Page 52 of See You Next Tuesday

“Don’t do that, I’ll take you.” Anya waved him off.

“It’s all these steep hill streets—”

“And you don’t trust my driving?” Anya gave him a look.

“No—I just, if you’re tired,” Gabe said feebly.

“Oh.” Anya nodded, feeling a weight in her solar plexus. “You’ve had enough of being in a car with me today. Fair. Super fair.”

“That’s not it.” Gabe stood quickly. “You drove all the way to LAX—”

“And was a total jerk in the process,” Anya broke in. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Gabe gave her a little smile. “It’s what we do, right? Giving each other shit?”

“Sure,” Anya agreed, but something about the moment still felt thorny.

The valet pulled up in her rented sedan, and Gabe punched his parents’ address into the GPS. It was only a couple of miles away, but the roads were twisty and treacherous, and everyone else seemed to be driving way faster than Anya. She was surprised that even at this hour, and in a residential neighborhood, there were plenty of cars on the road.

“Everyone’s always driving in LA,” Gabe commented. “Local hazard.”

“Did you like growing up here?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, just shrugged, then leaned back and closed his eyes. He looked really tired, she thought, with his suit jacket off and five o’clock shadow grown in, and dark bags under his eyes. Anya felt an urge to keep looking at him, to stroke his hair, even, or murmur soothing things—god, she must be tired too. She shook off her exhaustion and focused on the road.

When they came to the end of a long street, the GPS chirped, “You have reached your destination,” but Anya didn’t see a house, only a big wrought-iron gate.

“Gabe? I think we’re here.”

“Yeah.” He blinked a couple of times. “Hold on a sec.”

He got out of the car and punched a few numbers into a metal box beside the gate, and it swung open. Anya stared as he got back into the car.

“Okay, so you’re rich rich.”

Gabe didn’t respond. For some reason, Anya started to feel anxious.

“Are your parents home?” she asked.

“My mom should be. Probably not my dad, but I’m not sure.”

“They didn’t tell you?” Anya frowned at him. “Aren’t they excited to see you?”

“Take a left up here.” Gabe pointed to a fork in the road.

“Jesus, what’s to the right?” Anya muttered, but then the house came into view. It was as big as Jeff Rooney’s house, or possibly even bigger, but it wasn’t at all sleek or modern. It was white and grandiose with a hodgepodge of architectural flourishes—arches, scrolls, columns, the works—illuminated in front by giant footlights.

“Is your dad Baron von Trapp or something?” Anya asked as she pulled into the driveway.

“Yes on the emotional detachment, no on the heroism or bursting into song,” Gabe joked, but there was something hollow in his voice. “Hey, can you stop the car?”

“What?”

“Anya, stop the car.”

She stopped short, and Gabe got out and jogged toward the front door. It was wide open.

“Gabe?” Anya got out and followed him. “Is everything okay?”