“I can see through it now,” I mumbled as I put the car in drive.
David cleared his throat. “It’s the one thing I ask of you. If you do nothing else, do that.”
I nodded and gave the gas a light tap. We jerked forward when I panicked and slammed on the brakes at the sight of a stray dog running across the parking lot.
“I almost hit him,” I said in a low, rushed voice.
David chuckled. “He’s at least fifteen yards away.”
“But he’s running.”
“Away from us.”
“But I’m faster. If I went from zero to eighty—” My heart slammed against my ribcage at the thought.
“My car can barely pick up to fifty on a good day. I think you’re safe from hyper-speed.”
“—then I could have hit him. He was in my pathway.”
“Yara.” David’s smile melted when he noticed my labored breath. “Relax. You didn’t hit the dog. You would have neverhit the dog. And once you learn how to adjust your mirrors, you’ll—rarely—hit a curb.”
When I frowned at him, David added, “Everyone hits curbs. It’s a very human thing to do. There will always be a margin for error when you’re behind the wheel.”
“See, and that’s what I don’t like.” I shoved the car into park and unbuckled my seatbelt so it was easier to breathe.
“You don’t like adjusting your mirrors?” His brows pulled down, confused and concerned about that being the hill on which I would die.
I looked in the back seat for my bag, rummaging through the pockets in search of gum. My fingers itched to pick, and I’d read online that giving my body something else to focus on would help quell the urge. So far, no dice. Quitting cold turkey had been easier said than done. Regardless, I had to try—especially when I was with David, who would notice.
“The margin for error,” I said once I’d found two rogue pieces of gum sandwiched between my wallet and travel first aid kit.
“Everything has a margin for error, Daredevil.” His features softened as he watched me shove the gum into my mouth one after the other.
“Not with stakes this high.” I waved my hand toward the empty spot where the dog had been. “I could kill something… someone.”
“You’re not going to kill something or someone.”
“But I could,” I insisted. “I don’t like those odds.”
“They’re small.”
“Doesn’t matter, they exist.”
We were silent for a moment, watching the sun rise over the horizon, waking up our sleepy college town. I replayed what I had said in my mind, embarrassment catching up to me as I realized David was getting prolonged exposure to theirrational side of me. The board up all the windows, tin foil hat, no one can be trusted (not even myself), side of me.
“Your car accident,” his words poked at the silence, gentle and cautious. “How bad was it?”
My throat tightened. I shook my head as if it were nothing of note. Like my ears weren’t burning from the shame.
“You don’t have to tell me,” David said. “But if you wanted to... well, I’m not going to tease you for it. I’d never joke about something that’s caused you this kind of stress.”
“I know that.” Because if I knew nothing else, I knew David didn’t actually like to see me hurt. Annoyed, maybe. Frustrated, most definitely. But not hurt.
“Before Westbrooke,” David continued. “I don’t remember you ever picking at your hair. I know we weren’t besties?—”
I laughed a little, and it undid some of the tension between my shoulder blades.
“—but I don’t remember you ever being this afraid to make a mistake.”
