“No, it’s fine,” Diana assures her. “Sit with Mason if you want to. Have fun cuddling with the big soft teddy bear.”
The comparison is so absurd it makes me laugh. I press the palm of my hand onto my forehead. “Mason? A teddy bear? That’s too good.”
Lucia stares at me in confusion and it’s then I choose to stop laughing. Okay, so they’re both serious.
I clear my throat, facing Diana. “If Ronnie’s car seats five people, then that means you’re stuck with me and Jake.”
“Fine with me.” Although the tinge of red in her cheeks tells me otherwise.
“Come on.” I gesture for Diana to follow me. We walk towards Jake’s sedan—a dark gray Honda Civic—out by the driveway. Jake, Madi, and Adrian meet us there and Jake circles to the passenger’s side, tossing me the keys.
I catch them in mid-air, thankful I popped a couple of Dramamine earlier today.
This evening just got interesting.
13
Driving Sucks
Diana
I hate cars.
Nothing spikes my heart rate more than sitting—or standing—in a moving vehicle. I’ve spent the past six years avoiding them whenever possible, and that’s worked out somewhat well. But living in California means I don’t have the option of walking there myself because of how large and stuffy the city is.
Los Angeles adds a whole new definition to the wordstuffy.
The only thing keeping me sane at the moment is holding onto the handlebar with my left hand while my right wrist—which is currently in the splint Carson gave me—rests on my lap, right onto the dark gray seat belt.
Chase Atlantic’s “Meddle About” playing from the car speakers would help keep my mind off of the fact that we’re stuck on the freeway if Carson and Jake weren’t arguing about the choice of music.
“You could have played anything else in the world,” Carson argues. “Why this song?”
“Because I like it,” Jake retorts back. “Remember the car rules? Passenger picks the music while the driver shut his piehole.”
Madi chuckles next to me, while Adrian sighs. “They do this every time.”
“Isn’t this Jake’s car?” I ask Adrian.
He nods.
“Then why is Carson driving?”
“I don’t know,” he tells me. “Jake and Carson were roommates before the rest of us came into the picture so for them, it’s normal, I guess. I don’t ask about it.”
Not helpful, Adrian.
I move my eyes forward, to see what song is about to play when my eyes connect with Carson’s blue ones in the rearview mirror. His eyes are softened, lines in between his brows that are somehow darker than the rest of his hair. Or maybe in comparison to his ivory-colored skin.
I glance away and look back down at my lap, fiddling with the fingers that are still exposed from the splint wrapped around my wrist.
Normally, when I'm in a situation that leaves me no other choice but to step inside a car, bus, or whatever fucking mode of transportation that exists, I focus on breathing carefully, and keep my ears tuned to a certain noise.
Since I didn’t bring headphones, the noise would be the music playing. The music then gets overshadowed by Carson’s laugh at something Jake said.
How did I go from barely tolerating Carson Ryder to noticing every minuscule detail about him? Like the guy is made out of some crazy aphrodisiac that I can’t get enough of. Everyone has that. For me, it’s the taste of my favorite cherry soda or sweet treat. Or Carson's cologne, apparently.
The guy always has this woodsy scent that follows him. I’ve only noticed because it’s intense. No other reason, I swear.
