We walk in the direction where there are no cameras and then to my car in silence. I open the passenger door for her, and she slides in without a word.
I close it, then walk around to the driver’s side.
When I get in, she’s staring straight ahead, hands folded tight in her lap, trying to hide how they shake.
I don’t say anything as I start the engine and pull away from the curb.
In the rearview mirror, her house shrinks. Then disappears.
She finally speaks. “Where are we going?”
“My place.”
“Why not Callum’s?”
That turns my head. She’s grown to like Callum. I can tell by the way she chews her lips.
She says, “I don’t want my dad to find me at your place. Callum’s is probably the safest, right?”
Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Loaded. I don’t answer.
Then she says it so quietly I almost don’t hear. “If he finds out I’m not home…”
I grip the steering wheel tighter.
“I know.”
“He’s going to be so angry.”
“Let him be angry.”
“I have to go back.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
She doesn’t respond. Just keeps staring out the window at the town blurring past.
When we reach my place, she’s finally stopped shaking. I pull all the way into the garage. When I put the car in park, I linger for a moment.
“I have to wake up in––” I lift my phone to read the time. “A few hours. We have an away game tomorrow, so we need to catch a flight.”
“Oh,” she says.
“Yeah, so I can take you back home before then, or you can stay.”
“Shit,” she gasps, reaching for her phone. “My location. He’s going to know I’m here.”
“Turn it off,” I say.
“It’ll notify him if I do.”
I glare at the phone and say, “What’s he going to do? Storm into my house?”
She blinks a few times; her mind has clearly run through several versions of what could happen.
“He won’t know you’re here. I’ll make sure you’re back in a few hours. Come on.”
I open my door and step out. When I turn around, she’s frozen. I lean down, taking in her fearful eyes.
