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Gideon’s standing there waiting, and I realize how awkward this is going to be.
“I can walk home,” I say.
He frowns. “I know where you live.”
“I could use the fresh air,” I lie, trying to find a way to avoid sitting in a car with this kid for the next fifteen minutes.
“I’m not letting you walk home alone at midnight,” he says. “It would take hours, and you’re… Not in any condition to be doing that.”
“I’m not hurt,” I assure him. “I’m fine.”
He just shakes his head. “Come on. I’m not going to—I won’t—”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I didn’t think that.”
I finally give in, not wanting him to think I’m avoiding him because I think he might want to fuck me again. He clearly had no interest in it the first time.
We leave the school in silence and climb into his Bronco. He turns up the heat and pulls out of the parking lot. The silence is worse than I even imagined, so intense it’s physically painful.
“Are you going back?” I ask after a while.
“No.”
“Not ever?”
“I don’t know.” He glances at me. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, sandwiching my hands between my knees and staring out the window. “They’re your friends. You don’t owe me anything.”
“That’s not what I was apologizing for.”
I shrug. “I’m sorry too.”
We drive in silence for another five minutes that feels like five hours.
“I’m going to do something about them,” he says at last, glowering at the road ahead. “To stop anything like that from ever happening again.”
“Trust me, if there was a way, I’d have done it,” I tell him. “You’re sweet to think you’re going to change things, but you can’t. They’ve already won. And even if you could, there will be someone else after them. Maybe not as bad, but there will always be men like that.”
“How can you act like that?” he demands, pulling through the gate into our neighborhood.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s normal.”
“Because, Gideon,” I say. “It is.”
“Jesus Christ,” he says, slamming his palm down on the steering wheel. “Can’t you see how fucked up that is?”
“Yeah, I see,” I say. “I’m not blind. But how, exactly, am I supposed to act?”
“After what just happened… He could have killed you. You were—you were crying. Screaming. It was horrible.” He shudders and pulls up alongside the road in front of my house and stops the car before turning to me, waiting for me, as if I have answers, absolution.
“I know,” I grit out. “I was there. You don’t have to remind me. I’m trying to forget.”
“How can you forget that?” he asks incredulously.
I think the poor guy’s about to cry.
