Page 40 of These Secret Years

I grin. “I take summer vacation very seriously.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Think about it? I’ve gotta have some way to pay you to take my algebra tests.”

“It’s not—I’m not⁠—”

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

I’m not actually kidding, and I’m pretty sure we both know that based on the look we’re sharing.

Do I know what I’m doing? Not really. Did I realize how trapped I felt last week and how goddamn good any taste of freedom would feel? I don’t think so. Not like this. Not like Knight who’s good and kind and safe.

“Okay,” he says softly.

We don’t talk anymore as I get all my shit and take it to his fancy Lexus, which he tells me is his mom’s. He waits for me to be buckled up before he turns on the car, then puts his arm across the back of my seat. He turns his head to look out the rearview as he backs down the overgrown driveway even though a high definition version of it is displayed on a huge screen on the dashboard.

During all the orgasms out back, it got really dark with no moon or anything. “I parked off Shore Drive,” I tell him.

“No problem. Some reason you didn’t just drive right up to the house?”

“Yeah. In case someone showed up with a gun.”

He laughs.

“Why the gun?” I ask.

“Oboes sound creepy in abandoned houses.”

If he were a little harder to like, that would be helpful, but of course he isn’t. I tell myself it’s because he’s not famous enough yet. Once he gets to where he’s playing on TV every Saturday, surely he’ll turn into an asshole or some version of one I don’t have to worry about. But then I remember what he said at The Front about all the kids who are trapped by their circumstances that he wants to help, and I don’t think it’s possible for someone who thinks like that to be an asshole.

It only takes a few minutes for his car to get to mine. He helps me move my stuff into the Audi, which I hope he doesn’t ask about.

He doesn’t.

When all my things are inside, and he closes the rear driver’s side door, I put my hands on the car, one on either side of him, caging him in.

Before he can say anything, I kiss him because I can and I want to, and he wasn’t going to do it first. “Can I have your number?” I ask when I pull away.

He blinks away the daze in his eyes and says, “Uh, sure.”

I get my phone out of my pocket and type in the number he gives me. I send him a text, and his phone chimes loudly from somewhere on him. “That was me,” I tell him.

“Right. Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Can’t promise I’ll answer, though.”

“How should I be thinking about this?”

“About me? However you want to.”

“But like…what’s the truth?” he asks.

“You tell me, QB. But I’d suggest not thinking too hard about it.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll text you when Algebra starts,” I say.