That is, until the front tire cratered into a pothole the size of a small planet.
Ethan’s arm shot out in front of me as my seat belt locked against my chest with a tight snap. “Are you okay?” His eyes met mine with a wild intensity.
“I’m fine,” I assured him, but the tension in his face didn’t abate until I wrapped my hands around the arm that was still braced against me like a guardrail. “I promise. I’m fine.”
“Good.” He swallowed and removed his arm.
We both faced forward for a second, catching our breath, until I shattered the silence. “I’m kind of surprised I didn’t throw up.”
His laugh broke free from his throat, and then I started laughing too. It was that hysterical, demented kind of laughter that comes from the hollow of your stomach—equal parts release and reminder that we were alive.
“Should we call Triple A?” I asked.
His laughter died. “I don’t have Triple A.”
“Okay, well, whatever insurance you have.”
“Sure,” he responded, but he didn’t move. “What if I didn’t have insurance? Hypothetically.”
My brows drew together. “Hypothetically?”
“What if, hypothetically, I had insurance at some point and then didn’t renew it? What would we do then?”
The fluttering in my stomach was replaced by a slow sinking feeling. “Like…as a thought experiment?”
“Or a problem-solving exercise.” He waited for me to respond, but I only stared at him. “Cards on the table. It’s not hypothetical.”
I popped an eyebrow. “No shit?”
“Go ahead. Tell me how irresponsible I am. I’m a disaster, I know.”
He threw his head in his hands and didn’t look up again until I flung open the passenger door. “Wait. What are you doing?”
I jumped out and crouched in front of the tire. Relief fell over my body. The pothole wasn’t nearly as big as it’d sounded.
I walked over to the driver’s side and did the universal cranking gesture for lowering a car window. “If you cut all the way left, you can back out of it.”
He stared at me for a long second. “You’re not going to give me shit for forgetting to renew my car insurance?”
I shrugged. “I think you already feel pretty shitty about it. And this pothole really isn’t so bad.”
I climbed back in, and he stared at me, gobsmacked. “How do you do that?”
I laughed, a little self-conscious. “Do what?”
“Know exactly what I need when everything’s falling apart.”
I shook my head in a jokey, deflective way, because the explanation on the tip of my tongue was too embarrassing to say out loud.
I didn’t want to tell him that I felt so close to him, I could detect his precise frequency. I could sense his tiny disruptions, when he needed me to match his vibrations or ground him to something steady. I was almost positive he felt that kind of closeness with me too, but couldn’t bring myself to ask, because it’d be too mortifying when he responded with a confused “Huh?”
He closed his eyes, hit reverse, and miracle of miracles, we were free from the ruptured asphalt. We both cheered, but the joy was short-lived.
“What’s that noise? Why is the car making that angry sound?”
“Goddammit,” he swore, more defeated than I’d ever seenhim. “The gas gauge is broken. We’re out of gas. I was supposed to get it fixed, but I can’t afford it, and—”
“It’s fine, Powell.” I unbuckled my seat belt and interrupted his self-flagellating with a gentle shove to his arm.
