okay. I’ll p-pick you up on Saturday.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Smiling. “See you Saturday.”
Chapter Eleven
Dora
I. Am. Trash.
I am. I am trash for this boy. That’s the only valid explanation for how I got talked into driving him to and fro the shelter on the regular. He comes around to the passenger side of the car wearing a grin so big there are creases in his lean cheeks.
“Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat.
“Hey.” I dare not glance over at him but his examination of me weighs heavy. Instead, I focus on backing the car out of his driveway and paying attention to the traffic before my wayward thoughts get us both killed.
He punches a button on my iPhone and before I can stop him More Than This by Roxie Music blasts through Bernadette’s speakers. I scramble to turn it off.
“What the fuck was that?”
That hits a nerve. I may be trash, but I will not be anyone’s fool ever again. “You have a d-dirty mouth.”
“Babe, you have no idea.” My face turns red-hot. He checks me out and shrugs. “Maybe you do.”
Silence falls between us, and I turn up the music in protest. “My d-dad made the playlist. He gave it t-to me with this car for my birthday. So please don’t insult my car or the music. T-That’s all I ask of you.”
My dad, Evan, had an original Fiat 500 the summer my parents met. A junker he’d bought and fixed up. All the music on the playlist was from the year they fell in love. He’s very sentimental…I guess I am too.
Dallas stares at me for a long while, his glasses offering cover for whatever is going on in his head.
“I wasn’t making fun of you…I’m sorry if you thought that.”
I steal a glance and find him gazing out the window. The hand resting on his thigh is balled up in a fist. I’m fairly certain he could have anything he wants. He could probably have a Victoria’s Secrets model drive him around if he wished it. So why me?
“I don’t mean to be forward, but…aren’t you wealthy? D-Don’t your parents like, own a bank or something?”
“No, they’re richer than that,” he casually returns. “And it’s my grandfather’s company. Have you heard of Anders-Burns?”
“The beer?”
“Nobody ever remembers the spiked seltzers and energy drinks which are really solid products if I don’t say so myself.”
“I-I’ll take your word for it. M-My point is why haven’t you g-gotten a fancy driver?”
“Kitten…” He lowers his sunglasses and peers at me over the top of them, “why would I need a fancy driver when I get to spend time with you instead?”
“That’s n-nonsense. And…and c-can we agree that you will stop calling me that?”
“No. I like it and it suits you.”
I want to bang my head against the steering wheel and yet I can’t. I cannot because I’m driving sixty miles-per-hour down one of the most dangerous highways in America. Nothing about this makes any sense.
