There's honking. So much honking. I yank the wheel right, swerving back into my lane, and my heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest. "Jesus Christ, Devon!"
"What?" Somehow he sounds genuinely confused. "Eyes on the road, hockey boy."
"You can't just—you can't say things like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"That doesn't mean you should say it."
"Why are you getting so worked up?" He's fully grinning now. "Unless... were you thinking about it too?"
"No."
"Liar."
"I wasn't."
"Your ears are red."
I press my palm against my ear. It’s burning. "That doesn't mean anything."
"If you say so."
We're going to die. I'm going to crash this car and we'll die, and the last thing I'll have heard is Devon admitting he touched himself while thinking about kissing me.
What kind of alternative timeline is this?
"Can you please—" I start.
"Please what?" He shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward me. "Please stop being devastatingly charming?"
"Devastatingly annoying."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
"Same thing."
It absolutely is not the same thing, but I'm not arguing because arguing requires words and my brain has forgotten how words work.
We're at another red light and I'm staring very intently at the traffic light, willing it to turn green through sheer force of desperation.
"Hey, random question," Devon says.
"Oh God, what now?"
"Chill, I'm just messing with you. I've got a date tomorrow. I'll fuck you out of my system."
The weird feeling in my chest isn't jealousy. It's probably that heart attack. Something medical and completely unrelated to the idea of Devon going on a date with someone who isn't me.
Why would I care?
"That's good," I say. "Good for you."
"Yeah. He's cute. Probably boring, but cute."
I grip the steering wheel tighter. "Great."
