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Isaac’s gaze swept my face with its swollen eyes and smeared makeup. “You fell.”
“Yes, I fell,” I snapped. “On my way out of the gym. It’s not a big deal.” I turned away from his scrutiny and started walking again. Limping now, as a rock had punctured my heel, but I wasn’t about to let him see how bad it hurt.
“You went with Justin Baker, right?” Isaac said. “So where the fuck is he?”
I stopped and whirled to look at him. “What do you care?”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No and it’s none of your business anyway.”
“Willow…”
My anger rose, carried on a tide of frustrated tears. “Don’t say my name like that,” I said. “You had nothing to do with this. You don’t go to dances, remember? You’re done with high school. I’m not. And I was just trying to have a good time like any other normal girl and I…I had…”
“What?” Isaac asked softly, coming closer. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I said, fighting for control. “Nothing happened. I got…claustrophobic or something. A panic attack. It happens sometimes and it’s so…stupid. So fucking stupid. And unfair.” I wiped my eyes. “Never mind. It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is it? To who? If you cared so goddamn much about what happened at the dance, then you should’ve…”
You should’ve told me on Saturday…
I bit the words back before they could escape and make things worse.
“You’re right.” Isaac’s deep voice was low and quiet. “I should have.”
My heart pounded and I stared, not knowing what to say or how to feel. I desperately wanted to recover one scrap of dignity. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.
“Well, it’s too late now.”
For an instant he looked through me, as if my words reminded him of something. Then he jerked his chin toward my knees. “You’re bleeding. Come on, I’ll take you home. And I’ll park where your dad can’t see.”
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
“You’ll what?”
“Walk. I’m going to walk.”
“Christ, Willow, will you get in the truck?”
“I’m fine. And what are you doing anyway? Driving around town, looking for damsels in distress?”
“No, I…happened to be driving.” He carved a hand through his hair. “Who gives a shit what I was doing? Get in the truck.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I said, and kept walking.
“Fine.”
I heard the crunch of his booted feet on gravel. The car door opened and slammed shut. The engine roared and then settled to a low purr. And then Isaac was driving beside me at all of three miles an hour, eyes straight ahead. A hand casually slung on the steering wheel, the other arm stretched over the passenger seat.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Driving.”
“Are you kidding me?”
