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The irony of Holden being pissed off about someone cheating is almost too sweet to point out. I’m about to say something when Mara says, “We’re talking about sex, aren’t we?”
Holden chokes on his spit.
“I think you should just talk to Rose,” I say, changing the subject as my cheeks heat. “Tell her how you feel.” I face forward. “Maybe she was just being friendly with that other girl. I hug my friends all the time, but I only share food with people I’m into.”
“Okay,” Mara says heavily.
“Topic change.” Holden points at me. “Did you know your name means ‘healthy’ in French?”
For a second, I’m too confused to speak. “What? No, why would I know that? Why do you know that?”
“I like looking up people’s name meanings.”
“That’s new.” I watch him out of the corner of my eye, my hands sweating around the camera, as if I could spot all this newness on him, like a shirt with the price tag still on it. I fight the urge to film him so I can replay this later and dissect him.
“What’s my name mean?” Mara asks.
“What? Why would I know that?” He stretches up in his seat to meet her eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Eyes on the road.” I reach for my necklace, hot panic flaring in my gut, but of course it isn’t there. I must look as nervous as I feel, because Holden turns to stare.
“Hey,” he says. “You good?”
I let my hand drop and take a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Are you having trouble breathing?” he asks.
“No, I’m fine,” I say evenly. I count in my head,five-six-seven-eight.Let out another breath.
“You hyperventilating or something? You reached for your throat.”
“Your eyes are supposed to be on the road.”One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight.
“They are,” he says with exasperation. “Forget I said anything.”
I close my eyes. “I was reaching for my necklace, but it’s not there.”
“Did you lose it?” Mara asks. “We should go back to the store.”
“No, it’s okay.” I try to smile at Mara. “My best friend has it. I gave it to her after—” I pause to consider Holden. “When she broke up with you,” I finish in a softer voice. “It was my grandma’s and it helped when I got stressed or whatever. I thought it could do the same for her.” I’m not sure who I’m talking to anymore.
“A necklace isn’t really going to help you in a car accident,” Holden says.
“Well, I wouldn’t need it right now if you hadn’t rear-ended someone last year.” I take a deep breath. “I have, like, PTSD or something.”
I’m being dramatic and, truthfully, really insensitive. I know this. I just don’t think I can trust Holden’s driving even thoughhe technically does everything he should. Last year, Corrine and I were drinking at prom, Holden was sober and he was driving, but we still hit the car in front of us. I’ll never forget what metal crunching against metal sounds like ricocheting in my ears. Never forget the feel of the airbag dust on my skin as Corrine shrieked from the front seat about how her vintage dress was ruined.
“I’m sorry,” he says tightly. “You know that wasn’t my fault, though. That guy from prom—”
“Was an asshole white guy in a Porsche who didn’t need any more handouts in life, and yet you let him in front of you and then he slammed on his brakes to make a turn.”
I stop recording. “We’ll discuss the documentary and stuff later. I don’t want to talk anymore.”
He makes a sound like he wants to protest, but he clamps his mouth shut. The silence leaves a lot of space for me to think about what a mistake this has already turned out to be.
