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The seatbelt sign comes on as the plane starts experiencing some turbulence. It's the alarm clock I need to wake me from this nightmare of self-destruction. I push back from his lips, leaving him hanging with his mouth dropped open and his eyes still closed. I turn to face the window, inhaling a deep breath to rid myself of the lightheadedness.
“You shouldn't have done that,” I whisper, shaking my head.
He can't toy with me like this. It's fucking with my feelings and I'm finding I'm not strong enough around him. I need to be in control, just as he needs to focus on other things that matter.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers solemnly, and I feel his stare on me.
“I wasn't saying yes to that by nodding.” I press my hand to my forehead, trying to alleviate the pressure that's building.
He swallows hard.
“I'm really sorry, Dylan,” he says again, panic painted onto his features. “I thought, I mean, I know I said hypothetically, but you kissed me back. I thought you—”
“I need this job, Lake.” I turn to face him, sternness in my tone. I've never been more serious. “You know I need this job.”
My nose isn't twitching this time. This is nothing but truth. I can't hide the pain I feel emanating from my eyes. Everything flashes before me—Colin, our horrific past, endless nights of clutching onto my pillow, muffling my cries into it as softly as I could so he wouldn't worry something was wrong.
I have too much riding on this. I can't fold now.
He stares back at me as if trying to figure it out. Maybe he's piecing it all together—the black eye, my incessant need for control, the need to tie things up before I left town. But he swallows down his questions and simply nods.
We both shift back into our seats, letting the awkward silence fill the entire plane again. I hold up my book and read a line. I reread the same line. My chest is still heaving as I try to regulate my breathing, attempting to be normal. Whatever normal is. Again and again, I read the sentence, and I can't get into it. My head is a mess and I'm losing it. Staring at the book, I pretend to read for about ten minutes as my mind calculates the never-ending to-do list in my life.
Lake's knee is bouncing next to mine now, his long fingers tapping on his thighs to some invisible beat in his head. I glare at his drumming as his large thigh bumps into me again and again.
The guy can't sit still.
Which, I guess, makes sense. He has a literal need for speed, and the inability to move the way he so inherently wants to is probably messing with his psyche more than I realize.
He turns his chin to his shoulder again, looking at me.
“So I used to pretend I was Jeff Gordon's car as a kid,” he says casually.
My heart stops in my chest at his words. They hit too close to home. I continue staring down at my book as the story pours out of him.
“I used to be so obsessed with speed and racing that I totally bypassed being Jeff Gordon, the driver, and wanted to embody the Rainbow Warrior, his car.”
So much pressure on my chest. He has no idea how much I know about NASCAR. I close my book, setting it down on my lap, and turn to face him.
“Like, what kid pretends to be the car, right?” He scoffs at himself, running a hand through that perfect, thick hair. “But my mom knew my obsession with speed, even at a young age. She knew I wanted to be the fastest kid on the playground, zipping around everyone else. She always cradled my passions, no matter how stupid my ideas were.”
A grin melts across his face as memories take hold of him.
“S-she made me this jacket.” He pauses, shaking his head while his smile slowly fades from his beautiful face. “She tore apart a bunch of her fancy dresses, the only designer suits she ever owned, disassembled the only ones she had after he left, ensuring to match all the colors of the car. She spent hours on it at the kitchen table with her sewing machine, piecing together this jacket for me that looked exactly like that number 24 Chevy.”
I watch him as he talks, wondering why he's telling me all of this. It seems so personal, so close to the heart, so...private. Almost as if this is something no one else knows about him.
He's giving me his secrets.
“I was in heaven when I slipped into it. I ran like the wind in that thing.” He chuckles at the memory. “I could've sworn it made me faster. That the jacket had some sort of superpower to it that could bring the speed right out of my little twig legs.”
He turns to face me again, his smile dropping before he becomes focused on the tiny oval window behind me.
“But there was no superpower.” He peers back at me, a solemn expression now seated where his smile was. “The jacket was just a bunch of woven fabric, made up of vibrant colors that did nothing more than look good. There was nothing special about it at all.”
His jaw tightens as emotions rain over him. He scowls away whatever pain is attempting to release. My heart feels like it's cracking into shards, listening to him describe this part of his childhood.
“It didn't push me to get up every morning when I was a punk kid who wanted to sleep in. It didn't support me by working three jobs so I could go to the best schools in the state. It didn't cry by itself at the kitchen table late at night while writing out checks that couldn't be cashed. That jacket never made selfless sacrifices so I could become who I am today.”
