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This isn’t me forgiving him. I’d rather he took me home than my mother catch up with me on the walk there.
Casper waits for me to get in, then shuts my door as if I’m suddenly incapable of the simplest of tasks.
The ride home is silent, which works for me because I have nothing to say to him in this moment. I don’t want to argue or make small talk. I just don’t have the energy, and he’s currently taking pity on me because I cried in front of him. It’s all ammunition he’ll likely use at a later date. Not sure what can top having me arrested but I’m sure he can come up with something.
Instead of stopping in front of my house so he can drive himself straight back to uni, he parks in his drive.
“Those wobbly bricks aren’t such a bother now, huh?” I ask.
“I never should have parked in your drive in the first place.” He grips the steering wheel despite being parked, his cheeks pale and eyes tight. “I thought I was making it appear like someone was home. You don’t have a car, Freya and Imani were gone, so burglars might assume you were away. All I did was make you a target for your fucking psycho parents.”
Oh.
The guilt in his tone makes my heart ache.
I blink rapidly. “That’s why you parked there? You thought the robbers would assume someone was home because a car was parked outside.” Leaving his house with no sign of life and making him the target. “Casper?”
Closing his eyes, he hushes me. “I need a minute.”
I unclip the seatbelt but don’t get out. Anger rolls from his body, ricocheting off the windows of the car. It makes me not want to leave him alone.
“Hey, this wasn’t your fault. Please talk to me.”
How am I now the one trying to get him to listen to me? We’re one elaborate game of ping pong.
“Can we go inside?” I ask. “No one’s in at mine and I don’t want to be alone.”
He finally looks over. I knew that would work.
“I’m going to make us something strong to drink and then I’m going to call the police,” he says.
“Okay.”
He gets out of his car, still tense and beating himself up. Of all the things he gets the blame for, this one isn’t on the list.
“Just to be clear, I don’t need to drink or to talk about it,” I tell him. I’m happy to go inside to make sure he’s okay, but I’m not looking to have a chat about my feelings.
“Liar.”
“Excuse me?” I slam his door.
“You heard.”
I follow him into his house, resisting the urge to strangle him. He leads me to the kitchen and points to the table. I’m to sit, I guess.
“Rum, whiskey, gin, or beer?” he asks.
“No, thanks.”
“Gin it is. I know you drink that.”
“I want a clear head.”
“Will you be drunk after one gin and tonic?”
“No.”
“Then, your head will cope.”
