Page 43 of Rush

“You okay over there, Jailbird?” he asks, finger tapping on the steering wheel in time to the beat of the song.

“Mmhmm.”

“Sounds like it.”

“I’m fine.” I grit my jaw and stare out the passenger window.

I can feel his eyes on me again, but I ignore him.

“I meant to tell you this morning…Gigi loved the painting. I gave it to her last night.”

“I’m glad.” I’m speaking as few words as possible because, if I say more, my anger will come spilling out.

“I made the donation to AFSP.”

“Good.”

He swings the car to the right and firmly hits the brakes, stopping by the sidewalk, and we’re still a five-minute drive from my apartment.

“Okay, what gives?” he says in a frustrated tone.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing. Sure.” He nods, disbelieving. “So, nothing is the reason you’ve barely said a word for the last half an hour, and you won’t look at me now.”

I turn my eyes to him. “I didn’t know it was a prerequisite to talk.”

He looks annoyed, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes that I can’t decipher. “It’s not, but usually, I can’t get you to stop talking.”

Nice.

Maybe, if he’d kept his mouth shut, then I wouldn’t be feeling like I do right now.

Shitty.

And like I really want to drink.

No, I don’t. I’m not going to let his carelessness with words lead me down the path of spiraling thoughts.

“Are you going to tell me what’s eating you anytime soon?”

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoes, brow rising.

“Yeah, why? Why do you even care if something is bothering me?”

He looks surprised. Like he’s not actually sure of the answer himself. “I just…do.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Good answer.”

“Fucking hell, Jailbird.” He tosses his hands up, irritated. “Because we’re friends; that’s why.”

“I thought I had too much baggage to be your friend.”

He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard you…in the gym, talking to Thompson about me.”