“What just happened?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “That prick really deserves a good ass beating.”
“Who?”
“I’m openin’ your door, honey. Get in. Please.”
Oh.
“You closed the door, just so you could open the door for me?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Alright.”
I grab the “Oh shit” handle and hoist myself up in the vehicle.
I need to add this to the list of things he does that will make it impossible to be his friend. I’m not sure in our entire relationship, Daniel ever opened the car door for me. I always saw it in movies, or read it in books. But I thought it was just fluff, you know? Like pierced dicks, and billionaires that fly you across the country for a special donut shop you want to try.
He closes my door, and rounds the hood to get in.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Turn left out of here.”
He starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot. We drive in comfortable silence, and I give him a few more directions until we’re pulling up outside Rose’s house. He slows at the curb and puts the truck in park, cutting the headlights. It's completely dark out, the interior lights of the cab the only thing illuminating us.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yep. Lilah and I are all packed. You?”
“Yeah.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and it’s as if my subconscious knows I want a few more minutes with him, which is why I stupidly ask, “Do you like it? Tattooing?”
He turns his body slightly, angling so I can see him better.
“I love it. I’ve always loved art. I drew on everything I could get my hands on as a kid, my mom would get so mad,” He huffs a laugh, like he’s remembering. “I was an apprentice in college, then I got my degree, started my own shop, had a baby, and now we’re here.”
“You make it sound easy,” I say.
“It wasn’t. I was a hot mess for a long time, Ivy,” he replies, letting out a self-deprecating laugh this time.
I don’t like that. “Hey.”
He meets my gaze.
“You started your own business, then had to figure out how to be a new dad while grieving and keeping that business afloat. That’s not an easy thing to do,” I say, and I can tell he’s getting a little uncomfortable. “Not a lot of people could do that Wesley. You deserve a lot more credit than that.”
He stares at me for a moment, and just when I start to get nervous that maybe I’ve said too much, he replies, “Thanks.”
I slap my hands on my thighs, “Well, I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you again. I’ll see you at the airport?” I look over at him, and he dips his chin.
“I’ll have your car back to you in plenty of time,” he says softly.
I grab my door handle. “Thank you again for that.”
“Of course,” he replies, then unbuckles his seat belt. “If I asked you to stay put until I can open your door, would you do it?”
