Ugh. I hate him.
I hate her.
I hate myself for being affected this much.
So I continue faking it.
Head leaned against the window, eyes shut, breathing all exaggerated like I'm auditioning for Sleeping Beauty.
Problem is, I suck at faking. Like, Oscar-worthy? No. More like high school drama club extra who gets cut after rehearsal. Mydeep, even breathssound like I'm running a marathon, and when we hit a bump in the road, my head jerks so hard it nearly knocks against the glass.
Smooth, Caroline. Real subtle.
And of course, Zach notices. Because of course he does.
I hear his low chuckle, the one that always sends shivers down my spine, and then, "You know I can tell you're faking, right?"
My fingers curl tighter into a fist on my lap. Nope. Not reacting. Not giving him the satisfaction. He doesn't get a response from me tonight.
I hear him shift in the driver's seat, his voice light and teasing.
He hums under his breath, like he's thinking. "Maybe I should sing you a lullaby. That'd help, right?" His voice dips lower, mock-serious. "Hush, little Caroline, don't say a word..."
My lips twitch.Damn you, Westbrook.
He knows nursery rhymes are my kryptonite. But I clamp my mouth shut tighter, forcing my breathing into that fake steady rhythm.
"Nothing? Not even a smile?" he keeps going, chuckling again. "You must really be tired. Or mad at me."
There's a beat, like he's waiting for me to snap, then he adds with a smirk I can hear, "Probably both."
I swear he lives to get a rise out of me. Usually, he wins.
Tonight? No chance.
He could pull a full comedy set, juggle hockey pucks with his teeth, and I'd still keep my eyes shut.
He chuckles again, softer this time, like he finds me cute instead of bitter and seething. Typical.
But I stay still, committing to my fake-sleep act like it's a hostage situation. Because I already started this, and bailing halfway would be humiliating.
So, fine. I'll die on this hill. I'll be 'asleep'until we pull into my driveway if I have to.
Luckily, my driveway finally appears, glowing under the porch light like salvation. Zach eases the RAV4 to a stop, and the second the tires crunch against the cement, I breathe the biggest sigh of relief.
And then I bolt.
No stretching, no lazy fake-yawn, no"thanks for the ride, Zach."Just full-on door fling, seatbelt snap,escape mission activated.
So, what if I just outed myself as a fraud-level sleeper? Don't care. I just need out.
I slam the door behind me and practically sprint for my front steps. If I can just make it to my room, I can drown myself in myScrew Men, Screw Life, Long Live Taylorplaylist. (Yes, that's what I named it. Yes, it slaps. Featuring only angry, bitter Taylor tracks—prime scream therapy material.)
I'm one key-jiggle away from blessed solitude when—
"Caroline, wait up."
Of course.
