“No other problems?”
“Nope, everything’s good.”
“Alright.”
I stare down at my phone, pretending not to listen to them, but it’s hard to ignore the blatant overprotectiveness in Landon’s voice as he talks to Parker. It’s how I imagine an older brother would talk to a younger one, especially one who’s hurt.
It’s how I wish Mel would talk to me.
“Bye, Parker,” I say, as he extracts himself from the vehicle, bag of ice in one hand, skateboard in the other. “Feel better!”
“Bye, Violet,” he mutters, cheeks coloring with a faint blush. He sort of hobbles up the driveway to the front door, and I can’t help but feel a bit guilty. If I’d never stopped at the skate park, he never would have gotten injured. I’ll find a way to make it up to him, though. Baked goods for life sounds like a fair trade.
As soon as Parker disappears inside the house, I also get out of the car and slide into the passenger seat, much to Landon’s irritation. “What? Would you rather drive me around like a chauffeur?” I ask when he gives me a dirty look. He doesn’t respond. “That’s what I thought.”
“You smell like fast food,” he grumbles.
“The whole car smells like fast food.Yousmell like fast food. It permeateseverything.”
Landon’s face twists in disgust, but he doesn’t comment.
On the ride back, I attempt conversation—So, how’s the company going? The weather’s been great this week, hasn’t it? See any good movies lately?—but I’m thwarted at every turn by Dr. Dorkwad’s bad attitude. Eventually, I give up, and we sit in total silence. One minute passes. Two minutes pass. Three—
“Stop that,” Landon snaps out of nowhere.
“Stop what?”
“Jiggling your leg. It’s distracting.”
“Oh,” I say and focus on keeping my knee still.
“You’re doing it again,” he says after about a minute. “Is it that difficult for you to stay quiet for five minutes?”
“No,” I say, defensive. He shoots me a look, likeyeah,right. “Can we at least put on some music or something? I’m dying here.”
“We’re three minutes away.”
“Exactly! Enough time for one song.”
Before he can respond, I turn up the volume and press play on the CD player. I half expect him to make some snide remark about my old-fashioned stereo system—we can’t all be blessed with Bluetooth now, can we?—but he refrains. I skip to track seven, then crank the volume even louder.
“What is this crap?” Landon asks, not ten seconds in.
I gasp. I gasp so loud his hands flinch on the wheel, and he nearly drives us off the road.
“JesusChrist, don’t do that!” he snaps.
“Accident Prone is notcrap, nor will they ever be. They are the best band of all time, and I will stand by that until I die. No, wait. UntilafterI die. Those words will be written across my gravestone to live on for all eternity, and don’t you forget it.”
Silence. Then…
“It’s crap.”
I turn to him. “What’syourfavorite band?” He doesn’t answer. “Probably something douchey. Prog rock, maybe?” He neither confirms nor denies it, and I can’t help but smirk to myself. “Yup. I bet you like thoseingenioustempo changes andendlessintros. Pink Floyd, maybe. Or Genesis. Or probably some obscure band no one’s ever heard of.” He still doesn’t respond. “I’m right, aren’t I? I’m so right.”
Landon doesn’t confirm my suspicions, but he does turn up the volume on the song to drown out my victory, which is fine by me. It’s not long before the familiar, monster homes come into sight, and we’re turning onto West Palm Lane. Landon parks my car in the usual spot alongside the curb and wastes no time extracting himself from the vehicle. By the time I catch up, he’s disappeared upstairs to his office, the keys left sitting on the kitchen counter. If I wasn’t so amused by his crazed desire to get away from me as quickly as possible, I’d be impressed by his speed and agility.
That night, I decide to do some digging. I power on my ancient laptop, which wheezes pathetically to life, and begin the deep dive into the anomaly of a man known as Landon Blair. I’m not expecting what I find.
