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A hesitant smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t comment, just starts toward the hotel.
After we’ve walked nearly the whole distance back in silence, she says, “I’m driving.”
My mouth pops open. The words right on the tip of my tongue. But I roll them around in my head before I allow them to leave my mouth. “Are you sure? I’m rested. So I’m fine to drive.”
She shakes her head. “I’m driving, Holden. I want to. And what’s more, I need to.”
I don’t tell her that no one drives my truck but me. Truth is, if any other girl told me she was driving my truck, I’d laugh in her face. I don’t know any girl who can drive a manual transmission . . . correctly. And I’ve put countless hours into my engine.
But Sam? I’ll try to be a little less sexist for her. And she’s right. She needs to take this step. For whatever reason, despite what went down in the hotel room, I can see she wants her life back. I don’t know what Biker Melody said to her, but I can almost see the old Sam trying to break through.
As we turn the corner into the hotel parking lot, I glimpse my truck and sigh, scratch the back of my head. “Do you know how to drive a stick?” I ask. I pray to the auto gods. I pray hard.
She laughs. “Yes, Holden. I can drive a stick. My Scion is a manual.” She shakes her head.
“What? It’s a legitimate question, don’t you think?”
“Boys and their toys.” She slants her eyes my way, a full smile lighting her face, and something warms in my chest. In that alternate reality, I’d have scooped her up and kissed the shit out of her. A girl that can drive a stick and a truck? Beyond hot.
I push my worry down, deciding I can’t wait to watch her drive. I just hope my poor neglected libido can handle it.
Once we’re back in the room and packing up the clothes we tossed around in a flurry during our fight, I spot the meds on the bedspread. She’s looking at them, too.
I know the way I approached it was wrong, but I’m not wrong in wanting her to take her meds—for wanting her to get better. I can’t take that moment back, but I can hope that maybe something good comes out of it. I don’t want to toss them. If I put them in the bag, will the shit hit the fan all over again?
I’m accepting that I can’t be the one to help her. Fine. She doesn’t want help from me. But I won’t accept her ignoring her psychosis altogether. After this trip, I will be there for her, and this time, I won’t avoid. No matter what. As a friend, or whatever she needs.
She must see the discomfort on my face. I’m probably an open book as I stare down the pill bottles. With a heavy sigh, she picks them up. “I’ll carry these in my bag.”
A shred of hope lightens my shoulders. “Okay,” I say. “That’s fine.”
She shrugs. “I doubt it’s a good idea to flush them here.”
And just like that, the weight crushes me. Schooling my features into a neutral expression, I nod and say, “You’re not supposed to. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Take them back home and give them to your doctor.” My chest constricts with every word I force out. But I’m not going to win this battle with her. And, it’s not even my place. She was right on that front.
I’m not sure where my place is. I know where my deranged self wants it to be. But again, that’s in some other reality. One where my brother is still alive. Where five years ago I stood up to him and told him the truth—that I loved this girl. That even though he loved her, too, we should let her make her own choice.
A reality where our father wasn’t an abusive monster, and I didn’t suffer a world of guilt, trying to do anything and everything to give Tyler a semblance of normal.
Where I could’ve been with Sam.
But it’s stupid to even fantasize about that. We’re in this fucked up reality, where I’ll take any scrap Sam’s willing to give me of herself and cling to it like the pathetic fool I am.
As she shrugs her pack onto her shoulder, I grab my bag, then surprisingly—because just an hour ago, I thought I’d blown any chance—we head out of the room. Together.
Once we’re checked out and walking toward my truck, a wave of sickness crashes over me. Oh, baby. Here we go.
Sam peeks at me and laughs. “Relax. I won’t grind the gears.”
My stomach clenches just hearing her say grind and gears in the same sentence. “I’m not worried. I trust you.” I look at her and let the full meaning of my words sink in.
She doesn’t look away. My heart tightens as she holds my gaze a moment longer before she’s forced to look where she’s walking. Again, I have no idea what Biker Chick said to her, but when I see her, I’m going to hug the crap out of her.
With an internal groan, I hand Sam my keys. “Please, please, be gentle.”
She rolls her eyes and unlocks the door. Sliding behind the wheel, she smiles. It floods me with warmth. My truck is pretty badass. She reaches over and unlocks my door, then as I climb in, she pushes in the clutch and turns the ignition.
My truck rumbles to life. And to my utter relief, it doesn’t sputter or choke out. I glance at Sam. Her hands are gripped tightly to the steering wheel, her gaze staring ahead. As if talking herself into it, she nods and places a shaky hand on the skull shifter knob.
