The upholstery on his seat creaks, and I feel him shift. There’s curiosity in his eyes when I glance over at him.
“Why?”
“Because…” Because I was over the moon for you? “Because I… I don’t know.”
He shifts his attention back to the road, and it feels like I lost something. Why wouldn’t I feel bad for him? Why wouldn’t anyone?
“Nobody called.” The admission surprises me as much as the fact that he answered at all. “I got a few cards. One from my high school coach. I don’t think anybody felt bad for a guy who got so drunk he almost killed himself and could have taken out a family of four.” The naked honesty bubbles up a well of pity in my chest. “Can’t say I blame them. I wouldn’t have blamed you either.”
I’m glad that he realized the severity of his poor decision, but people make mistakes, especially when they’re young. As long as they learn from them, that’s what matters. I don’t think an error in judgment should strike them from receiving compassion when they probably needed it the most.
Frowning, I assure him, “Well…I did,” but judging by his following silence, I can see that he has nothing further to say on the matter. “Anyway,” I blow out a breath, hoping it will take the heaviness out of the air for both of us. “Um…where am I going?”
Leaning forward, he squints at a street sign up ahead. “Turn left in two blocks.”
Our surroundings look familiar. When I make the turn he requested, we pass the bar that we just came from. Did he…accept our ride to keep me around longer, or is he just disoriented?
“What would you have done?” he asks.
“What?”
“You said you called to see if I needed anything.”
“Oh.”
“What would you have done if I’d answered and said I needed you?”
Anythingis the first word that comes to mind.
“I…I’d have done whatever I could have, I suppose. I was back in school, working on my doctorate at the time, so I don’t know—”
“Stop!” he barks out.
I flinch, wondering what I said to set him off. Does he have some type of mental illness that I didn’t realize?
“Sorry.”
“No, stop the car. You just passed it.”
“Oh. Shit. Sorry.”
I back up to where he’s pointing and then turn down the street to the house on the corner he’s indicating. It’s a whiteone-story home in the revival style I’ve admired, offset by a large front yard with a beautiful walk-up of paver stones. It’s not as large as some of the loftier houses in the Monte Vista neighborhood, but it’s idyllic and would likely fetch a much greater price than the one I just bought. I’m glad the price he paid for football got him something.
“Well,” I sigh, knowing our time has come to an end.
This is so awkward. Would it be weird if I asked for his number? Do I even want his number? Of course I do; I just don’t know what I’d do with it. Type and delete a bunch of messages.
He opens the door and starts to get out, splashing me with a wave of foolishness. I guess all we had left between us were a few flirtatious moments. Maybe he only doled them out as payment for a ride home.
“Um, goodnight. It was nice see—”
“If you come in, you can meet Gale,” he interrupts, motioning with his head toward his house before closing his door.
What? Unfounded jealousy seizes my lungs as I stare after him and whisper maniacally,
“Gale? Who the fuck is Gale?”
???
