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“What is it?” I ask.
“You’re the one who looks like you want to say something.”
“No, I don’t,” I argue.
He laughs. “Yes, you do. You’re judging my truck. I’m sorry it’s not as nice as your early 2000’s BMW.”
“I was not judging your truck,” I snap. “I was just remembering something…”
He laughs again. “You have some fond memories in tow trucks, Mr. Litchfield?”
“That’s a forward question.”
“Sorry,” he mutters as he puts the truck into drive. We turn onto the freeway, merging with traffic, and I notice immediately how eerily quiet it is in the car now. He was being casual with me, which was unexpected, and I reacted too harshly. So now it’s awkward, and I regret it. The kid was just being friendly. It’s not his fault I’m off today, in a bad mood and a serious funk.
“Not intow trucksspecifically,” I add, desperate to break the tension. Then, my blabber mouth just keeps rambling. “But something about this one brought back memories of high school. I must have dated someone with a truck that smelled like this.”
The words slip out before I can really think about what I’m admitting.
Why did I say that? Why the fuck did I say that?
I wince, knowing that I just made things even more awkward as I’m sure he’s putting two and two together now.Girlsdon’t normally drive trucks like these.
“Good memories, I assume?” he asks with his eyes on the road.
When I glance over at him, I notice how tightly he’s gripping the steering wheel and clenching his jaw, clearly indicating his discomfort.God, let this ride end quickly.
“Yeah, sure. They were good memories,” I mumble.
He turns to look at me. “What? You don’t remember?”
“It was a long time ago,” I reply.
There is a subtle smile as he looks at me again. Then his eyes travel from my face and down my body, as if he’s sizing me up. I feel the hot sting of his judgment, and I swear I am all too tempted to dive out the window of this moving vehicle and into freeway traffic.
“How long ago?” There’s no longer a cruel look on his face; now it almost seems...flirtatious, and I notice that he has warm amber-colored eyes that look like the cat-eye rocks I used to collect as a kid. The irises shine in different shades of brown and red like a burning fire.
“Well, let’s see. I was a teenager…” I do the match quickly in my head, “fifteen years ago.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Thatwasa long time ago.”
“Oh, fuck you very much,” I reply, and his laughter fills the truck. My nerves dissipate as I realize he’s being genuine, not a homophobic asshole like I feared, and his teasing me about my age is almost coming across as...sexy, somehow.
“Sorry,” he says, still laughing, and I can’t help but smile. “It’s only been one year for me.”
“One year since you were a teenager?” I ask, rolling my eyes. “Enjoy your youth while it lasts. Blink and you’ll miss it.”
He nods his head, seemingly contemplative. Then there’s another few minutes of silence, which he breaks when he asks, “So, you haven’t been in a truck since you were a teenager?”
“Um...not really. I’m not much of a truck guy.”
“Obviously,” he replies.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t even know how to pop the hood of your car. I assume you’ve never driven a truck.”
“I could drive a truck,” I toss back.
