I worked out at the gym closest to my parents’ house for two hours this morning while John had some Zoom meetings in my old bedroom. When I got back, he took me to lunch in this rented sedan. Now he’s driven to an empty parking lot behind an abandoned warehouse instead of returning us to my parents’ place.
He’s being weird.
This is weird.
“I’m not going to kill anyone,” he says—which is exactly what an insanely handsome billionaire serial killer would say, “butyoumight.” He parks the car.
“What are you doing?”
He turns off the radio. “I’m going to give you a driving lesson.”
I bark out a laugh. “Now?! Why?”
“Because it’s ridiculous that you don’t know how to drive, Olivia. It’s a basic skill in this country, and you should have a driver’s license.”
“You can’t let someone without a license drive a rented car! I’m barely old enough to rent one!”
“That’s right. I’m breaking all the rules for you. Don’t hit anything.” He removes his seat belt and gets out of the car.
I am paralyzed. Not with fear—with annoyance.
Johnny opens the passenger door, but I am still staring ahead, still paralyzed. “It would be better if you get into the driver’s seat.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to drive.”
He rests his forearm against the top of the open door. Annoyingly. “Why not?”
What an obnoxious question. “Because.”
“Really?”
“I don’thaveto know how to drive.”
“You don’twantto know how to drive?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“So you’re scared,” he says. “You didn’t have time to take driver’s ed when you were in school because you spent all your free time at ballet class. Of course, it didn’t bother you—makingyour parents and brother drive you everywhere. After that, you were too busy being a professional dancer to learn. You probably just had guys driving you everywhere. Douche-y guys who didn’t know what kind of flowers you like or how to give you an orgasm. And now you’re twenty-three years old, and you’re scared.”
“I am not scared,” I say. “I live in San Francisco. I walk and I Muni and I BART and I Uber.”
“What if you one day live in an area that requires a car, like Palo Alto?”
“Are you asking me to fake move in with you?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I’m not going to drive.”
We both have our arms crossed in front of our chests now, but he’s grinning and I’m pouting.
