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I listen closely, but besides Ryke toying with the car’s mechanisms, I can’t hear much else. “Not really…”
Daisy breathes shallowly, her knuckles whitening on her mug of hot chocolate. “Something’s out there,” she says under her breath.
My own fear spikes, partly afraid of what she sees and partly afraid for her—I’ve never seen someone look so haunted before.
Connor watches her closely, and Ryke turns his head to Daisy. His brows furrow, intensely concerned.
“Do you hear that?” she asks again. “Something’s…not right.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” Ryke says in a gentle tone, “you’re fucking safe. Nothing’s out there.”
Daisy flinches, so abruptly—like someone threw something at her—and she drops the hot chocolate to shield her face. The mug shatters on cement, and no object flies her way. She’s about to crouch, but Ryke immediately reaches her side.
“You’re okay. I’m here.” He wraps his arms around Daisy. “I’m fucking here, Dais.” He hugs her tight, clutching her protectively to his chest, and his features simultaneously darken and harden.
I don’t know what to do or say. I waver uneasily and just stay quiet. Daisy is immobilized by fear, and so Ryke effortlessly lifts her in his arms. Cradling her body, he carries her towards the house.
As he passes Lo, my half-brother asks him, “What the hell happened?”
Ryke doesn’t answer. I think it might’ve been a rhetorical question. Lo knows everything that has happened to Daisy and why the dark would scare her. All I know is that Garrison and his friends didn’t help with her fear.
Not when they shot paintballs at the windows, among other things.
Connor clicks off his flashlight and lowers the hood of the car. I wait to figure out what to do next while he towers above with supreme confidence.
In his presence, I feel small. I feel awkward.
I doubt he’s ever felt either.
I push up my glasses and adjust my backpack straps. “I’ll call an Uber.”
“You’d choose the unwise option just to avoid us,” he states aloud like it means little when it actually carries too much weight.
“I’m not…avoiding,” I say, unable to even look at him.
Lo quickly finishes typing his email, about twenty feet away.
“To avoid: to keep away from or stop oneself from doing something,” he defines. “You’re stopping yourself from spending the night here, which is, in fact, avoidance.”
I clear a lump in my throat. “Do you always define words for people?”
“Only for people who need definitions.”
Boom. Mic drop.
Maggie would love his burn towards me. She once tweeted: All I want for Christmas is for Connor Cobalt to insult me. Please and thank you. It’s supposed to be an honor. At least, to the online community. For everyone off Twitter and Tumblr, I don’t think they’d appreciate being called stupid, and I doubt he’d care.
I try to nudge my already pushed-up glasses. “Do you have…an extra car I could borrow?” I risk asking him, of everyone, but if someone else stood on this driveway, I’d definitely be asking them first.
Because Connor analyzes all of my words, all of my edgy movements, and my quick glances to Lo.
“We have many cars you could borrow,” he says, “but Lo will want to ride with you.”
“No, no, that’s okay. Never mind.”
He’s so unsurprised by my reaction. It’s kind of unsettling.
Thankfully, Lo pockets his phone and approaches us. “So what’d we decide?” He appraises my Honda from afar, hood closed but still broken.
“I don’t know. We couldn’t fix it…” I trail off as a limousine pulls to the curb and then idles. Exhaust gurgles out.
Lo swings his head to Connor. “When did you call your driver?”
Connor Cobalt’s limousine. It’s nearly as famous as Lily’s Wampa cap. Jane Cobalt was born in that limo. It’s like this sacred relic. I’m stunned silent.
“The same time Ryke lifted the hood of her car,” Connor answers.
My brother laughs into a small smile, and he pats his friend’s shoulder. “Goddamn, you make life easier.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” Connor spins his attention onto me. “I trust my driver. I’ve known him for years, so you’ll be safe by yourself. I’ve already given him your address.”
It takes me a solid minute to find words. “Thank you.” I say my goodbyes to Lo, and he tells me to text him when I reach my apartment.
I dazedly enter the limo, the black leather seats perfectly intact and shined. A few water bottles sit unopened in a refrigerator section.
The limo rumbles to life, and the driver takes me home. I check my Twitter messages to find a new one from @garrisonwither.
How’d it go? You okay?
I message back: Strange … but good, I think.
I hope.
I lean back and look around this limo, and I imagine all of them here with me. Lily, Loren, Connor, Rose, Ryke, and Daisy—and I wonder how many places they’ve been. How many conversations they’ve had right here. Days and weeks and years ago.
