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Brandon.
He hops out, and my stomach flutters like there’s an invasion from an army of butterflies.
“Get in,” he yells.
“Geez.” I purse my lips. “Were you waiting for me?”
“Obviously.”
His admission leaves me blinking profusely. “Why?”
Motioning to the car, he says, “Get in, and you’ll find out.”
It’s much better than walking in the night to the bus stop.
“Fine.” I stroll over, sliding into the passenger side and placing my painting in the back.
Brandon takes off from the academy. He pulls up at a restaurant minutes later.
“Why are we here?” I ask.
“It’s almost six. I’m starving, aren’t you?” He’s out the car before I respond, coming around to my side. He backs away after opening the door for me.
As Brandon turns to enter the restaurant, I question, “Is it like anxiety? Haphephobia? You know, the fear of being touched?”
Tension is apparent from his back view. When he slants, his piercing gaze rattles me so much I recoil.
“No,” Brandon deadpans.
“So, what—”
“Come on,” he grunts, walking away.
“Sheesh.” I follow suit at the growl of my stomach.
I am thankful he waited for me. Though, I’m confused as to why.
Brandon climbs the stairs to the second floor of the restaurant, where customers are few.
We order shortly once seated in a booth.
“Why did you stay so late today?” he asks, hands resting on the table.
Not sure why, but I feel a strange urge to reach over and hold them.
I clear my thoughts to answer. “I ran out of paint and messed up my assignment; had to start another.” Telling him reminds me I have to stress my parents to purchase supplies.
“Why did you lie about your dad picking you up every day?” he mentions at last. “Like you lied about your address.”
I shrug. “Sorry. But it’s not a big deal. My dad will pick me up when he can. My mom’s shift at the hospital isn’t that lenient. We only have one car. And I don’t want to burden anyone—”
“I’m driving you home from now on.”
I almost spill my juice, stunned by the finality of his statement. “Why would you do that?”
Brandon ignores my question, saying instead, “Pass me your phone.”
“Excuse you?” I angle my head. “Listen, if this is your way of—”
