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Sunday blinks, and in that single millisecond, I see about a hundred different refusals flash across her face. “But my car’s here.”
It’s a testament to how shit she must be feeling, how little effort it takes to unfurl her clenched fist and pry her heavily decorated car keys from her fingers. “I’ll come back and get it.”
She’s already shaking her head but the vigor behind her refusal increases when I open the passenger door and gesture for her to hop in. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it looks way too expensive to throw up in.”
It is. But considering it survived Amelia almost giving birth in the backseat, I reckon it can handle a little vomit. “I’ll roll down the window.”
* * *
Every time I see Sunday, I use a great deal of energy trying not to think about the first time I saw her. Because yeah, I was—am? Working on not being? Tenses are fucking nailing me lately—pissed. Distrustful, too. But first and foremost, I am a simple,simpleman at my core.
And as a simple, simple man, I find pretending I haven’t seen her naked very, very hard. Or mostly naked—I still hold a grudge against the scrap of purple fabric bunched around her waist that prevented an unobstructed view.
Anyway. Moral of the story; as much as I’ve tried, I’ve never quite been able to completely erase that night from my mind. And I’m having particular trouble with it right now, as I lift Sunday into my car.
“I’m not an invalid,” she spits, the words not nearly as venomous as I think they were intended, if only because they’re immediately followed by a groan. “This is so unnecessary.”
“Can’t vomit and drive.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
I laugh; I can’t help it.She’s funny,I finally let myself notice. Or maybeacknowledgeis the more accurate word because I’ve definitely noticed. I notice a lot about Sunday Lane.
When I try to strap her in, she smacks me away, taking the seat belt into her own hands. I let her, even though watching her try to secure it with her eyes mostly closed is as frustrating as it is hilarious.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise, although to Sunday, it’s probably more of a threat. She ignores me, slumping forward until her head hits the dashboard, her whole body heaving as she sucks in deep breaths of someone trying desperately not to throw up.
Leaving the door open just in case, I jog off to find August, an easy feat considering he’s already hurtling my way. “She might vomit in your car,” he tells me with a grimace after I explain the situation.
“I’ve been warned.”
“We had to pull over on the way here twice.”
Jesus. Stubborn fucking woman.
August leads the way back to my car. He climbs into the backseat without any invitation, settling in the middle, clicking his seatbelt into place before pushing it to the limit as he leans forward. “I told you.”
Eyes still closed, Sunday’s head flops towards her son. “Shut up.”
“We should’ve stayed home.”
“You can’t miss practice.”
My key fumbles as I try to stick it into the ignition. My eyes clash with August’s in the rearview mirror. Clearly, we’re thinking the same thing; my fault.
I don’t know what possesses me to do it. Loving uncle instincts, maybe. Guilt, probably. Either way, when we roll up to a red light, I find myself reaching for the glovebox, rooting around for a pen and a scrap of paper. Quickly scribbling down my number, I twist to hand it to the boy in my backseat. “Next time you need a ride, call me.”
August frowns at the paper. His mother frowns at me. I face forward and frown at the stoplight that’s taking forever to change. When I hear crinkling, I check the rearview just in time to catch August carefully folding the scrap and tucking it in his pocket, his murmured thanks barely audible.
Also inaudible; his mother’s protests. Non-existent, actually. I wait for them but they never come, much to my surprise. Sunday just… stares. At me. Like she’s trying to figure something out. Figuremeout.
It’s almost a relief when the light changes and she snaps out of it. Her oh-so-sunny disposition makes a re-appearance when we pull up outside their apartment block and I not only help her out of the car, but I also insist on accompanying them upstairs.
Her scowl reflects off the mirrored elevator doors. “This is unnecessary.”
