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By the time I run out of people to greet, I’m sad and silly and jealous of everyone in the room, of everyone they have to rely on. Of this big family providing big support. Of people who ask each other questions and actually care about the answer. Who tease each other mercilessly but in the purest way, without venom or patronisation or condescension.
It’s pathetic, but it’s too much for me. In my current state, everything is too much for me. Everything makes me wanna flee.
Which I do.
* * *
The first door I find leads to the garage. Quiet, like I wanted, but not quite enough. I can still hear the hubbub from inside, the beginning notes ofHappy Birthday, and it makes that ugly feeling in my chest grow.
I dart around a pristine Jeep Wrangler, almost tripping over the myriad of bikes and stray baseball bats and various other kid paraphernalia strewn on the ground, on a mission to the garage door, only to be stumped by the fancy alarm system controlling them.
Through misty eyes, I glare at the tiny metal keypad inhibiting my escape. Use shaky fingers to type in random numbers in the hopes I’ll get lucky. Alarms are supposed to keep people out, not in, right? I get the urge to blame it on rich people shit.
All of this is rich people shit. His house, his car—cars, I realize when I survey for another exit and instead find a sleek sports car parked beside the Jeep. I can’t even conjure up how much a freaking vintage Chevrolet Camaro costs but it’s probably more than I’ve earned in my entire life.
Once again, I can’t stop thinking this is what my kid could have.Excess. They could have whatever they wanted and I wouldn’t have to work myself to the bone to give it to them. It could be so easy this time.
The operative word beingcould.
I’m so preoccupied by the damn car, I don’t notice the noise from the rest of the house briefly getting louder, or the click of a door opening and shutting, not until a husky drawl echoes around the garage. “In my defense, I was twenty-three when I bought that, and newly very, very rich.”
Hurriedly blinking away the wetness in my eyes, I turn to face Cass. “It’s nice.”
“It’s ridiculous.” He coasts a hand over the shiny, black hood, drumming his fingers against the metal. “But I used my first paycheck from the Wolves to buy it so it’s a little sentimental.”
Jesus. Hell of a paycheck.
“You know, when I get an alarm alert, it’s usually people tryna break in. Not out.”
I step away from the garage door. “People try to break in?”
“Here? Nah. My place in Chicago? More often than you’d think.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It shouldn’t be surprising that people are as invasive in real life as they seem to be online but still. That’s… a lot.
Luckily, I’m saved from responding. Or distracted from it, maybe, when Cass opens the passenger side door of his first paycheck, jerking his head quickly in a gesture to get in.
“We can’t leave.” Certainly not in that. I fear just my looking at it decreases the value.
“We’re not. We’re just gonna sit.”
Sit. Sit in a car. Sit in a car with Cass.
The last time I was trapped in a car with Cass, I was too sick to think about the first time. When I wasn’t trapped but went very willingly. Might’ve even initiated it.
My thoughts must be written all over my face because Cass shifts. He clears his throat. Brown eyes darken to almost black for a split second before lightening, twinkling with humor. “This ismycar, sunshine. Dirty shit only happens in yours.”
I can only hope my scowl overshadows my red cheeks. “That doesn’t sound likeforgetting.”
His chuckle brushes the back of my neck as I clamber into a car worth more than… well, me. When he shuts the door, I shut my eyes. Suck in a couple of deep breaths. Try to convince myself he doesn’t know. He can’t tell. He does not have x-ray vision capable of detecting my occupied womb. Sharing an enclosed space for any period of time will not compel me to spill my big, bad secret.
I hope.
When Cass joins me, I swear the car gets smaller. His body encroaches on my space, makes me question why the hell he bought a car he can barely fit in. When he stretches a long arm along the back of my seat, I force myself not to flinch. I do, however, hunch forward slightly so we don’t touch, hands clutching the sides of plush leather seats as I resist the urge to do something embarrassing. Like crawl into the footwell or climb onto the dash or fling myself in the back seat, anything to maintain a nice, respectable distance.
“You don’t like birthday parties?”
Yes,I internally cheer.It’s the birthday party making me tense and awkward. Nothing else.
