I catch myself, because I refuse to insult my truck —even though it is pissing me off right now— by calling it an undignified name.
I twist the key again. The starter clicks once, then nothing. The silence is a vacuum, sucking all the air out of the cab.
I turn it again. The starter clicks once — lazy, pathetic — and then nothing.
I sit back, hands gripping the wheel so tight that the cracked vinyl digs into my palms. I try that thing where you breathe through your nose and count to ten, but I make it to two before my brain launches into a full mental spiral.
“Are you kidding me?” I hiss, and the sound fogs the air in front of my face. I turn the key again. “Turn over, you stubborn piece of—”
Nothing.
My throat burns. My brain flips through options like it’s shuffling a deck of worst-case scenarios.
Call a cab? Not in Ironwood Falls, not this early, not reliably.
Call the building manager? The cheap bastard would tell me to “put in a request” and then vanish like a roach.
Call one of the Devils? Half of them are asleep, and the other half will show up like it’s a hostage situation and take ten minutes to argue about who gets to drive me.
And I don’t have ten minutes.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Once. Twice.
“Okay,” I snap to myself. “Okay. Think.”
I shove the door open and hop out. My breath comes out sharp. I pop the hood, because that’s what you do when you’re out of ideas but not hope. I hop out, boots splashing in a puddle,and prop it open. The engine looks the way it always does: ancient, greasy, uncaring. I jiggle the battery cables, which must be what Dad did whenever he fixed it, and stare at the block like I’ll suddenly remember enough mechanical knowledge to Frankenstein this truck back from the dead.
A door slams somewhere behind me. A dog barks. The world goes on, not even noticing that I’m on the brink of total annihilation.
I check my phone. 7:31.
My test starts at eight.
I can’t be late. If I miss this test… My stomach twists so hard it feels like I swallowed a fist. I slam the hood down and pivot, scanning the lot like I’m looking for a miracle.
And there it is, inconspicuous as a ghost: Evan’s car. Parked three spaces away like it’s always been there, silent, beige, and entirely unremarkable. I’d seen it last night, but it hadn’t registered through the fog of exhaustion. Now it looks like a lifeline and a trap at once.
He’s home.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the truck.
Because asking for help is one thing.
Askinghimis another.
Evan Wilder — quiet eyes, calm voice, that irritatingly composed body like he doesn’t know what stress is. The same man whose mouth tasted like trouble in a way I’m trying to forget, and every time I think about it to remind myself to forget, I end up replaying every damn second of that kiss.
The same man I told myself I don’t have time for.
The same man my brain insists is “normal,” which is somehow worse than dangerous.
I stare at his car as if it can answer me. Like that boring beige hood will pop open and the car will babble at me like it’s somecharacter in a kid’s TV show and give me an answer about how to get to class without bothering the hot guy next door.
My phone buzzes — an automated reminder for my exam time and location.
Like I could forget.
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhale, and exhale.
