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6
ZIGGY
Playlist: “Love Myself,” Olivia O’Brien
“If I get in trouble with Frankie for leaving the house,” Sebastian mutters, using the keypad to lock the door leading from his home to his garage, “I’m blaming you.”
I pluck the keys hanging from his black jeans’ back pocket and toss them up in the air, catching them with a shrug. “If she gives you grief, let me know. I’ll tell her you were craving something nourishing while you’re drying up, and I obliged.”
He arches an eyebrow. “You’re going to lie to Frankie?”
“It’s not a lie. It’s just…not a truth yet.”
A snort leaves him. “I’m not drying up.”
“You’re going to need to at least look like you have.” I start across the interior of his massive garage, past sports car after sports car. Finally, I find the one I want, which matches the fob on his keyring.
“Fuck no,” he says, as his Bugatti’s lights wink at us.
I smile, hitting the button again to lock it. “Gotcha.”
I could never in a million years handle being behind the wheel of a car worth that much, not when my driving is passable at best and my anxiety makes me a white-knuckled driver.
He glares at me. “Little jokester, are you?”
“Jokester?” Moving past the Bugatti, I settle on the least-intimidating vehicle, which is still a sleek red Porsche Cayenne. “I’ve never thought of myself that way. Put up against my brothers, Viggo and Oliver, I seem very tame.”
“That’s a disturbing thought, seeing as you got past my security system and scaled my house. You still haven’t said how you did that, by the way.”
“How? Oh, easily.” I open the driver’s door of the Cayenne. Sebastian pushes it shut. I open it again. “I have five exasperating brothers and a very stubborn sister, Sebastian, I could do this all night.”
“Seb,” he corrects, shutting the door once more. “Tell me how you got into my house.”
“Tell me why you don’t like it when I call you Sebastian.”
Muttering to himself, he turns away and starts around the hood of the car. When he spots his reflection, he stops, grimaces, then fusses with his wet, dark waves.
Wisely, he decided to shower before we left, considering he smelled like death. When I was about to follow him in after he stood up with the black blanket wrapped around his waist and made that announcement, Seb stopped, pressed a finger into my shoulder until I took a step back, and locked me out on the balcony. Then he told me through the glass that if I could get myself up there, I could certainly get down.
Jerk.
Wincing at the bruise on my butt that I acquired upon landing in his yard—climbing my way up onto that balcony was definitely easier than coming down from it—I slip into the driver’s side and turn on the car.
“All right.” Seb presses a button on his phone that makes the garage door slide up. “What painfully wholesome establishment am I being dragged to?”
“Betty’s Diner,” I tell him, pulling out.
I can do this. I can drive this very expensive SUV and not crash it. I am a confident, capable driver.
“Betty’s Diner?” He frowns. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Ren probably mentioned it at some point.”
“Ah, that’s it. He and Frankie go there a lot, don’t they?”
I smile as I flick on my turn signal and ease onto the road. “Yeah. It’s their spot now. It used to be where Ren took me when…”
My voice dies off as hard memories of that time in my life come rushing back. Back in high school, undiagnosed autism meant profound social struggles and sensory issues that led to massive burnout. My anxiety was a vortex, spiraling me into bleak thoughts, and I became deeply depressed. While I’m grateful that recognizing those struggles led me to a life-changing diagnosis, to learning how to know and care for myself, that time wasn’t happy. It was hard. And lonely.
