“Sorry,” he says, aghast. “I was reaching for the notepad.”
The silence that follows is so awkward, it’s painful.
For him.
He grips the wheel tight enough that his left knuckle goes pale. I look out my window, seeing nothing, hiding a smile, debating on whether to make the silence sting even more. This is what I want to tell Chris:
I could count on one hand the number of times Oliver and I had sex.
I imagine him side-eyeing me, hesitant and silent, until I make it even worse.
See…I wanted him to do things he wasn’t comfortable with. That most boys aren’t comfortable with.
I know this because I’ve asked.
“I made a list on my notes app,” I tell him instead. “And there’s only one question I really wanna know…”
He nods, grateful, loosening his grip. “Why was her daughter swimming in Kangaroo Bay, alone, in the dead of winter? A town three hours from hers. And is there any connection between Hannah and your mum?”
“No,” I say, turning to face him. “There’s something else…something far more important to ask.”
“What?”
“What do sea monsters eat?”
His body deflates. “Oh, it’s time for your awful puns, is it? Good to know.” He nods. “I’ll throw myself into oncoming traffic.”
“Fish and ships.”
He sighs. “How many hours until we arrive?”
I glance at Google Maps. “Two.”
I place my phone face down on my lap. “Wanna play I-spy?”
“No.”
“I spy with my little eye. Something beginning withP.”
“It’s not ‘phone,’ is it?” he asks testily.
“How’d you know?”
He exhales loudly. “I shouldn’t have given you caffeine.”
“I spy with my little eye…”
“For heaven’s sake, Melanie—”
“Something beginning withP.”
“If it’s ‘phone’ again, I’m going to slam this car into a tree,” he says, before adding, “ ‘Passenger seat.’ ”
“No.”
“ ‘Pedal’?”
“Nope.”
