“Excuse me,” I said, standing so fast my chair scraped loudly across the tile.
Charlotte’s voice followed me down the hall. “Dare, come on. Don’t be like that.”
Too late. I was always like that now.
Some days, sharing the car was just inconvenient. Other days, it was straight-up war. Every time he sat beside me, I felt I was driving straight into a storm I didn’t know how to survive.
It was bad enough that I had to split the thing like some child of divorce—whose turn was it, who used more gas, who left the seat reclined, but the days we drove to school together?That was unbearable. Especially when we had to pick up Amira, which meantIgot demoted to the back seat ofmy own fucking car.
Unforgivable.
I’d sit behind them, knee jammed into the passenger seat, watching them talk, joke, laugh like I wasn’t even there. Watching him turn toward her when he spoke, the same boy who used to turn towardmelike that.
Every “Hey Amira” out of his mouth was a slap in the face.
And I hated her—hatedher—for sitting in my seat as if it belonged to her. For knowing the version of him I no longer have. For earning and keeping his trust.
Then came the other thoughts. The unhinged ones. Did he take dates in this car? Did he kiss them in the driver’s seat? Blow them in the back? Did he laugh after, fix his hair in the mirror, and drive them home?
One night, the rage got so loud in my head, I did something stupid. Really fucking stupid. I climbed into the car, slammed the door, and jacked off all over the front seat. I didn’t even know what I was thinking. If it was about claiming territory or corrupting the space.
Maybe both.
It felt good for a second. Until the next morning when Tru tossed me the keys before school and said, “Your turn to drive.” I stood there frozen, stomach twisting, guilt and humiliation crawling under my skin as I slid over the crusty jizz.
But that didn’t stop the war. No, it just shifted battlegrounds.
I left the gas tank empty on purpose more than once. He’ddo the same to me. We fought over air fresheners like they were flags in a country we both refused to surrender. He liked cherry. I liked wintergreen. Now the car smelled like cherry-mint hell, and neither of us would back down.
I fucked with his radio presets. He adjusted my mirrors and seat. We didn’t speak. We didn’t make eye contact.
But this silent war? It was the closest thing to intimacy we’d had in months.
The ride was only twelve minutes.But it felt like twelve years.
Tru sat in the passenger seat, scrolling on his phone, pretending not to notice me gripping the steering wheel. His knee bounced. Always with that nervous twitch, that quiet hum of anxiety buzzing off him like static. I used to think it was cute. Now it just pissed me off.
He didn’t say anything. He never said anything anymore.
And maybe that would’ve made things easier if the car didn’t smell like that goddamn cherry air freshener. If his hair wasn’t still damp from his shower, curling a little behind his ears. If I hadn’t caught him looking at himself in the mirror before we left, tugging at the hem of his shirt because he gave a damn how he looked.
He looked good, and he knew it, and that made it worse.
I turned the volume up louder than it needed to be. Punk rock. Angry guitars. Something with teeth. He flinched at the first screech of vocals, but didn’t ask me to change it. Just sat there, blinking like it hurt.
“You’re wearing cologne now?” I said eventually, not even knowing why I opened my mouth.
He looked at me sideways. “It’s deodorant.”
“Oh. Well, it’s strong.”
He didn’t answer. Just shifted in his seat, trying to disappear through the door.
We pulled up to a stoplight. The song changed. I reached for the volume knob again, but my hand brushed his when he reached first. Both of us pulled back like we’d been shocked.
The silence crackled.
I glanced at him, at his mouth parted slightly, as if he was about to say something. His eyes flicked to mine, vulnerable for the briefest moment. Then they went hard again. Cold. He looked out the window.
