“I said that, didn’t I?” She rakes a hand through her hair, tucking a dark lock behind her ear. “Feels like ages ago.”
“Speak for yourself.” I puff out my chest, feigning indignation. “I’m still smarting from your brutal assessment.”
“You’re the one who insisted I help sort out your life.” A slow, self-satisfied grin stretches across her face. “You shouldn’t have asked if you didn’t really want my help.”
We fall into an uneasy silence, the tension increasing as the needle on the gas gauge slips lower with each passing mile.
“Distract me.” Lucy turns to me, eyes wide, before returning her attention to the road. “Tell me something I don’t know. Why do you hate Gizmo so much?”
My chest tightens, and my palms grow clammy.
I’ve never told anyone about my fear of rodents. Not even my brothers.
It’s my secret. My story. One I’ve taken steps to protect.
The last thing I need is the Austin tabloids exploiting my shitty childhood for profit.
Fuck that noise.
“Please,” she whispers, voice unsteady. “I need something to think about other than the prospect of running out of gas.”
Fuckingfuck.
How can I possibly deny her this one small request?
Because it’ll shred your damn soul.
“Miiiiiiiles.”
The desperation in her tone cracks my chest wide open, and my resolve crumbles.
Maybe if I just stick to the facts. Detach myself from the memories.
I can do this.
Yeah-fucking-right.
It’ll be like writing college admissions essays all over again, exploiting my experience in the foster care system, trading on my pain for a shot at a better future.
No. It’s not the same thing. This is Lucy, not some anonymous stranger.
Which might actually be worse.
“I don’t hate Gremlin.” So much for sticking to the facts.
“Gizmo.”
“Right.” I wipe my palms on my thighs. “Like I said, I’m an equal opportunity rodent hater.”
She presses her lips into a thin line but says nothing.
Thank Christ. If she interrupts, I’m not sure I’ll be able to finish.
“When I was six, I went to live with Mama Hart as a foster.” I still remember that first day. Remember her greeting me at the door in her apron, the scent of chocolate chip cookies filling the house. “My life before that was…unstable.”
That’s putting it mildly.
The memories come flooding back—stale cigarettes, cheap beer, the greasy stench of fried bologna sandwiches—and I close my eyes against the onslaught of sights and smells I’d much rather forget.
