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Annoyance simmers in my veins, but I rattle off my number, and he inputs it into his phone. My right ass cheek vibrates. I take out my phone and find an unknown number flashing across my screen.
“Now you have mine too,” he tells me.
“I can see that.” I tuck my phone back into my pocket. “Are we done here?”
“Unless you want to make cookies,” he offers.
A dry laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Gotta give the golden retriever credit. He’s a persistent little bugger.
“Maybe some other time,” I tell him.
“Can I ask you one more question?”
I sigh and close the passenger door, stopping the rain from ruining the leather seat as I face him fully again. “What is it, Mack?”
“Why’d you say no when your friends asked you to hang out tonight?”
“I already told you. I need to study, and SeaBird isn’t my scene.”
The light from the dashboard highlights the sincerity in his gaze––and the stubbornness. “So it really is because you don’t like SeaBird?”
“I never said I didn't like it. It’s like I already told you…the lights bug me sometimes, and I don’t like drinking.”
“Okay, but if the lights weren’t flashing, and you didn't drink alcohol while you were there. Would you still have said no?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
He’s not going to let this go. My lips purse, but I give in. “Fine. But only because you were nice enough to give me a ride,” I tell him. “I like going to bars. I like the atmosphere. It’s fun. It’s a great chance to hang out with my classmates and meet people, but…”
“But what?”
I swear he can see the indecision in my eyes. He knows I don’t want to tell him and understands I’d rather keep this particular can of worms to myself. I can also tell he won’t drop it until I give in, and I need to get away from the guy if I want a chance to reset and raise my walls again.
“Tell me,” he pushes. “Butwhat?”
“But if the shitty stars align, and I have a seizure, I’m kind of screwed,” I answer. “A seizure––period––isn’t safe, but a seizure in the middle of a dance floor, surrounded by people who are drunk off their asses? It’s a recipe for disaster, and I promised my parents I’d be as safe as I could, even if it means I have to stay home sometimes.”
“So your solution is to stay in, even when you want to go out?”
“It’s not like I can ask one of my friends to be my babysitter on the off chance I have an issue. Especially when the odds vary from day to day as much as they do. It isn’t fair to them.”
“But is it fair to you?” He challenges, his brows pulled low. “Having to say no to things you want to do?”
“I guess it’s one of the joys of having epilepsy.” I reach for the door handle again, anxious to go inside and put this conversation to rest.
“What would you do if you didn’t have to worry about it? If you could go out knowing you were safe? What would you do?”
“I dunno? Dancing sounds fun.” I push the door open, and this time, he lets me step outside. “Thanks again for the ride.” The door shuts as the rain splats against the crown of my head, and I rush inside, my tube of cookie dough clasped tightly in my hand.
But it doesn’t stop the sensation of his gaze on me as I hurry up the porch steps and unlock the front door.
If only I knew what it meant.
Or why I care.
10
