Page 16 of Clinically Awkward

Worse, it was turning me into Hayden.

I was halfway to my car when I heard it. The unmistakable sound of a car trunk being slammed with enough force to dent metal, shatter glass, and possibly register on the Richter scale.

I turned.

Vivian Darcy was standing next to her Honda Civic, her hands on her hips, glaring at her trunk like it had personally insulted her mother. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail that suggested she had given up on life approximately forty-five minutes ago, she was wearing jeans and a sweater that looked two sizes too big, and she had the expression of someone who was about three seconds away from committing vehicular homicide.

Or possibly regular homicide.

The trunk, to its credit, looked appropriately terrified.

Honestly, I should have kept walking. The universe had made my options clear: hop in my car, head for the comedy club, and devote my night to laughing at strangers’ jokes while overpaying for nachos and perfecting my impression of a guy with a bustling social life. Easy. Clean exit. No emotional casualties.

Instead, my feet betrayed me and steered me straight to the scene of the crime.

“Boyfriend troubles?” I asked, aiming for casual but landing somewhere around irredeemably nosy.

Vivian’s head whipped toward me, and I was hit with The Look.

You know The Look. Every man knows The Look. That universal warning that translates to, If you value your life, stop talking, back away, and maybe consider a new identity in another state.

I surrendered, stepping back as if facing a wild animal. “Whoa. Okay. Backing off. Retreating. I’m retreating so hard right now I’m practically in reverse. I might leave tire marks. Consider me the human embodiment of backing away slowly.”

“Smart man,” Vivian muttered, her jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as she turned back to her trunk. She didn’t even glance at me, but the threat level felt downgraded from “volcanic eruption” to “minor earthquake.”

I really could have left it there. I should have, by all reasonable standards.

She slammed the trunk again, shoulders tensed, as if sheer force of will might fix whatever injustice the car had committed.

The car rocked, protesting like it was barely holding itself together.

I found myself genuinely concerned for the poor Civic’s structural integrity—and, if I were being honest, for my own.

“You know,” I said carefully, “if you’re trying to murder your car, there are more efficient methods. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Driving it into a lake. Selling it to a teenager.”

Vivian’s response came through clenched teeth. “I’m not trying to murder my car,” she insisted, her frustration barely contained.

I glanced at the trunk, battered and bruised from her earlier attempts. “Could’ve fooled me. That trunk looks like it’s filing a restraining order,” I remarked, unable to resist poking fun at the situation.

She turned toward me, her expression making me wonder if I was about to become the next target of her wrath. For a moment, the tension between us hung in the air as thick as the summer humidity.

Then, just barely, her mouth twitched—a subtle sign that the anger might be giving way, even if only for a second.

But it was there.

“You’re an idiot,” she said, but her voice had lost its edge, falling somewhere between exasperation and something softer, something almost familiar.

“I’ve heard that before,” I replied, a crooked smile tugging at my mouth. “Usually from you, actually. Consistency is kind of your thing.” I tried to keep it light, but beneath the words was a hope—maybe misguided—that I could still make her laugh.

“It’s one of my best qualities,” she said, arms folded across her chest, but her lips twitched like she was fighting the urge to smile.

“Right up there with trunk assaults and weaponized death glares,” I teased, nudging the air between us. “Honestly, if you keep kicking things, we might have to start a tally.”

“I don’t assault trunks,” she said, but she wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.

“The trunk begs to differ,” I countered, letting the grin show.

She glanced at the trunk, then at me, then at the trunk again. I saw a muscle jump in her jaw—the sort of tic I’d learned to recognize over the years, the one that showed up after disappointment, after yet another promise that hadn’t been kept.